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“I thought she’d got some maggot in her head； she’s gone about
wi’ her mouth buttoned up so all day。 It’s all wi’ going so among
them servants at the Chase； as we war fools for letting her。 She
thinks it ’ud be a finer life than being wi’ them as are akin to her
and ha’ brought her up sin’ she war no bigger nor Marty。 She
thinks there’s nothing belongs to being a lady’s maid but wearing
finer clothes nor she was born to； I’ll be bound。 It’s what rag she
can get to stick on her as she’s thinking on from morning till night；
as I often ask her if she wouldn’t like to be the mawkin i’ the field；
for then she’d be made o’ rags inside and out。 I’ll never gi’ my
consent to her going for a lady’s maid； while she’s got good friends
to take care on her till she’s married to somebody better nor one o’
them valets； as is neither a common man nor a gentleman； an’
must live on the fat o’ the land； an ’s like enough to stick his hands
under his coat…tails and expect his wife to work for him。”
“Aye； aye；” said Mr。 Poyser； “we must have a better husband
for her nor that； and there’s better at hand。 Come； my wench； give
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over crying and get to bed。 I’ll do better for you nor letting you go
for a lady’s maid。 Let’s hear no more on’t。”
When Hetty was gone upstairs he said； “I canna make it out as
she should want to go away； for I thought she’d got a mind t’ Adam
Bede。 She’s looked like it o’ late。”
“Eh； there’s no knowing what she’s got a liking to； for things
take no more hold on her than if she was a dried pea。 I believe that
gell； Molly—as is aggravatin’ enough； for the matter o’ that—but I
believe she’d care more about leaving us and the children； for all
she’s been here but a year come Michaelmas； nor Hetty would。
But she’s got this notion o’ being a lady’s maid wi’ going among
them servants—we might ha’ known what it ’ud lead to when we
let her go to learn the fine work。 But I’ll put a stop to it pretty
quick。”
“Thee ’dst be sorry to part wi’ her； if it wasn’t for her good；”
said Mr。 Poyser。 “She’s useful to thee i’ the work。”
“Sorry？ Yes； I’m fonder on her nor she deserves—a little hard…
hearted hussy； wanting to leave us i’ that way。 I can’t ha’ had her
about me these seven year； I reckon； and done for her； and taught
her everything wi’out caring about her。 An’ here I’m having linen
spun； an’ thinking all the while it’ll make sheeting and table…
clothing for her when she’s married； an’ she’ll live i’ the parish wi’
us； and never go out of our sights—like a fool as I am for thinking
aught about her； as is no better nor a cherry wi’ a hard stone
inside it。”
“Nay； nay； thee mustna make much of a trifle；” said Mr。 Poyser；
soothingly。 “She’s fond on us； I’ll be bound； but she’s young； an’
gets things in her head as she can’t rightly give account on。 Them
young fillies ’ull run away often wi’…out knowing why。”
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Her uncle’s answers； however； had had another effect on Hetty
besides that of disappointing her and making her cry。 She knew
quite well whom he had in his mind in his allusions to marriage；
and to a sober； solid husband； and when she was in her bedroom
again； the possibility of her marrying Adam presented itself to her
in a new light。 In a mind where no strong sympathies are at work；
where there is no supreme sense of right to which the agitated
nature can cling and steady itself to quiet endurance； one of the
first results of sorrow is a desperate vague clutching after any
deed that will change the actual condition。 Poor Hetty’s vision of
consequences； at no time more than a narrow fantastic calculation
of her own probable pleasures and pains； was now quite shut out
by reckless irritation under present suffering； and she was ready
for one of those convulsive； motiveless actions by which wretched
men and women leap from a temporary sorrow into a lifelong
misery。
Why should she not marry Adam？ She did not care what she
did； so that it made some change in her life。 She felt confident that
he would still want to marry her； and any further thought about
Adam’s happiness in the matter had never yet visited her。
“Strange！” perhaps you will say； “this rush of impulse to…wards
a course that might have seemed the most repugnant to her
present state of mind； and in only the second night of her
sadness！”
Yes； the actions of a little trivial soul like Hetty’s； struggling
amidst the serious sad destinies of a human being； are strange。 So
are the motions of a little vessel without ballast tossed about on a
stormy sea。 How pretty it looked with its parti…coloured sail in the
sunlight； moored in the quiet bay！
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“Let that man bear the loss who loosed it from its moorings。”
But that will not save the vessel—the pretty thing that might
have been a lasting joy。
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Chapter XXXII
Mrs。 Poyser “Has Her Say Out”
HE next Saturday evening there was much excited
discussion at the Donnithorne Arms concerning an
T
incident which had occurred that very day—no less than a
second appearance of the smart man in top…boots said by some to
be a mere farmer in treaty for the Chase Farm； by others to be the
future steward； but by Mr。 Casson himself； the personal witness to
the stranger’s visit； pronounced contemptuously to be nothing
better than a bailiff； such as Satchell had been before him。 No one
had thought of denying Mr。 Casson’s testimony to the fact that he
had seen the stranger； nevertheless； he proffered various
corroborating circumstances。
“I see him myself；” he said； “I see him coming along by the
Crab…tree Meadow on a bald…faced hoss。 I’d just been t’ hev a
pint—it was half after ten i’ the fore…noon； when I hev my pint as
reg’lar as the clock—and I says to Knowles； as druv up with his
waggon； ‘You’ll get a bit o’ barley to…day； Knowles；’ I says； ‘if you
look about you’； and then I went round by the rick…yard； and
towart the Treddles’on road； and just as I come up by the big ash…
tree； I see the man i’ top…boots coming along on a bald…faced
hoss—I wish I may never stir if I didn’t。 And I stood still till he
come up； and I says； ‘Good morning； sir；’ I says； for I wanted to
hear the turn of his tongue； as I might know whether he was a
this…country man； so I says； ‘Good morning； sir： it ’ll ’old hup for
the barley this morning； I think。 There’ll be a bit got hin； if we’ve
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good luck。’ And he says； ‘Eh； ye may be raight； there’s noo tallin’；’
he says； and I knowed by that”—here Mr。 Casson gave a wink—
“as he didn’t come from a hundred mile off。 I daresay he’d think
me a hodd talker； as you Loamshire folks allays does hany one as
talks the right language。”
“The right language！” said Bartle Massey； contemptuously。
“You’re about as near the right language as a pig’s squeaking is
like a