Mr. Poyser entered with interest into a project which
seemed a step towards Adam’s becoming a “master-man,”
and Mrs. Poyser gave her approbation to the scheme
of the movable kitchen cupboard, which was to be capable
of containing grocery, pickles, crockery, and house-linen
in the utmost compactness without confusion.
Hetty, once more in her own dress, with her neckerchief
pushed a little backwards on this warm evening, was
seated picking currants near the window, where Adam
could see her quite well. And so the time passed
pleasantly till Adam got up to go. He was pressed
to come again soon, but not to stay longer, for at
this busy time sensible people would not run the risk
of being sleepy at five o’clock in the morning.
“I shall take a step farther,” said Adam,
“and go on to see Mester Massey, for he wasn’t
at church yesterday, and I’ve not seen him for
a week past. I’ve never hardly known him
to miss church before.”
“Aye,” said Mr. Poyser, “we’ve
heared nothing about him, for it’s the boys’
hollodays now, so we can give you no account.”
“But you’ll niver think o’ going
there at this hour o’ the night?” said
Mrs. Poyser, folding up her knitting.
“Oh, Mester Massey sits up late,” said
Adam. “An’ the night-school’s
not over yet. Some o’ the men don’t
come till late—they’ve got so far
to walk. And Bartle himself’s never in
bed till it’s gone eleven.”
“I wouldna have him to live wi’ me, then,”
said Mrs. Poyser, “a-dropping candle-grease
about, as you’re like to tumble down o’
the floor the first thing i’ the morning.”
“Aye, eleven o’clock’s late—it’s
late,” said old Martin. “I ne’er
sot up so i’ my life, not to say as it
warna a marr’in’, or a christenin’,
or a wake, or th’ harvest supper. Eleven
o’clock’s late.”
“Why, I sit up till after twelve often,”
said Adam, laughing, “but it isn’t t’
eat and drink extry, it’s to work extry.
Good-night, Mrs. Poyser; good-night, Hetty.”
Hetty could only smile and not shake hands, for hers
were dyed and damp with currant-juice; but all the
rest gave a hearty shake to the large palm that was
held out to them, and said, “Come again, come
again!”
“Aye, think o’ that now,” said Mr.
Poyser, when Adam was out of on the causeway.
“Sitting up till past twelve to do extry work!
Ye’ll not find many men o’ six-an’
twenty as ‘ull do to put i’ the shafts
wi’ him. If you can catch Adam for a husband,
Hetty, you’ll ride i’ your own spring-cart
some day, I’ll be your warrant.”
Hetty was moving across the kitchen with the currants,
so her uncle did not see the little toss of the head
with which she answered him. To ride in a spring-cart
seemed a very miserable lot indeed to her now.
The Night-School and the Schoolmaster
Bartle Massey’s was one of a few scattered houses
on the edge of a common, which was divided by the
road to Treddleston. Adam reached it in a quarter
of an hour after leaving the Hall Farm; and when he
had his hand on the door-latch, he could see, through
the curtainless window, that there were eight or nine
heads bending over the desks, lighted by thin dips.
