“There’s one thing, sir, that perhaps
you don’t take account of,” said Adam,
with hesitating gentleness, “and that was what
made me hang back longer. You see, it’s
the same with both me and the Poysers: if we stay,
it’s for our own worldly interest, and it looks
as if we’d put up with anything for the sake
o’ that. I know that’s what they’ll
feel, and I can’t help feeling a little of it
myself. When folks have got an honourable independent
spirit, they don’t like to do anything that might
make ’em seem base-minded.”
“But no one who knows you will think that, Adam.
That is not a reason strong enough against a course
that is really more generous, more unselfish than
the other. And it will be known—it
shall be made known, that both you and the Poysers
stayed at my entreaty. Adam, don’t try to
make things worse for me; I’m punished enough
without that.”
“No, sir, no,” Adam said, looking at Arthur
with mournful affection. “God forbid I
should make things worse for you. I used to wish
I could do it, in my passion—but that was
when I thought you didn’t feel enough.
I’ll stay, sir, I’ll do the best I can.
It’s all I’ve got to think of now—to
do my work well and make the world a bit better place
for them as can enjoy it.”
“Then we’ll part now, Adam. You will
see Mr. Irwine to-morrow, and consult with him about
everything.”
“Are you going soon, sir?” said Adam.
“As soon as possible—after I’ve
made the necessary arrangements. Good-bye, Adam.
I shall think of you going about the old place.”
“Good-bye, sir. God bless you.”
The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the
Hermitage, feeling that sorrow was more bearable now
hatred was gone.
As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur
went to the waste-paper basket and took out the little
pink silk handkerchief.
Chapter XLIX
At the Hall Farm
The first autumnal afternoon sunshine of 1801—more
than eighteen months after that parting of Adam and
Arthur in the Hermitage—was on the yard
at the Hall Farm; and the bull-dog was in one of his
most excited moments, for it was that hour of the
day when the cows were being driven into the yard
for their afternoon milking. No wonder the patient
beasts ran confusedly into the wrong places, for the
alarming din of the bull-dog was mingled with more
distant sounds which the timid feminine creatures,
with pardonable superstition, imagined also to have
some relation to their own movements—with
the tremendous crack of the waggoner’s whip,
the roar of his voice, and the booming thunder of the
waggon, as it left the rick-yard empty of its golden
load.
The milking of the cows was a sight Mrs. Poyser loved,
and at this hour on mild days she was usually standing
at the house door, with her knitting in her hands,
in quiet contemplation, only heightened to a keener
interest when the vicious yellow cow, who had once
kicked over a pailful of precious milk, was about
to undergo the preventive punishment of having her
hinder-legs strapped.
