THE barley1 was all carried at last, and the harvest suppers went by without waiting for the dismal2 black crop of beans. The apples and nuts were gathered and stored; the scent3 of whey departed from the farm-houses, and the scent of brewing4 came in its stead. The woods behind the Chase, and all the hedgerow trees, took on a solemn splendour under the dark low-hanging skies. Michaelmas was come, with its fragrant5 basketfuls of purple damsons, and its paler purple daisies, and its lads and lasses leaving or seeking service and winding6 along between the yellow hedges, with their bundles under their arms. But though Michaelmas was come, Mr. Thurle, that desirable tenant7, did not come to the Chase Farm, and the old squire8, afler all, had been obliged to put in a new bailiff. It was known throughout the two parishes that the squire’s plan had been frustrated9 because the Poysers had refused to be “put upon,” and Mrs. Poyser’s outbreak was discussed in all the farm-houses with a zest10 which was only heightened by frequent repetition. The news that “Bony” was come back from Egypt was comparatively insipid11, and the repulse12 of the French in Italy was nothing to Mrs. Poyser’s repulse of the old squire. Mr. Irwine had heard a version of it in every parishioner’s house, with the one exception of the Chase. But since he had always, with marvellous skill, avoided any quarrel with Mr. Donnithorne, he could not allow himself the pleasure of laughing at the old gentleman’s discomfiture13 with any one besides his mother, who declared that if she were rich she should like to allow Mrs. Poyser a pension for life, and wanted to invite her to the parsonage that she might hear an account of the scene from Mrs. Poyser’s own lips.
“No, no, Mother,” said Mr. Irwine; “it was a little bit of irregular justice on Mrs. Poyser’s part, but a magistrate14 like me must not countenance15 irregular justice. There must be no report spread that I have taken notice of the quarrel, else I shall lose the little good influence I have over the old man.”
“Well, I like that woman even better than her cream-cheeses,” said Mrs. Irwine. “She has the spirit of three men, with that pale face of hers. And she says such sharp things too.”
“Sharp! Yes, her tongue is like a new-set razor. She’s quite original in her talk too; one of those untaught wits that help to stock a country with proverbs. I told you that capital thing I heard her say about Craig — that he was like a cock, who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow. Now that’s an AEsop’s fable16 in a sentence.”
“But it will be a bad business if the old gentleman turns them out of the farm next Michaelmas, eh?” said Mrs. Irwine.
“Oh, that must not be; and Poyser is such a good tenant that Donnithorne is likely to think twice, and digest his spleen rather than turn them out. But if he should give them notice at Lady Day, Arthur and I must move heaven and earth to mollify him. Such old parishioners as they are must not go.”
“Ah, there’s no knowing what may happen before Lady day,” said Mrs. Irwine. “It struck me on Arthur’s birthday that the old man was a little shaken: he’s eighty-three, you know. It’s really an unconscionable age. It’s only women who have a right to live as long as that.”
“When they’ve got old-bachelor sons who would be forlorn without them,” said Mr. Irwine, laughing, and kissing his mother’s hand.
Mrs. Poyser, too, met her husband’s occasional forebodings of a notice to quit with “There’s no knowing what may happen before Lady day”— one of those undeniable general propositions which are usually intended to convey a particular meaning very far from undeniable. But it is really too hard upon human nature that it should be held a criminal offence to imagine the death even of the king when he is turned eighty-three. It is not to be believed that any but the dullest Britons can be good subjects under that hard condition.
Apart from this foreboding, things went on much as usual in the Poyser household. Mrs. Poyser thought she noticed a surprising improvement in Hetty. To be sure, the girl got “closer tempered, and sometimes she seemed as if there’d be no drawing a word from her with cart-ropes,” but she thought much less about her dress, and went after the work quite eagerly, without any telling. And it was wonderful how she never wanted to go out now — indeed, could hardly be persuaded to go; and she bore her aunt’s putting a stop to her weekly lesson in fine-work at the Chase without the least grumbling17 or pouting19. It must be, after all, that she had set her heart on Adam at last, and her sudden freak of wanting to be a lady’s maid must have been caused by some little pique20 or misunderstanding between them, which had passed by. For whenever Adam came to the Hall Farm, Hetty seemed to be in better spirits and to talk more than at other times, though she was almost sullen21 when Mr. Craig or any other admirer happened to pay a visit there.
Adam himself watched her at first with trembling anxiety, which gave way to surprise and delicious hope. Five days after delivering Arthur’s letter, he had ventured to go to the Hall Farm again — not without dread22 lest the sight of him might be painful to her. She was not in the house-place when he entered, and he sat talking to Mr. and Mrs. Poyser for a few minutes with a heavy fear on his heart that they might presently tell him Hetty was ill. But by and by there came a light step that he knew, and when Mrs. Poyser said, “Come, Hetty, where have you been?” Adam was obliged to turn round, though he was afraid to see the changed look there must be in her face. He almost started when he saw her smiling as if she were pleased to see him — looking the same as ever at a first glance, only that she had her cap on, which he had never seen her in before when he came of an evening. Still, when he looked at her again and again as she moved about or sat at her work, there was a change: the cheeks were as pink as ever, and she smiled as much as she had ever done of late, but there was something different in her eyes, in the expression of her face, in all her movements, Adam thought — something harder, older, less child-like. “Poor thing!” he said to himself, “that’s allays23 likely. It’s because she’s had her first heartache. But she’s got a spirit to bear up under it. Thank God for that.”
As the weeks went by, and he saw her always looking pleased to see him — turning up her lovely face towards him as if she meant him to understand that she was glad for him to come — and going about her work in the same equable way, making no sign of sorrow, he began to believe that her feeling towards Arthur must have been much slighter than he had imagined in his first indignation and alarm, and that she had been able to think of her girlish fancy that Arthur was in love with her and would marry her as a folly24 of which she was timely cured. And it perhaps was, as he had sometimes in his more cheerful moments hoped it would be — her heart was really turning with all the more warmth towards the man she knew to have a serious love for her.
Possibly you think that Adam was not at all sagacious in his interpretations25, and that it was altogether extremely unbecoming in a sensible man to behave as he did — falling in love with a girl who really had nothing more than her beauty to recommend her, attributing imaginary virtues26 to her, and even condescending27 to cleave28 to her after she had fallen in love with another man, waiting for her kind looks as a patient trembling dog waits for his master’s eye to be turned upon him. But in so complex a thing as human nature, we must consider, it is hard to find rules without exceptions. Of course, I know that, as a rule, sensible men fall in love with the most sensible women of their acquaintance, see through all the pretty deceits of coquettish beauty, never imagine themselves loved when they are not loved, cease loving on all proper occasions, and marry the woman most fitted for them in every respect — indeed, so as to compel the approbation29 of all the maiden30 ladies in their neighbourhood. But even to this rule an exception will occur now and then in the lapse31 of centuries, and my friend Adam was one. For my own part, however, I respect him none the less — nay32, I think the deep love he had for that sweet, rounded, blossom-like, dark-eyed Hetty, of whose inward self he was really very ignorant, came out of the very strength of his nature and not out of any inconsistent weakness. Is it any weakness, pray, to be wrought33 on by exquisite34 music? To feel its wondrous35 harmonies searching the subtlest windings36 of your soul, the delicate fibres of life where no memory can penetrate37, and binding38 together your whole being past and present in one unspeakable vibration39, melting you in one moment with all the tenderness, all the love that has been scattered40 through the toilsome years, concentrating in one emotion of heroic courage or resignation all the hard-learnt lessons of self- renouncing41 sympathy, blending your present joy with past sorrow and your present sorrow with all your past joy? If not, then neither is it a weakness to be so wrought upon by the exquisite curves of a woman’s cheek and neck and arms, by the liquid depths of her beseeching42 eyes, or the sweet childish pout18 of her lips. For the beauty of a lovely woman is like music: what can one say more? Beauty has an expression beyond and far above the one woman’s soul that it clothes, as the words of genius have a wider meaning than the thought that prompted them. It is more than a woman’s love that moves us in a woman’s eyes — it seems to be a far-off mighty43 love that has come near to us, and made speech for itself there; the rounded neck, the dimpled arm, move us by something more than their prettiness — by their close kinship with all we have known of tenderness and peace. The noblest nature sees the most of this impersonal44 expression in beauty (it is needless to say that there are gentlemen with whiskers dyed and undyed who see none of it whatever), and for this reason, the noblest nature is often the most blinded to the character of the one woman’s soul that the beauty clothes. Whence, I fear, the tragedy of human life is likely to continue for a long time to come, in spite of mental philosophers who are ready with the best receipts for avoiding all mistakes of the kind.
Our good Adam had no fine words into which he could put his feeling for Hetty: he could not disguise mystery in this way with the appearance of knowledge; he called his love frankly45 a mystery, as you have heard him. He only knew that the sight and memory of her moved him deeply, touching46 the spring of all love and tenderness, all faith and courage within him. How could he imagine narrowness, selfishness, hardness in her? He created the mind he believed in out of his own, which was large, unselfish, tender.
The hopes he felt about Hetty softened47 a little his feeling towards Arthur. Surely his attentions to Hetty must have been of a slight kind; they were altogether wrong, and such as no man in Arthur’s position ought to have allowed himself, but they must have had an air of playfulness about them, which had probably blinded him to their danger and had prevented them from laying any strong hold on Hetty’s heart. As the new promise of happiness rose for Adam, his indignation and jealousy48 began to die out. Hetty was not made unhappy; he almost believed that she liked him best; and the thought sometimes crossed his mind that the friendship which had once seemed dead for ever might revive in the days to come, and he would not have to say “good-bye” to the grand old woods, but would like them better because they were Arthur’s. For this new promise of happiness following so quickly on the shock of pain had an intoxicating49 effect on the sober Adam, who had all his life been used to much hardship and moderate hope. Was he really going to have an easy lot after all? It seemed so, for at the beginning of November, Jonathan Burge, finding it impossible to replace Adam, had at last made up his mind to offer him a share in the business, without further condition than that he should continue to give his energies to it and renounce50 all thought of having a separate business of his own. Son-in-law or no son-in-law, Adam had made himself too necessary to be parted with, and his headwork was so much more important to Burge than his skill in handicraft that his having the management of the woods made little difference in the value of his services; and as to the bargains about the squire’s timber, it would be easy to call in a third person. Adam saw here an opening into a broadening path of prosperous work such as he had thought of with ambitious longing51 ever since he was a lad: he might come to build a bridge, or a town hall, or a factory, for he had always said to himself that Jonathan Burge’s building buisness was like an acorn52, which might be the mother of a great tree. So he gave his hand to Burge on that bargain, and went home with his mind full of happy visions, in which (my refined reader will perhaps be shocked when I say it) the image of Hetty hovered53, and smiled over plans for seasoning54 timber at a trifling55 expense, calculations as to the cheapening of bricks per thousand by water-carriage, and a favourite scheme for the strengthening of roofs and walls with a peculiar56 form of iron girder. What then? Adam’s enthusiasm lay in these things; and our love is inwrought in our enthusiasm as electricity is inwrought in the air, exalting57 its power by a subtle presence.
Adam would be able to take a separate house now, and provide for his mother in the old one; his prospects58 would justify59 his marrying very soon, and if Dinah consented to have Seth, their mother would perhaps be more contented60 to live apart from Adam. But he told himself that he would not be hasty — he would not try Hetty’s feeling for him until it had had time to grow strong and firm. However, tomorrow, after church, he would go to the Hall Farm and tell them the news. Mr. Poyser, he knew, would like it better than a five-pound note, and he should see if Hetty’s eyes brightened at it. The months would be short with all he had to fill his mind, and this foolish eagerness which had come over him of late must not hurry him into any premature61 words. Yet when he got home and told his mother the good news, and ate his supper, while she sat by almost crying for joy and wanting him to eat twice as much as usual because of this good-luck, he could not help preparing her gently for the coming change by talking of the old house being too small for them all to go on living in it always.
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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47
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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50
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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51
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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acorn
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| n.橡实，橡子 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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seasoning
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| n.调味；调味料；增添趣味之物 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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