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and go on with the old life—she could better bear something quite
new than sinking back into the old everyday round。 She would like
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to run away that very morning； and never see any of the old faces
again。 But Hetty’s was not a nature to face difficulties—to dare to
loose her hold on the familiar and rush blindly on some unknown
condition。 Hers was a luxurious and vain nature—not a passionate
one—and if she were ever to take any violent measure； she must
be urged to it by the desperation of terror。 There was not much
room for her thoughts to travel in the narrow circle of her
imagination； and she soon fixed on the one thing she would do to
get away from her old life： she would ask her uncle to let her go to
be a lady’s maid。 Miss Lydia’s maid would help her to get a
situation； if she krew Hetty had her uncle’s leave。
When she had thought of this； she fastened up her hair and
began to wash： it seemed more possible to her to go downstairs
and try to behave as usual。 She would ask her uncle this very day。
On Hetty’s blooming health it would take a great deal of such
mental suffering as hers to leave any deep impress； and when she
was dressed as neatly as usual in her working…dress； with her hair
tucked up under her little cap； an indifferent observer would have
been more struck with the young roundness of her cheek and neck
and the darkness of her eyes and eyelashes than with any signs of
sadness about her。 But when she took up the crushed letter and
put it in her drawer； that she might lock it out of sight； hard
smarting tears； having no relief in them as the great drops had
that fell last night； forced their way into her eyes。 She wiped them
away quickly： she must not cry in the day…time。 Nobody should
find out how miserable she was； nobody should know she was
disappointed about anything； and the thought that the eyes of her
aunt and uncle would be upon her gave her the self…command
which often accompanies a great dread。 For Hetty looked out from
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her secret misery towards the possibility of their ever knowing
what had happened； as the sick and weary prisoner might think of
the possible pillory。 They would think her conduct shameful； and
shame was torture。 That was poor little Hetty’s conscience。
So she locked up her drawer and went away to her early work。
In the evening； when Mr。 Poyser was smoking his pipe； and his
good…nature was therefore at its superlative moment； Hetty seized
the opportunity of her aunt’s absence to say； “Uncle； I wish you’d
let me go for a lady’s maid。”
Mr。 Poyser took the pipe from his mouth and looked at Hetty in
mild surprise for some moments。 She was sewing； and went on
with her work industriously。
“Why； what’s put that into your head； my wench？” he said at
last； after he had given one conservative puff。
“I should like it—I should like it better than farm…work。”
“Nay； nay； you fancy so because you donna know it； my wench。
It wouldn’t be half so good for your health； nor for your luck i’ life。
I’d like you to stay wi’ us till you’ve got a good husband： you’re my
own niece； and I wouldn’t have you go to service； though it was a
gentleman’s house； as long as I’ve got a home for you。”
Mr。 Poyser paused； and puffed away at his pipe。
“I like the needlework；” said Hetty； “and I should get good
wages。”
“Has your aunt been a bit sharp wi’ you？” said Mr。 Poyser； not
noticing Hetty’s further argument。 “You mustna mind that； my
wench—she does it for your good。 She wishes you well； an’ there
isn’t many aunts as are no kin to you ’ud ha’ done by you as she
has。”
“No； it isn’t my aunt；” said Hetty； “but I should like the work
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better。”
“It was all very well for you to learn the work a bit—an’ I gev
my consent to that fast enough； sin’ Mrs。 Pomfret was willing to
teach you。 For if anything was t’ happen； it’s well to know how to
turn your hand to different sorts o’ things。 But I niver meant you
to go to service； my wench； my family’s ate their own bread and
cheese as fur back as anybody knows； hanna they； Father？ You
wouldna like your grand…child to take wage？”
“Na…a…y；” said old Martin； with an elongation of the word；
meant to make it bitter as well as negative； while he leaned
forward and looked down on the floor。 “But the wench takes arter
her mother。 I’d hard work t’ hould her in； an’ she married i’ spite o’
me—a feller wi’ on’y two head o’ stock when there should ha’ been
ten on’s farm—she might well die o’ th’ inflammation afore she
war thirty。”
It was seldom the old man made so long a speech； but his son’s
question had fallen like a bit of dry fuel on the embers of a long
unextinguished resentment； which had always made the
grandfather more indifferent to Hetty than to his son’s children。
Her mother’s fortune had been spent by that good…for…nought
Sorrel； and Hetty had Sorrel’s blood in her veins。
“Poor thing； poor thing！” said Martin the younger； who was
sorry to have provoked this retrospective harshness。 “She’d but
bad luck。 But Hetty’s got as good a chance o’ getting a solid； sober
husband as any gell i’ this country。”
After throwing out this pregnant hint； Mr。 Poyser recurred to
his pipe and his silence； looking at Hetty to see if she did not give
some sign of having renounced her ill…advised wish。 But instead of
that； Hetty； in spite of herself； began to cry； half out of ill temper at
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