“Pleasant! and what else did y’ expect to find him but pleasant?” said Mrs. Poyser impatiently, resuming her knitting. “I should think his countenance is pleasant indeed! And him a gentleman born, and’s got a mother like a picter. You may go the country round and not find such another woman turned sixty-six. It’s summat-like to see such a man as that i’ the desk of a Sunday! As I say to Poyser, it’s like looking at a full crop o’ wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy o’ cows in it; it makes you think the world’s comfortable-like. But as for such creaturs as you Methodisses run after, I’d as soon go to look at a lot o’ bare-ribbed runts on a common. Fine folks they are to tell you what’s right, as look as if they’d never tasted nothing better than bacon-sword and sour-cake i’ their lives. But what did Mr. Irwine say to you about that fool’s trick o’ preaching on the Green?”
“He only said he’d heard of it; he didn’t seem to feel any displeasure about it. But, dear aunt, don’t think any more about that. He told me something that I’m sure will cause you sorrow, as it does me. Thias Bede was drowned last night in the Willow Brook, and I’m thinking that the aged mother will be greatly in need of comfort. Perhaps I can be of use to her, so I have fetched my bonnet and am going to set out.”
“Dear heart, dear heart! But you must have a cup o’ tea first, child,” said Mrs. Poyser, falling at once from the key of B with five sharps to the frank and genial C. “The kettle’s boiling—we’ll have it ready in a minute; and the young uns ’ull be in and wanting theirs directly. I’m quite willing you should go and see th’ old woman, for you’re one as is allays welcome in trouble, Methodist or no Methodist; but, for the matter o’ that, it’s the flesh and blood folks are made on as makes the difference. Some cheeses are made o’ skimmed milk and some o’ new milk, and it’s no matter what you call ’em, you may tell which is which by the look and the smell. But as to Thias Bede, he’s better out o’ the way nor in—God forgi’ me for saying so—for he’s done little this ten year but make trouble for them as belonged to him; and I think it ’ud be well for you to take a little bottle o’ rum for th’ old woman, for I daresay she’s got never a drop o’ nothing to comfort her inside. Sit down, child, and be easy, for you shan’t stir out till you’ve had a cup o’ tea, and so I tell you.”
During the latter part of this speech, Mrs. Poyser had been reaching down the tea-things from the shelves, and was on her way towards the pantry for the loaf (followed close by Totty, who had made her appearance on the rattling of the tea-cups), when Hetty came out of the dairy relieving her tired arms by lifting them up, and clasping her hands at the back of her head.
“Molly,” she said, rather languidly, “just run out and get me a bunch of dock-leaves: the butter’s ready to pack up now.”
“D’ you hear what’s happened, Hetty?” said her aunt.
“No; how should I hear anything?” was the answer, in a pettish tone.
“Not as you’d care much, I daresay, if you did hear; for you’re too feather-headed to mind if everybody was dead, so as you could stay upstairs a-dressing yourself for two hours by the clock. But anybody besides yourself ’ud mind about such things happening to them as think a deal more of you than you deserve. But Adam Bede and all his kin might be drownded for what you’d care—you’d be perking at the glass the next minute.”
“Adam Bede—drowned?” said Hetty, letting her arms fall and looking rather bewildered, but suspecting that her aunt was as usual exaggerating with a didactic purpose.
“No, my dear, no,” said Dinah kindly, for Mrs. Poyser had passed on to the pantry without deigning more precise information. “Not Adam. Adam’s father, the old man, is drowned. He was drowned last night in the Willow Brook. Mr. Irwine has just told me about it.”