Book Three
Chapter XXII
Going to the Birthday Feast
THE thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those half-dozen
warm days which sometimes occur in the middle of a rainy English
summer. No rain had fallen for the last three or four days, and
the weather was perfect for that time of the year: there was less
dust than usual on the dark-green hedge-rows and on the wild
camomile that starred the roadside, yet the grass was dry enough
for the little children to roll on it, and there was no cloud but
a long dash of light, downy ripple, high, high up in the far-off
blue sky. Perfect weather for an outdoor July merry-making, yet
surely not the best time of year to be born in. Nature seems to
make a hot pause just then: all the loveliest flowers are gone;
the sweet time of early growth and vague hopes is past; and yet
the time of harvest and ingathering is not come, and we tremble at
the possible storms that may ruin the precious fruit in the moment
of its ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous green; the
waggon-loads of hay no longer creep along the lanes, scattering
their sweet-smelling fragments on the blackberry branches; the
pastures are often a little tanned, yet the corn has not got its
last splendour of red and gold; the lambs and calves have lost all
traces of their innocent frisky prettiness, and have become stupid
young sheep and cows. But it is a time of leisure on the farm--
that pause between hay- and corn-harvest, and so the farmers and
labourers in Hayslope and Broxton thought the captain did well to
come of age just then, when they could give their undivided minds
to the flavour of the great cask of ale which had been brewed the
autumn after "the heir" was born, and was to be tapped on his
twenty-first birthday. The air had been merry with the ringing of
church-bells very early this morning, and every one had made haste
to get through the needful work before twelve, when it would be
time to think of getting ready to go to the Chase.
The midday sun was streaming into Hetty's bedchamber, and there
was no blind to temper the heat with which it fell on her head as
she looked at herself in the old specked glass. Still, that was
the only glass she had in which she could see her neck and arms,
for the small hanging glass she had fetched out of the next room--
the room that had been Dinah's--would show her nothing below her
little chin; and that beautiful bit of neck where the roundness of
her cheek melted into another roundness shadowed by dark delicate
curls. And to-day she thought more than usual about her neck and
arms; for at the dance this evening she was not to wear any
neckerchief, and she had been busy yesterday with her spotted
pink-and-white frock, that she might make the sleeves either long
or short at will. She was dressed now just as she was to be in
the evening, with a tucker made of "real" lace, which her aunt had
lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with no ornaments
besides; she had even taken out her small round ear-rings which
she wore every day. But there was something more to be done,
apparently, before she put on her neckerchief and long sleeves,
which she was to wear in the day-time, for now she unlocked the
drawer that held her private treasures. It is more than a month
since we saw her unlock that drawer before, and now it holds new
treasures, so much more precious than the old ones that these are
thrust into the corner. Hetty would not care to put the large
coloured glass ear-rings into her ears now; for see! she has got a
beautiful pair of gold and pearls and garnet, lying snugly in a
pretty little box lined with white satin. Oh, the delight of
taking out that little box and looking at the ear-rings! Do not
reason about it, my philosphical reader, and say that Hetty, being
very pretty, must have known that it did not signify whether she
had on any ornaments or not; and that, moreover, to look at ear-
rings which she could not possibly wear out of her bedroom could
hardly be a satisfaction, the essence of vanity being a reference
to the impressions produced on others; you will never understand
women's natures if you are so excessively rational. Try rather to
divest yourself of all your rational prejudices, as much as if you
were studying the psychology of a canary bird, and only watch the
movements of this pretty round creature as she turns her head on
one side with an unconscious smile at the ear-rings nestled in the
little box. Ah, you think, it is for the sake of the person who
has given them to her, and her thoughts are gone back now to the
moment when they were put into her hands. No; else why should she
have cared to have ear-rings rather than anything else? And I
know that she had longed for ear-rings from among all the
ornaments she could imagine.
"Little, little ears!" Arthur had said, pretending to pinch them
one evening, as Hetty sat beside him on the grass without her hat.
"I wish I had some pretty ear-rings!" she said in a moment, almost
before she knew what she was saying--the wish lay so close to her
lips, it WOULD flutter past them at the slightest breath. And the
next day--it was only last week--Arthur had ridden over to
Rosseter on purpose to buy them. That little wish so naively
uttered seemed to him the prettiest bit of childishness; he had
never heard anything like it before; and he had wrapped the box up
in a great many covers, that he might see Hetty unwrapping it with
growing curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed back their new
delight into his.
No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled at the
ear-rings, for now she is taking them out of the box, not to press
them to her lips, but to fasten them in her ears--only for one
moment, to see how pretty they look, as she peeps at them in the
glass against the wall, with first one position of the head and
then another, like a listening bird. It is impossible to be wise
on the subject of ear-rings as one looks at her; what should those
delicate pearls and crystals be made for, if not for such ears?
One cannot even find fault with the tiny round hole which they
leave when they are taken out; perhaps water-nixies, and such
lovely things without souls, have these little round holes in
their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in. And Hetty must be
one of them: it is too painful to think that she is a woman, with
a woman's destiny before her--a woman spinning in young ignorance
a light web of folly and vain hopes which may one day close round
her and press upon her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all
at once her fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life
of deep human anguish.
But she cannot keep in the ear-rings long, else she may make her
uncle and aunt wait. She puts them quickly into the box again and
shuts them up. Some day she will be able to wear any ear-rings
she likes, and already she lives in an invisible world of
brilliant costumes, shimmering gauze, soft satin, and velvet, such
as the lady's maid at the Chase has shown her in Miss Lydia's
wardrobe. She feels the bracelets on her arms, and treads on a
soft carpet in front of a tall mirror. But she has one thing in
the drawer which she can venture to wear to-day, because she can
hang it on the chain of dark-brown berries which she has been used
to wear on grand days, with a tiny flat scent-bottle at the end of
it tucked inside her frock; and she must put on her brown berries--
her neck would look so unfinished without it. Hetty was not
quite as fond of the locket as of the ear-rings, though it was a
handsome large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and a
beautiful gold border round the glass, which showed a light-brown
slightly waving lock, forming a background for two little dark
rings. She must keep it under her clothes, and no one would see
it. But Hetty had another passion, only a little less strong than
her love of finery, and that other passion made her like to wear
the locket even hidden in her bosom. She would always have worn
it, if she had dared to encounter her aunt's questions about a
ribbon round her neck. So now she slipped it on along her chain
of dark-brown berries, and snapped the chain round her neck. It
was not a very long chain, only allowing the locket to hang a
little way below the edge of her frock. And now she had nothing
to do but to put on her long sleeves, her new white gauze
neckerchief, and her straw hat trimmed with white to-day instead
of the pink, which had become rather faded under the July sun.
That hat made the drop of bitterness in Hetty's cup to-day, for it
was not quite new--everybody would see that it was a little tanned
against the white ribbon--and Mary Burge, she felt sure, would
have a new hat or bonnet on. She looked for consolation at her
fine white cotton stockings: they really were very nice indeed,
and she had given almost all her spare money for them. Hetty's
dream of the future could not make her insensible to triumph in
the present. To be sure, Captain Donnithorne loved her so that he
would never care about looking at other people, but then those
other people didn't know how he loved her, and she was not
satisfied to appear shabby and insignificant in their eyes even
for a short space.
The whole party was assembled in the house-place when Hetty went
down, all of course in their Sunday clothes; and the bells had
been ringing so this morning in honour of the captain's twenty-
first birthday, and the work had all been got done so early, that
Marty and Tommy were not quite easy in their minds until their
mother had assured them that going to church was not part of the
day's festivities. Mr. Poyser had once suggested that the house
should be shut up and left to take care of itself; "for," said he,
"there's no danger of anybody's breaking in--everybody'll be at
the Chase, thieves an' all. If we lock th' house up, all the men
can go: it's a day they wonna see twice i' their lives." But
Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: "I never left the house
to take care of itself since I was a missis, and I never will.
There's been ill-looking tramps enoo' about the place this last
week, to carry off every ham an' every spoon we'n got; and they
all collogue together, them tramps, as it's a mercy they hanna
come and poisoned the dogs and murdered us all in our beds afore
we knowed, some Friday night when we'n got the money in th' house
to pay the men. And it's like enough the tramps know where we're
going as well as we do oursens; for if Old Harry wants any work
done, you may be sure he'll find the means."
"Nonsense about murdering us in our beds," said Mr. Poyser; "I've
got a gun i' our room, hanna I? and thee'st got ears as 'ud find
it out if a mouse was gnawing the bacon. Howiver, if thee
wouldstna be easy, Alick can stay at home i' the forepart o' the
day, and Tim can come back tow'rds five o'clock, and let Alick
have his turn. They may let Growler loose if anybody offers to do
mischief, and there's Alick's dog too, ready enough to set his
tooth in a tramp if Alick gives him a wink."
Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advisable to
bar and bolt to the utmost; and now, at the last moment before
starting, Nancy, the dairy-maid, was closing the shutters of the
house-place, although the window, lying under the immediate
observation of Alick and the dogs, might have been supposed the
least likely to be selected for a burglarious attempt.
The covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to carry the
whole family except the men-servants. Mr. Poyser and the
grandfather sat on the seat in front, and within there was room
for all the women and children; the fuller the cart the better,
because then the jolting would not hurt so much, and Nancy's broad
person and thick arms were an excellent cushion to be pitched on.
But Mr. Poyser drove at no more than a walking pace, that there
might be as little risk of jolting as possible on this warm day,
and there was time to exchange greetings and remarks with the
foot-passengers who were going the same way, specking the paths
between the green meadows and the golden cornfields with bits of
movable bright colour--a scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies
that nodded a little too thickly among the corn, or a dark-blue
neckerchief with ends flaunting across a brand-new white smock-
frock. All Broxton and all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and
make merry there in honour of "th' heir"; and the old men and
women, who had never been so far down this side of the hill for
the last twenty years, were being brought from Broxton and
Hayslope in one of the farmer's waggons, at Mr. Irwine's
suggestion. The church-bells had struck up again now--a last
tune, before the ringers came down the hill to have their share in
the festival; and before the bells had finished, other music was
heard approaching, so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that
was drawing Mr. Poyser's cart, began to prick up his ears. It was
the band of the Benefit Club, which had mustered in all its glory--
that is to say, in bright-blue scarfs and blue favours, and
carrying its banner with the motto, "Let brotherly love continue,"
encircling a picture of a stone-pit.
The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every one must
get down at the lodges, and the vehicles must be sent back.
"Why, the Chase is like a fair a'ready," said Mrs. Poyser, as she
got down from the cart, and saw the groups scattered under the
great oaks, and the boys running about in the hot sunshine to
survey the tall poles surmounted by the fluttering garments that
were to be the prize of the successful climbers. "I should ha'
thought there wasna so many people i' the two parishes. Mercy on
us! How hot it is out o' the shade! Come here, Totty, else your
little face 'ull be burnt to a scratchin'! They might ha' cooked
the dinners i' that open space an' saved the fires. I shall go to
Mrs. Best's room an' sit down."
"Stop a bit, stop a bit," said Mr. Poyser. "There's th' waggin
coming wi' th' old folks in't; it'll be such a sight as wonna come
o'er again, to see 'em get down an' walk along all together. You
remember some on 'em i' their prime, eh, Father?"
"Aye, aye," said old Martin, walking slowly under the shade of the
lodge porch, from which he could see the aged party descend. "I
remember Jacob Taft walking fifty mile after the Scotch raybels,
when they turned back from Stoniton."
He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as
he saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, descend from the
waggon and walk towards him, in his brown nigbtcap, and leaning on
his two sticks.
"Well, Mester Taft," shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of
his voice--for though he knew the old man was stone deaf, he could
not omit the propriety of a greeting--"you're hearty yet. You can
enjoy yoursen to-day, for-all you're ninety an' better."
"Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant," said Feyther Taft in a
treble tone, perceiving that he was in company.
The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves worn
and grey, passed on along the least-winding carriage-road towards
the house, where a special table was prepared for them; while the
Poyser party wisely struck across the grass under the shade of the
great trees, but not out of view of the house-front, with its
sloping lawn and flower-beds, or of the pretty striped marquee at
the edge of the lawn, standing at right angles with two larger
marquees on each side of the open green space where the games were
to be played. The house would have been nothing but a plain
square mansion of Queen Anne's time, but for the remnant of an old
abbey to which it was united at one end, in much the same way as
one may sometimes see a new farmhouse rising high and prim at the
end of older and lower farm-offices. The fine old remnant stood a
little backward and under the shadow of tall beeches, but the sun
was now on the taller and more advanced front, the blinds were all
down, and the house seemed asleep in the hot midday. It made
Hetty quite sad to look at it: Arthur must be somewhere in the
back rooms, with the grand company, where he could not possibly
know that she was come, and she should not see him for a long,
long while--not till after dinner, when they said he was to come
up and make a speech.
But Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture. No grand company
was come except the Irwines, for whom the carriage had been sent
early, and Arthur was at that moment not in a back room, but
walking with the rector into the broad stone cloisters of the old
abbey, where the long tables were laid for all the cottage tenants
and the farm-servants. A very handsome young Briton he looked to-
day, in high spirits and a bright-blue frock-coat, the highest
mode--his arm no longer in a sling. So open-looking and candid,
too; but candid people have their secrets, and secrets leave no
lines in young faces.
"Upon my word," he said, as they entered the cool cloisters, "I
think the cottagers have the best of it: these cloisters make a
delightful dining-room on a hot day. That was capital advice of
yours, Irwine, about the dinners--to let them be as orderly and
comfortable as possible, and only for the tenants: especially as
I had only a limited sum after all; for though my grandfather
talked of a carte blanche, he couldn't make up his mind to trust
me, when it came to the point."
"Never mind, you'll give more pleasure in this quiet way," said
Mr. Irwine. "In this sort of thing people are constantly
confounding liberality with riot and disorder. It sounds very
grand to say that so many sheep and oxen were roasted whole, and
everybody ate who liked to come; but in the end it generally
happens that no one has had an enjoyable meal. If the people get
a good dinner and a moderate quantity of ale in the middle of the
day, they'll be able to enjoy the games as the day cools. You
can't hinder some of them from getting too much towards evening,
but drunkenness and darkness go better together than drunkenness
and daylight."
"Well, I hope there won't be much of it. I've kept the
Treddleston people away by having a feast for them in the town;
and I've got Casson and Adam Bede and some other good fellows to
look to the giving out of ale in the booths, and to take care
things don't go too far. Come, let us go up above now and see the
dinner-tables for the large tenants."
They went up the stone staircase leading simply to the long
gallery above the cloisters, a gallery where all the dusty
worthless old pictures had been banished for the last three
generations--mouldy portraits of Queen Elizabeth and her ladies,
General Monk with his eye knocked out, Daniel very much in the
dark among the lions, and Julius Caesar on horseback, with a high
nose and laurel crown, holding his Commentaries in his hand.
"What a capital thing it is that they saved this piece of the old
abbey!" said Arthur. "If I'm ever master here, I shall do up the
gallery in first-rate style. We've got no room in the house a
third as large as this. That second table is for the farmers'
wives and children: Mrs. Best said it would be more comfortable
for the mothers and children to be by themselves. I was
determined to have the children, and make a regular family thing
of it. I shall be 'the old squire' to those little lads and
lasses some day, and they'll tell their children what a much finer
young fellow I was than my own son. There's a table for the women
and children below as well. But you will see them all--you will
come up with me after dinner, I hope?"
"Yes, to be sure," said Mr. Irwine. "I wouldn't miss your maiden
speech to the tenantry."
"And there will be something else you'll like to hear," said
Arthur. "Let us go into the library and I'll tell you all about
it while my grandfather is in the drawing-room with the ladies.
Something that will surpsise you," he continued, as they sat down.
"My grandfather has come round after all."
"What, about Adam?"
"Yes; I should have ridden over to tell you about it, only I was
so busy. You know I told you I had quite given up arguing the
matter with him--I thought it was hopeless--but yesterday morning
he asked me to come in here to him before I went out, and
astonished me by saying that he had decided on all the new
arrangements he should make in consequence of old Satchell being
obliged to lay by work, and that he intended to employ Adam in
superintending the woods at a salary of a guinea a-week, and the
use of a pony to be kept here. I believe the secret of it is, he
saw from the first it would be a profitable plan, but he had some
particular dislike of Adam to get over--and besides, the fact that
I propose a thing is generally a reason with him for rejecting it.
There's the most curious contradiction in my grandfather: I know
he means to leave me all the money he has saved, and he is likely
enough to have cut off poor Aunt Lydia, who has been a slave to
him all her life, with only five hundred a-year, for the sake of
giving me all the more; and yet I sometimes think he positively
hates me because I'm his heir. I believe if I were to break my
neck, he would feel it the greatest misfortune that could befall
him, and yet it seems a pleasure to him to make my life a series
of petty annoyances."
"Ah, my boy, it is not only woman's love that is [two greek words
omitted] as old AEschylus calls it. There's plenty of 'unloving
love' in the world of a masculine kind. But tell me about Adam.
Has he accepted the post? I don't see that it can be much more
profitable than his present work, though, to be sure, it will
leave him a good deal of time on his own hands.
"Well, I felt some doubt about it when I spoke to him and he
seemed to hesitate at first. His objection was that he thought he
should not be able to satisfy my grandfather. But I begged him as
a personal favour to me not to let any reason prevent him from
accepting the place, if he really liked the employment and would
not be giving up anything that was more profitable to him. And he
assured me he should like it of all things--it would be a great
step forward for him in business, and it would enable him to do
what he had long wished to do, to give up working for Burge. He
says he shall have plenty of time to superintend a little business
of his own, which he and Seth will carry on, and will perhaps be
able to enlarge by degrees. So he has agreed at last, and I have
arranged that he shall dine with the large tenants to-day; and I
mean to announce the appointment to them, and ask them to drink
Adam's health. It's a little drama I've got up in honour of my
friend Adam. He's a fine fellow, and I like the opportunity of
letting people know that I think so."
"A drama in which friend Arthur piques himself on having a pretty
part to play," said Mr. Irwine, smiling. But when he saw Arthur
colour, he went on relentingly, "My part, you know, is always that
of the old fogy who sees nothing to admire in the young folks. I
don't like to admit that I'm proud of my pupil when he does
graceful things. But I must play the amiable old gentleman for
once, and second your toast in honour of Adam. Has your
grandfather yielded on the other point too, and agreed to have a
respectable man as steward?"
"Oh no," said Arthur, rising from his chair with an air of
impatience and walking along the room with his hands in his
pockets. "He's got some project or other about letting the Chase
Farm and bargaining for a supply of milk and butter for the house.
But I ask no questions about it--it makes me too angry. I believe
he means to do all the business himself, and have nothing in the
shape of a steward. It's amazing what energy he has, though."
"Well, we'll go to the ladies now," said Mr. Irwine, rising too.
"I want to tell my mother what a splendid throne you've prepared
for her under the marquee."
"Yes, and we must be going to luncheon too," said Arthur. "It
must be two o'clock, for there is the gong beginning to sound for
the tenants' dinners."
