Chapter XXV
The Games
THE great dance was not to begin until eight o'clock, but for any
lads and lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass before then,
there was music always at hand--for was not the band of the
Benefit Club capable of playing excellent jigs, reels, and
hornpipes? And, besides this, there was a grand band hired from
Rosseter, who, with their wonderful wind-instruments and puffed-
out cheeks, were themselves a delightful show to the small boys
and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann's fiddle, which, by an
act of generous forethought, he had provided himself with, in case
any one should be of sufficiently pure taste to prefer dancing to
a solo on that instrument.
Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in front
of the house, the games began. There were, of course, well-soaped
poles to be climbed by the boys and youths, races to be run by the
old women, races to be run in sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by
the strong men, and a long list of challenges to such ambitious
attempts as that of walking as many yards possible on one leg--
feats in which it was generally remarked that Wiry Ben, being "the
lissom'st, springest fellow i' the country," was sure to be pre-
eminent. To crown all, there was to be a donkey-race--that
sublimest of all races, conducted on the grand socialistic idea of
everybody encouraging everybody else's donkey, and the sorriest
donkey winning.
And soon after four o ciock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in her
damask satin and jewels and black lace, was led out by Arthur,
followed by the whole family party, to her raised seat under the
striped marquee, where she was to give out the prizes to the
victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia had requested to resign that
queenly office to the royal old lady, and Arthur was pleased with
this opportunity of gratifying his godmother's taste for
stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the delicately clean, finely
scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air of
punctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine brought Miss Lydia,
looking neutral and stiff in an elegant peach-blossom silk; and
Mr. Irwine came last with his pale sister Anne. No other friend
of the family, besides Mr. Gawaine, was invited to-day; there was
to be a grand dinner for the neighbouring gentry on the morrow,
but to-day all the forces were required for the entertainment of
the tenants.
There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn
from the park, but a temporary bridge had been made for the
passage of the victors, and the groups of people standing, or
seated here and there on benches, stretched on each side of the
open space from the white marquees up to the sunk fence.
"Upon my word it's a pretty sight," said the old lady, in her deep
voice, when she was seated, and looked round on the bright scene
with its dark-green background; "and it's the last fete-day I'm
likely to see, unless you make haste and get married, Arthur. But
take care you get a charming bride, else I would rather die
without seeing her."
"You're so terribly fastidious, Godmother," said Arthur, "I'm
afraid I should never satisfy you with my choice."
"Well, I won't forgive you if she's not handsome. I can't be put
off with amiability, which is always the excuse people are making
for the existence of plain people. And she must not be silly;
that will never do, because you'll want managing, and a silly
woman can't manage you. Who is that tall young man, Dauphin, with
the mild face? There, standing without his hat, and taking such
care of that tall old woman by the side of him--his mother, of
course. I like to see that."
"What, don't you know him, Mother?" said Mr. Irwine. "That is
Seth Bede, Adam's brother--a Methodist, but a very good fellow.
Poor Seth has looked rather down-hearted of late; I thought it was
because of his father's dying in that sad way, but Joshua Rann
tells me he wanted to marry that sweet little Methodist preacher
who was here about a month ago, and I suppose she refused him."
"Ah, I remember hearing about her. But there are no end of people
here that I don't know, for they're grown up and altered so since
I used to go about."
"What excellent sight you have!" said old Mr. Donnithorne, who was
holding a double glass up to his eyes, "to see the expression of
that young man's face so far off. His face is nothing but a pale
blurred spot to me. But I fancy I have the advantage of you when
we come to look close. I can read small print without
spectacles."
"Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, and
those near-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want very strong
spectacles to read with, but then I think my eyes get better and
better for things at a distance. I suppose if I could live
another fifty years, I should be blind to everything that wasn't
out of other people's sight, like a man who stands in a well and
sees nothing but the stars."
"See," said Arthur, "the old women are ready to set out on their
race now. Which do you bet on, Gawaine?"
"The long-legged one, unless they're going to have several heats,
and then the little wiry one may win."
"There are the Poysers, Mother, not far off on the right hand,"
said Miss Irwine. "Mrs. Poyser is looking at you. Do take notice
of her."
"To be sure I will," said the old lady, giving a gracious bow to
Mrs. Poyser. "A woman who sends me such excellent cream-cheese is
not to be neglected. Bless me! What a fat child that is she is
holding on her knee! But who is that pretty girl with dark eyes?"
"That is Hetty Sorrel," said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, "Martin
Poyser's niece--a very likely young person, and well-looking too.
My maid has taught her fine needlework, and she has mended some
lace of mine very respectably indeed--very respectably."
"Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, Mother;
you must have seen her," said Miss Irwine.
"No, I've never seen her, child--at least not as she is now," said
Mrs. Irwine, continuing to look at Hetty. "Well-looking, indeed!
She's a perfect beauty! I've never seen anything so pretty since
my young days. What a pity such beauty as that should be thrown
away among the farmers, when it's wanted so terribly among the
good families without fortune! I daresay, now, she'll marry a man
who would have thought her just as pretty if she had had round
eyes and red hair."
Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. Irwine was
speaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to be occupied with
something on the opposite side. But he saw her plainly enough
without looking; saw her in heightened beauty, because he heard
her beauty praised--for other men's opinion, you know, was like a
native climate to Arthur's feelings: it was the air on which they
thrived the best, and grew strong. Yes! She was enough to turn
any man's head: any man in his place would have done and felt the
same. And to give her up after all, as he was determined to do,
would be an act that he should always look back upon with pride.
"No, Mother," and Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; "I can't
agree with you there. The common people are not quite so stupid
as you imagine. The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and
feeling, is conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate
woman and a coarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in their
presence. The man may be no better able than the dog to explain
the influence the more refined beauty has on him, but he feels
it."
"Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you know about
it?"
"Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are wiser
than married men, because they have time for more general
contemplation. Your fine critic of woman must never shackle his
judgment by calling one woman his own. But, as an example of what
I was saying, that pretty Methodist preacher I mentioned just now
told me that she had preached to the roughest miners and had never
been treated with anything but the utmost respect and kindness by
them. The reason is--though she doesn't know it--that there's so
much tenderness, refinement, and purity about her. Such a woman
as that brings with her 'airs from heaven' that the coarsest
fellow is not insensible to."
"Here's a delicate bit of womanhood, or girlhood, coming to
receive a prize, I suppose," said Mr. Gawaine. "She must be one
of the racers in the sacks, who had set off before we came."
The "bit of womanhood" was our old acquaintance Bessy Cranage,
otherwise Chad's Bess, whose large red cheeks and blowsy person
had undergone an exaggeration of colour, which, if she had
happened to be a heavenly body, would have made her sublime.
Bessy, I am sorry to say, had taken to her ear-rings again since
Dinah's departure, and was otherwise decked out in such small
finery as she could muster. Any one who could have looked into
poor Bessy's heart would have seen a striking resemblance between
her little hopes and anxieties and Hetty's. The advantage,
perhaps, would have been on Bessy's side in the matter of feeling.
But then, you see, they were so very different outside! You would
have been inclined to box Bessy's ears, and you would have longed
to kiss Hetty.
Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly from mere
hedonish gaiety, partly because of the prize. Some one had said
there were to be cloaks and other nice clothes for prizes, and she
approached the marquee, fanning herself with her handkerchief, but
with exultation sparkling in her round eyes.
"Here is the prize for the first sack-race," said Miss Lydia,
taking a large parcel from the table where the prizes were laid
and giving it to Mrs. Irwine before Bessy came up, "an excellent
grogram gown and a piece of flannel."
"You didn't think the winner was to be so young, I suppose, Aunt?"
said Arthur. "Couldn't you find something else for this girl, and
save that grim-looking gown for one of the older women?"
"I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial," said
Miss Lydia, adjusting her own lace; "I should not think of
encouraging a love of finery in young women of that class. I have
a scarlet cloak, but that is for the old woman who wins."
This speech of Miss Lydia's produced rather a mocking expression
in Mrs. Irwine's face as she looked at Arthur, while Bessy came up
and dropped a series of curtsies.
"This is Bessy Cranage, mother," said Mr. Irwine, kindly, "Chad
Cranage's daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, the blacksmith?"
"Yes, to be sure," said Mrs. Irwine. "Well, Bessy, here is your
prize--excellent warm things for winter. I'm sure you have had
hard work to win them this warm day."
Bessy's lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gown--which felt so
hot and disagreeable too, on this July day, and was such a great
ugly thing to carry. She dropped her curtsies again, without
looking up, and with a growing tremulousness about the corners of
her mouth, and then turned away.
"Poor girl," said Arthur; "I think she's disappointed. I wish it
had been something more to her taste."
"She's a bold-looking young person," observed Miss Lydia. "Not at
all one I should like to encourage."
Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present of
money before the day was over, that she might buy something more
to her mind; but she, not aware of the consolation in store for
her, turned out of the open space, where she was visible from the
marquee, and throwing down the odious bundle under a tree, began
to cry--very much tittered at the while by the small boys. In
this situation she was descried by her discreet matronly cousin,
who lost no time in coming up, having just given the baby into her
husband's charge.
"What's the matter wi' ye?" said Bess the matron, taking up the
bundle and examining it. "Ye'n sweltered yoursen, I reckon,
running that fool's race. An' here, they'n gi'en you lots o' good
grogram and flannel, as should ha' been gi'en by good rights to
them as had the sense to keep away from such foolery. Ye might
spare me a bit o' this grogram to make clothes for the lad--ye war
ne'er ill-natured, Bess; I ne'er said that on ye."
"Ye may take it all, for what I care," said Bess the maiden, with
a pettish movement, beginning to wipe away her tears and recover
herself.
"Well, I could do wi't, if so be ye want to get rid on't," said
the disinterested cousin, walking quickly away with the bundle,
lest Chad's Bess should change her mind.
But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity of
spirits that secured her from any rankling grief; and by the time
the grand climax of the donkey-race came on, her disappointment
was entirely lost in the delightful excitement of attempting to
stimulate the last donkey by hisses, while the boys applied the
argument of sticks. But the strength of the donkey mind lies in
adopting a course inversely as the arguments urged, which, well
considered, requires as great a mental force as the direct
sequence; and the present donkey proved the first-rate order of
his intelligence by coming to a dead standstill just when the
blows were thickest. Great was the shouting of the crowd, radiant
the grinning of Bill Downes the stone-sawyer and the fortunate
rider of this superior beast, which stood calm and stiff-legged in
the midst of its triumph.
Arthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and Bill was
made happy with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied with blades and
gimlets enough to make a man at home on a desert island. He had
hardly returned from the marquee with the prize in his hand, when
it began to be understood that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the
company, before the gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and
gratuitous performance--namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which
was doubtless borrowed; but this was to be developed by the dancer
in so peculiar and complex a manner that no one could deny him the
praise of originality. Wiry Ben's pride in his dancing--an
accomplishment productive of great effect at the yearly Wake--had
needed only slightly elevating by an extra quantity of good ale to
convince him that the gentry would be very much struck with his
performance of his hornpipe; and he had been decidedly encouraged
in this idea by Joshua Rann, who observed that it was nothing but
right to do something to please the young squire, in return for
what he had done for them. You will be the less surprised at this
opinion in so grave a personage when you learn that Ben had
requested Mr. Rann to accompany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt
quite sure that though there might not be much in the dancing, the
music would make up for it. Adam Bede, who was present in one of
the large marquees, where the plan was being discussed, told Ben
he had better not make a fool of himself--a remark which at once
fixed Ben's determination: he was not going to let anything alone
because Adam Bede turned up his nose at it.
"What's this, what's this?" said old Mr. Donnithorne. "Is it
something you've arranged, Arthur? Here's the clerk coming with
his fiddle, and a smart fellow with a nosegay in his button-hole."
"No," said Arthur; "I know nothing about it. By Jove, he's going
to dance! It's one of the carpenters--I forget his name at this
moment."
"It's Ben Cranage--Wiry Ben, they call him," said Mr. Irwine;
"rather a loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see that fiddle-
scraping is too much for you: you're getting tired. Let me take
you in now, that you may rest till dinner."
Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her away,
while Joshua's preliminary scrapings burst into the "White
Cockade," from which he intended to pass to a variety of tunes, by
a series of transitions which his good ear really taught him to
execute with some skill. It would have been an exasperating fact
to him, if he had known it, that the general attention was too
thoroughly absorbed by Ben's dancing for any one to give much heed
to the music.
Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo dance?
Perhaps you have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling like a merry
countryman in crockery, with graceful turns of the haunch and
insinuating movements of the head. That is as much like the real
thing as the "Bird Waltz" is like the song of birds. Wiry Ben
never smiled: he looked as serious as a dancing monkey--as serious
as if he had been an experimental philosopher ascertaining in his
own person the amount of shaking and the varieties of angularity
that could be given to the human limbs.
To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped marquee,
Arthur clapped his hands continually and cried "Bravo!" But Ben
had one admirer whose eyes followed his movements with a fervid
gravity that equalled his own. It was Martin Poyser, who was
seated on a bench, with Tommy between his legs.
"What dost think o' that?" he said to his wife. "He goes as pat
to the music as if he was made o' clockwork. I used to be a
pretty good un at dancing myself when I was lighter, but I could
niver ha' hit it just to th' hair like that."
"It's little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking," re-turned
Mrs. Poyser. "He's empty enough i' the upper story, or he'd niver
come jigging an' stamping i' that way, like a mad grasshopper, for
the gentry to look at him. They're fit to die wi' laughing, I can
see."
"Well, well, so much the better, it amuses 'em," said Mr. Poyser,
who did not easily take an irritable view of things. "But they're
going away now, t' have their dinner, I reckon. Well move about a
bit, shall we, and see what Adam Bede's doing. He's got to look
after the drinking and things: I doubt he hasna had much fun."
