Chapter XXVI
The Dance
ARTHUR had chosen the entrance-hall for the ballroom: very wisely,
for no other room could have heen so airy, or would have had the
advantage of the wide doors opening into the garden, as well as a
ready entrance into the other rooms. To be sure, a stone floor
was not the pleasantest to dance on, but then, most of the dancers
had known what it was to enjoy a Christmas dance on kitchen
quarries. It was one of those entrance-halls which make the
surrounding rooms look like closets--with stucco angels, trumpets,
and flower-wreaths on the lofty ceiling, and great medallions of
miscellaneous heroes on the walls, alternating with statues in
niches. Just the sort of place to be ornamented well with green
boughs, and Mr. Craig had been proud to show his taste and his
hothouse plants on the occasion. The broad steps of the stone
staircase were covered with cushions to serve as seats for the
children, who were to stay till half-past nine with the servant-
maids to see the dancing, and as this dance was confined to the
chief tenants, there was abundant room for every one. The lights
were charmingly disposed in coloured-paper lamps, high up among
green boughs, and the farmers' wives and daughters, as they peeped
in, believed no scene could be more splendid; they knew now quite
well in what sort of rooms the king and queen lived, and their
thoughts glanced with some pity towards cousins and acquaintances
who had not this fine opportunity of knowing how things went on in
the great world. The lamps were already lit, though the sun had
not long set, and there was that calm light out of doors in which
we seem to see all objects more distinctly than in the broad day.
It was a pretty scene outside the house: the farmers and their
families were moving about the lawn, among the flowers and shrubs,
or along the broad straight road leading from the east front,
where a carpet of mossy grass spread on each side, studded here
and there with a dark flat-boughed cedar, or a grand pyramidal fir
sweeping the ground with its branches, all tipped with a fringe of
paler green. The groups of cottagers in the park were gradually
diminishing, the young ones being attracted towards the lights
that were beginning to gleam from the windows of the gallery in
the abbey, which was to be their dancing-room, and some of the
sober elder ones thinking it time to go home quietly. One of
these was Lisbeth Bede, and Seth went with her--not from filial
attention only, for his conscience would not let him join in
dancing. It had been rather a melancholy day to Seth: Dinah had
never been more constantly present with him than in this scene,
where everything was so unlike her. He saw her all the more
vividly after looking at the thoughtless faces and gay-coloured
dresses of the young women--just as one feels the beauty and the
greatness of a pictured Madonna the more when it has been for a
moment screened from us by a vulgar head in a bonnet. But this
presence of Dinah in his mind only helped him to bear the better
with his mother's mood, which had been becoming more and more
querulous for the last hour. Poor Lisbeth was suffering from a
strange conflict of feelings. Her joy and pride in the honour
paid to her darling son Adam was beginning to be worsted in the
conflict with the jealousy and fretfulness which had revived when
Adam came to tell her that Captain Donnithorne desired him to join
the dancers in the hall. Adam was getting more and more out of
her reach; she wished all the old troubles back again, for then it
mattered more to Adam what his mother said and did.
"Eh, it's fine talkin' o' dancin'," she said, "an' thy father not
a five week in's grave. An' I wish I war there too, i'stid o'
bein' left to take up merrier folks's room above ground."
"Nay, don't look at it i' that way, Mother," said Adam, who was
determined to be gentle to her to-day. "I don't mean to dance--I
shall only look on. And since the captain wishes me to be there,
it 'ud look as if I thought I knew better than him to say as I'd
rather not stay. And thee know'st how he's behaved to me to-day."
"Eh, thee't do as thee lik'st, for thy old mother's got no right
t' hinder thee. She's nought but th' old husk, and thee'st
slipped away from her, like the ripe nut."
"Well, Mother," said Adam, "I'll go and tell the captain as it
hurts thy feelings for me to stay, and I'd rather go home upo'
that account: he won't take it ill then, I daresay, and I'm
willing." He said this with some effort, for he really longed to
be near Hetty this evening.
"Nay, nay, I wonna ha' thee do that--the young squire 'ull be
angered. Go an' do what thee't ordered to do, an' me and Seth
'ull go whome. I know it's a grit honour for thee to be so looked
on--an' who's to be prouder on it nor thy mother? Hadna she the
cumber o' rearin' thee an' doin' for thee all these 'ears?"
"Well, good-bye, then, Mother--good-bye, lad--remember Gyp when
you get home," said Adam, turning away towards the gate of the
pleasure-grounds, where he hoped he might be able to join the
Poysers, for he had been so occupied throughout the afternoon that
he had had no time to speak to Hetty. His eye soon detected a
distant group, which he knew to be the right one, returning to the
house along the broad gravel road, and he hastened on to meet
them.
"Why, Adam, I'm glad to get sight on y' again," said Mr. Poyser,
who was carrying Totty on his arm. "You're going t' have a bit o'
fun, I hope, now your work's all done. And here's Hetty has
promised no end o' partners, an' I've just been askin' her if
she'd agreed to dance wi' you, an' she says no."
"Well, I didn't think o' dancing to-night," said Adam, already
tempted to change his mind, as he looked at Hetty.
"Nonsense!" said Mr. Poyser. "Why, everybody's goin' to dance to-
night, all but th' old squire and Mrs. Irwine. Mrs. Best's been
tellin' us as Miss Lyddy and Miss Irwine 'ull dance, an' the young
squire 'ull pick my wife for his first partner, t' open the ball:
so she'll be forced to dance, though she's laid by ever sin' the
Christmas afore the little un was born. You canna for shame stand
still, Adam, an' you a fine young fellow and can dance as well as
anybody."
"Nay, nay," said Mrs. Poyser, "it 'ud be unbecomin'. I know the
dancin's nonsense, but if you stick at everything because it's
nonsense, you wonna go far i' this life. When your broth's ready-
made for you, you mun swallow the thickenin', or else let the
broth alone."
"Then if Hetty 'ull d'ance with me," said Adam, yielding either to
Mrs. Poyser's argument or to something else, "I'll dance whichever
dance she's free."
"I've got no partner for the fourth dance," said Hetty; "I'll
dance that with you, if you like."
"Ah," said Mr. Poyser, "but you mun dance the first dance, Adam,
else it'll look partic'ler. There's plenty o' nice partners to
pick an' choose from, an' it's hard for the gells when the men
stan' by and don't ask 'em."
Adam felt the justice of Mr. Poyser's observation: it would not do
for him to dance with no one besides Hetty; and remembering that
Jonathan Burge had some reason to feel hurt to-day, he resolved to
ask Miss Mary to dance with him the first dance, if she had no
other partner.
"There's the big clock strikin' eight," said Mr. Poyser; "we must
make haste in now, else the squire and the ladies 'ull be in afore
us, an' that wouldna look well."
When they had entered the hall, and the three children under
Molly's charge had been seated on the stairs, the folding-doors of
the drawing-room were thrown open, and Arthur entered in his
regimentals, leading Mrs. Irwine to a carpet-covered dais
ornamented with hot-house plants, where she and Miss Anne were to
be seated with old Mr. Donnithorne, that they might look on at the
dancing, like the kings and queens in the plays. Arthur had put
on his uniform to please the tenants, he said, who thought as much
of his militia dignity as if it had been an elevation to the
premiership. He had not the least objection to gratify them in
that way: his uniform was very advantageous to his figure.
The old squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall to
greet the tenants and make polite speeches to the wives: he was
always polite; but the farmers had found out, after long puzzling,
that this polish was one of the signs of hardness. It was
observed that he gave his most elaborate civility to Mrs. Poyser
to-night, inquiring particularly about her health, recommending
her to strengthen herself with cold water as he did, and avoid all
drugs. Mrs. Poyser curtsied and thanked him with great self-
command, but when he had passed on, she whispered to her husband,
"I'll lay my life he's brewin' some nasty turn against us. Old
Harry doesna wag his tail so for nothin'." Mr. Poyser had no time
to answer, for now Arthur came up and said, "Mrs. Poyser, I'm come
to request the favour of your hand for the first dance; and, Mr.
Poyser, you must let me take you to my aunt, for she claims you as
her partner."
The wife's pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of unwonted
honour as Arthur led her to the top of the room; but Mr. Poyser,
to whom an extra glass had restored his youthful confidence in his
good looks and good dancing, walked along with them quite proudly,
secretly flattering himself that Miss Lydia had never had a
partner in HER life who could lift her off the ground as he would.
In order to balance the honours given to the two parishes, Miss
Irwine danced with Luke Britton, the largest Broxton farmer, and
Mr. Gawaine led out Mrs. Britton. Mr. Irwine, after seating his
sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery, as he had agreed with
Arthur beforehand, to see how the merriment of the cottagers was
prospering. Meanwhile, all the less distinguished couples had
taken their places: Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr. Craig,
and Mary Burge by Adam; and now the music struck up, and the
glorious country-dance, best of all dances, began.
Pity it was not a boarded floor! Then the rhythmic stamping of
the thick shoes would have been better than any drums. That merry
stamping, that gracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowal
of the hand--where can we see them now? That simple dancing of
well-covered matrons, laying aside for an hour the cares of house
and dairy, remembering but not affecting youth, not jealous but
proud of the young maidens by their side--that holiday
sprightliness of portly husbands paying little compliments to
their wives, as if their courting days were come again--those lads
and lasses a little confused and awkward with their partners,
having nothing to say--it would be a pleasant variety to see all
that sometimes, instead of low dresses and large skirts, and
scanning glances exploring costumes, and languid men in lacquered
boots smiling with double meaning.
There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser's pleasure in this
dance: it was that he was always in close contact with Luke
Britton, that slovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a little
glazed coldness into his eye in the crossing of hands; but then,
as Miss Irwine was opposite to him instead of the offensive Luke,
he might freeze the wrong person. So he gave his face up to
hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments.
How Hetty's heart beat as Arthur approached her! He had hardly
looked at her to-day: now he must take her hand. Would he press
it? Would he look at her? She thought she would cry if he gave
her no sign of feeling. Now he was there--he had taken her hand--
yes, he was pressing it. Hetty turned pale as she looked up at
him for an instant and met his eyes, before the dance carried him
away. That pale look came upon Arthur like the beginning of a
dull pain, which clung to him, though he must dance and smile and
joke all the same. Hetty would look so, when he told her what he
had to tell her; and he should never be able to bear it--he should
be a fool and give way again. Hetty's look did not really mean so
much as he thought: it was only the sign of a struggle between the
desire for him to notice her and the dread lest she should betray
the desire to others. But Hetty's face had a language that
transcended her feelings. There are faces which nature charges
with a meaning and pathos not belonging to the single human soul
that flutters beneath them, but speaking the joys and sorrows of
foregone generations--eyes that tell of deep love which doubtless
has been and is somewhere, but not paired with these eyes--perhaps
paired with pale eyes that can say nothing; just as a national
language may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips that use
it. That look of Hetty's oppressed Arthur with a dread which yet
had something of a terrible unconfessed delight in it, that she
loved him too well. There was a hard task before him, for at that
moment he felt he would have given up three years of his youth for
the happiness of abandoning himself without remorse to his passion
for Hetty.
These were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led Mrs.
Poyser, who was panting with fatigue, and secretly resolving that
neither judge nor jury should force her to dance another dance, to
take a quiet rest in the dining-room, where supper was laid out
for the guests to come and take it as they chose.
"I've desired Hetty to remember as she's got to dance wi' you,
sir," said the good innocent woman; "for she's so thoughtless,
she'd be like enough to go an' engage herself for ivery dance. So
I told her not to promise too many."
"Thank you, Mrs. Poyser," said Arthur, not without a twinge.
"Now, sit down in this comfortable chair, and here is Mills ready
to give you what you would like best."
He hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due honour
must be paid to the married women before he asked any of the young
ones; and the country-dances, and the stamping, and the gracious
nodding, and the waving of the hands, went on joyously.
At last the time had come for the fourth dance--longed for by the
strong, grave Adam, as if he had been a delicate-handed youth of
eighteen; for we are all very much alike when we are in our first
love; and Adam had hardly ever touched Hetty's hand for more than
a transient greeting--had never danced with her but once before.
His eyes had followed her eagerly to-night in spite of himself,
and had taken in deeper draughts of love. He thought she behaved
so prettily, so quietly; she did not seem to be flirting at all
she smiled less than usual; there was almost a sweet sadness about
her. "God bless her!" he said inwardly; "I'd make her life a
happy 'un, if a strong arm to work for her, and a heart to love
her, could do it."
And then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming home
from work, and drawing Hetty to his side, and feeling her cheek
softly pressed against his, till he forgot where he was, and the
music and the tread of feet might have been the falling of rain
and the roaring of the wind, for what he knew.
But now the third dance was ended, and he might go up to her and
claim her hand. She was at the far end of the hall near the
staircase, whispering with Molly, who had just given the sleeping
Totty into her arms before running to fetch shawls and bonnets
from the landing. Mrs. Poyser had taken the two boys away into
the dining-room to give them some cake before they went home in
the cart with Grandfather and Molly was to follow as fast as
possible.
"Let me hold her," said Adam, as Molly turned upstairs; "the
children are so heavy when they're asleep."
Hetty was glad of the relief, for to hold Totty in her arms,
standing, was not at all a pleasant variety to her. But this
second transfer had the unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, who
was not behind any child of her age in peevishness at an
unseasonable awaking. While Hetty was in the act of placing her
in Adam's arms, and had not yet withdrawn her own, Totty opened
her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left fist at Adam's
arm, and with her right caught at the string of brown beads round
Hetty's neck. The locket leaped out from her frock, and the next
moment the string was broken, and Hetty, helpless, saw beads and
locket scattered wide on the floor.
"My locket, my locket!" she said, in a loud frightened whisper to
Adam; "never mind the beads."
Adam had already seen where the locket fell, for it had attracted
his glance as it leaped out of her frock. It had fallen on the
raised wooden dais where the band sat, not on the stone floor; and
as Adam picked it up, he saw the glass with the dark and light
locks of hair under it. It had fallen that side upwards, so the
glass was not broken. He turned it over on his hand, and saw the
enamelled gold back.
"It isn't hurt," he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who was
unable to take it because both her hands were occupied with Totty.
"Oh, it doesn't matter, I don't mind about it," said Hetty, who
had been pale and was now red.
"Not matter?" said Adam, gravely. "You seemed very frightened
about it. I'll hold it till you're ready to take it," he added,
quietly closing his hand over it, that she might not think he
wanted to look at it again.
By this time Molly had come with bonnet and shawl, and as soon as
she had taken Totty, Adam placed the locket in Hetty's hand. She
took it with an air of indifference and put it in her pocket, in
her heart vexed and angry with Adam because he had seen it, but
determined now that she would show no more signs of agitation.
"See," she said, "they're taking their places to dance; let us
go."
Adam assented silently. A puzzled alarm had taken possession of
him. Had Hetty a lover he didn't know of? For none of her
relations, he was sure, would give her a locket like that; and
none of her admirers, with whom he was acquainted, was in the
position of an accepted lover, as the giver of that locket must
be. Adam was lost in the utter impossibility of finding any
person for his fears to alight on. He could only feel with a
terrible pang that there was something in Hetty's life unknown to
him; that while he had been rocking himself in the hope that she
would come to love him, she was already loving another. The
pleasure of the dance with Hetty was gone; his eyes, when they
rested on her, had an uneasy questioning expression in them; he
could think of nothing to say to her; and she too was out of
temper and disinclined to speak. They were both glad when the
dance was ended.
Adam was determined to stay no longer; no one wanted him, and no
one would notice if he slipped away. As soon as he got out of
doors, he began to walk at his habitual rapid pace, hurrying along
without knowing why, busy with the painful thought that the memory
of this day, so full of honour and promise to him, was poisoned
for ever. Suddenly, when he was far on through the Chase, he
stopped, startled by a flash of reviving hope. After all, he
might be a fool, making a great misery out of a trifle. Hetty,
fond of finery as she was, might have bought the thing herself.
It looked too expensive for that--it looked like the things on
white satin in the great jeweller's shop at Rosseter. But Adam
had very imperfect notions of the value of such things, and he
thought it could certainly not cost more than a guinea. Perhaps
Hetty had had as much as that in Christmas boxes, and there was no
knowing but she might have been childish enough to spend it in
that way; she was such a young thing, and she couldn't help loving
finery! But then, why had she been so frightened about it at
first, and changed colour so, and afterwards pretended not to
care? Oh, that was because she was ashamed of his seeing that she
had such a smart thing--she was conscious that it was wrong for
her to spend her money on it, and she knew that Adam disapproved
of finery. It was a proof she cared about what he liked and
disliked. She must have thought from his silence and gravity
afterwards that he was very much displeased with her, that he was
inclined to be harsh and severe towards her foibles. And as he
walked on more quietly, chewing the cud of this new hope, his only
uneasiness was that he had behaved in a way which might chill
Hetty's feeling towards him. For this last view of the matter
must be the true one. How could Hetty have an accepted lover,
quite unknown to him? She was never away from her uncle's house
for more than a day; she could have no acquaintances that did not
come there, and no intimacies unknown to her uncle and aunt. It
would be folly to believe that the locket was given to her by a
lover. The little ring of dark hair he felt sure was her own; he
could form no guess about the light hair under it, for he had not
seen it very distinctly. It might be a bit of her father's or
mother's, who had died when she was a child, and she would
naturally put a bit of her own along with it.
And so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for himself an
ingenious web of probabilities--the surest screen a wise man can
place between himself and the truth. His last waking thoughts
melted into a dream that he was with Hetty again at the Hall Farm,
and that he was asking her to forgive him for being so cold and
silent.
And while he was dreaming this, Arthur was leading Hetty to the
dance and saying to her in low hurried tones, "I shall be in the
wood the day after to-morrow at seven; come as early as you can."
And Hetty's foolish joys and hopes, which had flown away for a
little space, scared by a mere nothing, now all came fluttering
back, unconscious of the real peril. She was happy for the first
time this long day, and wished that dance would last for hours.
Arthur wished it too; it was the last weakness he meant to indulge
in; and a man never lies with more delicious languor under the
influence of a passion than when he has persuaded himself that he
shall subdue it to-morrow.
But Mrs. Poyser's wishes were quite the reverse of this, for her
mind was filled with dreary forebodings as to the retardation of
to-morrow morning's cheese in consequence of these late hours.
Now that Hetty had done her duty and danced one dance with the
young squire, Mr. Poyser must go out and see if the cart was come
back to fetch them, for it was half-past ten o'clock, and
notwithstanding a mild suggestion on his part that it would be bad
manners for them to be the first to go, Mrs. Poyser was resolute
on the point, "manners or no manners."
"What! Going already, Mrs. Poyser?" said old Mr. Donnithorne, as
she came to curtsy and take leave; "I thought we should not part
with any of our guests till eleven. Mrs. Irwine and I, who are
elderly people, think of sitting out the dance till then."
"Oh, Your Honour, it's all right and proper for gentlefolks to
stay up by candlelight--they've got no cheese on their minds.
We're late enough as it is, an' there's no lettin' the cows know
as they mustn't want to be milked so early to-morrow mornin'. So,
if you'll please t' excuse us, we'll take our leave."
"Eh!" she said to her husband, as they set off in the cart, "I'd
sooner ha' brewin' day and washin' day together than one o' these
pleasurin' days. There's no work so tirin' as danglin' about an'
starin' an' not rightly knowin' what you're goin' to do next; and
keepin' your face i' smilin' order like a grocer o' market-day for
fear people shouldna think you civil enough. An' you've nothing
to show for't when it's done, if it isn't a yallow face wi' eatin'
things as disagree."
"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who was in his merriest mood, and
felt that he had had a great day, "a bit o' pleasuring's good for
thee sometimes. An' thee danc'st as well as any of 'em, for I'll
back thee against all the wives i' the parish for a light foot an'
ankle. An' it was a great honour for the young squire to ask thee
first--I reckon it was because I sat at th' head o' the table an'
made the speech. An' Hetty too--she never had such a partner
before--a fine young gentleman in reg'mentals. It'll serve you to
talk on, Hetty, when you're an old woman--how you danced wi' th'
young squire the day he come o' age."
