Evidently that gate is never opened; for the long grass and the great
hemlocks grow close against it; and if it were opened, it is so rusty
that the force necessary to turn it on its hinges would be likely to
pull down the square stone-built pillars, to the detriment of the two
stone lionesses which grin with a doubtful carnivorous affability
above a coat of arms surmounting each of the pillars. It would be easy
enough, by the aid of the nicks in the stone pillars, to climb over
the brick wall with its smooth stone coping; but by putting our eyes
close to the rusty bars of the gate, we can see the house well enough,
and all but the very corners of the grassy inclosure.
[Footnote 43: From "Adam Bede."]
It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale powdery
lichen, which has dispersed itself with happy irregularity, so as to
bring the red brick into terms of friendly companionship with the
limestone ornaments surrounding the three gables, the windows, and the
door-place. But the windows are patched with wooden panes, and the
door, I think, is like the gate--it is never opened: how it would
groan and grate against the stone floor if it were! For it is a solid,
heavy, handsome door, and must once have been in the habit of shutting
with a sonorous bang behind a liveried lackey who had just seen his
master and mistress off the grounds in a carriage and pair.
But at present one might fancy the house in the early stage of a
chancery suit, and that the fruit from that grand double row of
walnut-trees on the right hand of the inclosure would fall and rot
among the grass; if it were not that we heard the booming bark of dogs
echoing from great buildings at the back. And now the half-weaned
calves that have been sheltering themselves in a gorse-built hovel
against the left-hand wall come out and set up a silly answer to that
terrible bark, doubtless supposing that it has reference to buckets of
milk.
Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by whom; for
imagination is a licensed trespasser; it has no fear of dogs, but may
climb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity. Put your face
to one of the glass panes in the right-hand window: what do you see? A
large open fireplace, with rusty dogs in it, and a bare boarded floor;
at the far end, fleeces of wool stacked up; in the middle of the
floor, some empty corn-bags. That is the furniture of the dining-room.
And what through the left-hand window? Several clothes-horses, a
pillion, a spinning-wheel, and an old box wide open, and stuffed full
of colored rags. At the edge of this box there lies a great wooden
doll, which so far as mutilation is concerned bears a strong
resemblance to the finest Greek sculpture, and especially in the total
loss of its nose. Near it there is a little chair, and the butt-end of
a boy's leather long-lasht whip.
The history of the house is plain now. It was once the residence of a
country squire, whose family, probably dwindling down to mere
spinster-hood, got merged in the more territorial name of Donnithorne.
It was once the Hall; it is now the Hall Farm. Like the life in some
coast town that was once a watering-place, and is now a port, where
the genteel streets are silent and grass-grown, and the docks and
warehouses busy and resonant, the life at the Hall has changed its
focus, and no longer radiates from the parlor, but from the kitchen
and the farm-yard.
Plenty of life there, tho this the drowsiest time of the year, just
before hay harvest; and it is the drowsiest time of the day too, for
it is close upon three by the sun, and it is half-past three by Mrs.
Poyser's handsome eight-day clock. But there is always a stronger
sense of life when the sun is brilliant after rain; and now he is
pouring down his beams, and making sparkles among the wet straw, and
lighting up every patch of vivid green moss on the red tiles of the
cow-shed, and turning even the muddy water that is hurrying along the
channel to the drain into a mirror for the yellow-billed ducks, who
are seizing the opportunity of getting a drink with as much body in it
as possible. There is quite a concert of noises: the great bull-dog,
chained against the stables, is thrown into furious exasperation by
the unwary approach of a cock too near the mouth of his kennel, and
sends forth a thundering bark, which is answered by two fox-hounds
shut up in the opposite cow-house; the old top-knotted hens,
scratching with their chicks among the straw, set up a sympathetic
croaking as the discomfited cock joins them; a sow with her brood, all
very muddy as to the legs, and curled as to the tail, throws in some
deep staccato notes; our friends the calves are bleating from the home
croft; and under all, a fine ear discerns the continuous hum of human
voices.
For the great barn doors are thrown wide open, and men are busy there
mending the harness under the superintendence of Mr. Goby the
"whittaw," otherwise saddler, who entertains them with the latest
Treddleston gossip. It is certainly rather an unfortunate day that
Alick the shepherd has chosen for having the whittaws, since the
morning turned out so wet; and Mrs. Poyser has spoken her mind pretty
strongly as to the dirt which the extra number of men's shoes brought
into the house at dinner-time. Indeed, she has not yet recovered her
equanimity on the subject, tho it is now nearly three hours since
dinner and the house floor is perfectly clean again; as clean as
everything else in that wonderful house-place, where the only chance
of collecting a few grains of dust would be to climb on the
salt-coffer, and put your finger on the high mantel shelf on which the
glittering brass candlesticks are enjoying their summer sinecure; for
at this time of year, of course, every one goes to bed while it is yet
light, or at least light enough to discern the outline of objects
after you have bruised your shins against them. Surely nowhere else
could an oak clock-case and an oak table have got to such a polish by
the hand: genuine "elbow polish," as Mrs. Poyser called it, for she
thanked God she never had any of your varnished rubbish in her house.
Hetty Sorrel often took the opportunity, when her aunt's back was
turned, of looking at the pleasing reflection of herself in those
polished surfaces, for the oak table was usually turned up like a
screen, and was more for ornament than for use; and she could see
herself sometimes in the great round pewter dishes that were ranged on
the shelves above the long deal dinner-table, or in the hobs of the
grate, which always shone like jasper.
Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for the sun
shone right on the pewter dishes, and from their reflecting surfaces
pleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow oak and bright
brass;--and on a still pleasanter object than these; for some of the
rays fell on Dinah's finely molded cheek and lit up her pale-red hair
to auburn, as she bent over the heavy household linen which she was
mending for her aunt. No scene could have been more peaceful, if Mrs.
Poyser, who was ironing a few things that still remained from the
Monday's wash, had not been making a frequent clinking with her iron,
and moving to and fro whenever she wanted it to cool; carrying the
keen glance of her blue-gray eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where
Hetty was making up the butter, and from the dairy to the back
kitchen, where Nancy was taking the pies out of the oven. Do not
suppose, however, that Mrs. Poyser was elderly or shrewish in her
appearance; she was a good-looking woman, not more than
eight-and-thirty, of fair complexion and sandy hair, well-shapen,
light-footed; the most conspicuous article in her attire was an ample
checkered linen apron, which almost covered her skirt; and nothing
could be plainer or less noticeable than her cap and gown, for there
was no weakness of which she was less tolerant than feminine vanity,
and the preference of ornament to utility. The family likeness between
her and her niece Dinah Morris, with the contrast between her keenness
and Dinah's seraphic gentleness of expression, might have served a
painter as an excellent suggestion for a Martha and Mary. Their eyes
were just of the same color, but a striking test of the difference in
their operation was seen in the demeanor of Trip, the black-and-tan
terrier, whenever that much-suspected dog unwarily exposed himself to
the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. Poyser's glance. Her tongue was not
less keen than her eye, and whenever a damsel came within earshot,
seemed to take up an unfinished lecture, as a barrel-organ takes up a
tune, precisely at the point where it had left off.