The conversation, which was at a high pitch of animation when Silas
approached the door of the Rainbow, had as usual been slow and
intermittent when the company first assembled. The pipes began to be
puffed in a silence which had an air of severity; the more important
customers, who drank spirits and sat nearest the fire, staring at each
other as if a bet were depending on the first man who winked; while
the beer-drinkers, chiefly men in fustian jackets and smock-frocks,
kept their eyelids down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, as
if their draughts of beer were a funeral duty attended with
embarrassing sadness. At last Mr. Snell, the landlord, a man of a
neutral disposition, accustomed to stand aloof from human differences
as those of beings who were all alike in need of liquor, broke silence
by saying in a doubtful tone to his cousin the butcher:--
"Some folks 'ud say that was a fine beast you druv in yesterday, Bob?"
The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was not disposed to
answer rashly. He gave a few puffs before he spat, and replied, "And
they wouldn't be fur wrong, John."
After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as severely as
before.
"Was it a red Durham?" said the farrier, taking up the thread of
discourse after the lapse of a few minutes.
The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord looked at the
butcher, as the person who must take the responsibility of answering.
"Red it was," said the butcher, in his good-humored husky
treble,--"and a Durham it was."
"Then you needn't tell _me_ who you bought it of," said the farrier,
looking round with some triumph: "I know who it is has got the red
Durhams o' this country-side. And she'd a white star on her brow, I'll
bet a penny?" The farrier leaned forward with his hands on his knees
as he put this question, and his eyes twinkled knowingly.
"Well, yes--she might," said the butcher, slowly, considering that he
was giving a decided affirmative. "I don't say contrairy."
"I knew that very well," said the farrier, throwing himself backward
again, and speaking defiantly; "if _I_ don't know Mr. Lammeter's cows,
I should like to know who does--that's all. And as for the cow you've
bought, bargain or no bargain, I've been at the drenching of
her--contradick me who will."
The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher's conversational
spirit was roused a little.
"I'm not for contradicking no man," he said; "I'm for peace and
quietness. Some are for cutting long ribs--I'm for cutting 'em short
myself; but _I_ don't quarrel with 'em. All I say is, it's a lovely
carkiss--and anybody as was reasonable, it 'ud bring tears into their
eyes to look at it."
"Well, it's the cow as I drenched, whatever it is," pursued the
farrier, angrily; "and it was Mr. Lammeter's cow, else you told a lie
when you said it was a red Durham."
"I tell no lies," said the butcher, with the same mild huskiness as
before; "and I contradick none--not if a man was to swear himself
black; he's no meat o' mine, nor none o' my bargains. All I say is,
it's a lovely carkiss. And what I say I'll stick to; but I'll quarrel
wi' no man."
"No," said the farrier with bitter sarcasm, looking at the company
generally; "and p'raps you aren't pig-headed; and p'raps you didn't
say the cow was a red Durham; and p'raps you didn't say she'd got a
star on her brow--stick to that, now you're at it."
"Come, come," said the landlord, "let the cow alone. The truth lies
atween you; you're both right and both wrong, as I allays say. And as
for the cow's being Mr. Lammeter's, I say nothing to that; but this I
say, as the Rainbow's the Rainbow. And for the matter o' that, if the
talk is to be o' the Lammeters, _you_ know the most upo' that head,
eh, Mr. Macey? You remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father come into
these parts, and took the Warrens?"
Mr. Macey, tailor and parish clerk, the latter of which functions
rheumatism had of late obliged him to share with a small-featured
young man who sat opposite him, held his white head on one side, and
twirled his thumbs with an air of complacency, slightly seasoned with
criticism. He smiled pityingly in answer to the landlord's appeal, and
said:--
"Ay, ay; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk. I've laid by now,
and gev up to the young uns. Ask them as have been to school at
Tarley; they've learned pernouncing; that's come up since my day."
"If you're pointing at me, Mr. Macey," said the deputy clerk, with an
air of anxious propriety, "I'm nowise a man to speak out of my place.
As the psalm says:--
"'I know what's right; nor only so,
But also practice what I know.'"
"Well, then, I wish you'd keep hold o' the tune when it's set for you;
if you're for practicing I wish you'd prac_tice_ that," said a large
jocose-looking man, an excellent wheelwright in his weekday capacity,
but on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as he spoke, at two of
the company who were known officially as "the bassoon" and "the key
bugle," in the confidence that he was expressing the sense of the
musical profession in Raveloe.
Mr. Tookey the deputy clerk, who shared the unpopularity common to
deputies, turned very red, but replied with careful moderation:--"Mr.
Winthrop, if you'll bring me any proof as I'm in the wrong, I'm not
the man to say I won't alter. But there's people set up their own ears
for a standard, and expect the whole choir to follow 'em. There may be
two opinions, I hope."
"Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied with this
attack on youthful presumption; "you're right there, Tookey: there's
allays two 'pinions; there's the 'pinion a man has of himsen, and
there's the 'pinion other folks have on him. There'd be two 'pinions
about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear itself."
"Well, Mr. Macey," said poor Tookey, serious amidst the general
laughter, "I undertook to partially fill up the office of parish clerk
by Mr. Crackenthorp's desire, whenever your infirmities should make
you unfitting; and it's one of the rights thereof to sing in the
choir--else why have you done the same yourself?"
"Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks," said Ben Winthrop.
"The old gentleman's got a gift. Why, the Squire used to invite him to
take a glass, only to hear him sing the 'Red Rovier'; didn't he, Mr.
Macey? It's a nat'ral gift. There's my little lad Aaron, he's got a
gift--he can sing a tune off straight, like a throstle. But as for
you, Master Tookey, you'd better stick to your 'Amens': your voice is
well enough when you keep it up in your nose. It's your inside as
isn't right made for music: it's no better nor a hollow stalk."
This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant form of joke
to the company at the Rainbow, and Ben Winthrop's insult was felt by
everybody to have capped Mr. Macey's epigram.
"I see what it is plain enough," said Mr. Tookey, unable to keep cool
any longer. "There's a consperacy to turn me out o' the choir, as I
shouldn't share the Christmas money--that's where it is. But I shall
speak to Mr. Crackenthorp; I'll not be put upon by no man."
"Nay, nay, Tookey," said Ben Winthrop. "We'll pay you your share to
keep out of it--that's what we'll do. There's things folks 'ud pay to
be rid on, besides varmin."
"Come, come," said the landlord, who felt that paying people for their
absence was a principle dangerous to society; "a joke's a joke. We're
all good friends here, I hope. We must give and take. You're both
right and you're both wrong, as I say. I agree wi' Mr. Macey here, as
there's two opinions; and if mine was asked, I should say they're both
right. Tookey's right and Winthrop's right, and they've only got to
split the difference and make themselves even."
The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in some contempt at
this trivial discussion. He had no ear for music himself, and never
went to church, as being of the medical profession, and likely to be
in requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher, having music in his
soul, had listened with a divided desire, for Tookey's defeat and for
the preservation of the peace.
"To be sure," he said, following up the landlord's conciliatory view,
"we're fond of our old clerk; it's nat'ral, and him used to be such a
singer, and got a brother as is known for the first fiddler in this
country-side. Eh, it's a pity but what Solomon lived in our village,
and could give us a tune when he liked, eh, Mr. Macey? I'd keep him in
liver and lights for nothing--that I would."
"Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey, in the height of complacency; "our family's
been known for musicianers as far back as anybody can tell. But them
things are dying out, as I tell Solomon every time he comes round;
there's no voices like what there used to be, and there's nobody
remembers what we remember, if it ain't the old crows."
"Ay, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father came into these
parts, don't you, Mr. Macey?" said the landlord.
"I should think I did," said the old man, who had now gone through
that complimentary process necessary to bring him up to the point of
narration; "and a fine old gentleman he was--as fine and finer nor the
Mr. Lammeter as now is. He came from a bit north'ard, so far as I
could ever make out. But there's nobody rightly knows about those
parts; only it couldn't be far north'ard, nor much different from this
country, for he brought a fine breed o' sheep with him, so there must
be pastures there, and everything reasonable. We heard tell as he'd
sold his own land to come and take the Warrens, and that seemed odd
for a man as had land of his own, to come and rent a farm in a strange
place. But they said it was along of his wife's dying; though there's
reasons in things as nobody knows on--that's pretty much what I've
made out; though some folks are so wise that they'll find you fifty
reasons straight off, and all the while the real reason's winking at
'em in the corner, and they niver see't. Howsomever, it was soon seen
as we'd got a new parish'ner as know'd the rights and customs o'
things, and kep a good house, and was well looked on by everybody. And
the young man--that's the Mr. Lammeter as now is, for he'd niver a
sister--soon begun to court Miss Osgood, that's the sister o' the Mr.
Osgood as now is, and a fine handsome lass she was--eh, you can't
think--they pretend this young lass is like her, but that's the way
wi' people as don't know what come before 'em. _I_ should know, for I
helped the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him marry 'em."
Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative in installments,
expecting to be questioned according to precedent.
"Ay, and a partic'lar thing happened, didn't it, Mr. Macey, so as you
were likely to remember that marriage?" said the landlord, in a
congratulatory tone.
"I should think there did--a _very_ partic'lar thing," said Mr. Macey,
nodding sideways. "For Mr. Drumlow--poor old gentleman, I was fond on
him, though he'd got a bit confused in his head, what wi' age and wi'
taking a drop o' summat warm when the service come of a cold morning;
and young Mr. Lammeter he'd have no way but he must be married in
Janiwary, which, to be sure, 's a unreasonable time to be married in,
for it isn't like a christening or a burying, as you can't help; and
so Mr. Drumlow--poor old gentleman, I was fond on him; but when he
come to put the questions, he put 'em by the rule o' contrairy like,
and he says, 'Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded wife?' says he,
and then he says, 'Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded husband?'
says he. But the partic'larest thing of all is, as nobody took any
notice on it but me, and they answered straight off 'Yes,' like as if
it had been me saying 'Amen' i' the right place, without listening to
what went before."
"But _you_ knew what was going on well enough, didn't you, Mr. Macey?
You were live enough, eh?" said the butcher.
"Lor bless you!" said Mr. Macey, pausing, and smiling in pity at the
impotence of his hearers' imagination,--"why, I was all of a tremble:
it was as if I'd been a coat pulled by the two tails, like; for I
couldn't stop the parson, I couldn't take upon me to do that; and yet
I said to myself, I says, 'Suppose they shouldn't be fast married,
'cause the words are contrairy?' and my head went working like a mill,
for I was allays uncommon for turning things over and seeing all round
'em; and I says to myself, 'Is't the meanin' or the words as makes
folks fast i' wedlock?' For the parson meant right, and the bride and
bridegroom meant right. But then when I come to think on it, meanin'
goes but a little way i' most things, for you may mean to stick things
together and your glue may be bad, and then where are you? And so I
says to mysen, 'It isn't the meanin', it's the glue.' And I was
worreted as if I'd got three bells to pull at once, when we got into
the vestry, and they begun to sign their names. But where's the use o'
talking?--you can't think what goes on in a 'cute man's inside."
"But you held in for all that, didn't you, Mr. Macey?" said the
landlord.
"Ay, I held in tight till I was by mysen, wi' Mr. Drumlow, and then I
out wi' everything, but respectful, as I allays did. And he made light
on it, and he says:--'Pooh, pooh, Macey, make yourself easy,' he says,
'it's neither the meaning nor the words--it's the register does
it--that's the glue.' So you see he settled it easy; for parsons and
doctors know everything by heart, like, so as they aren't worreted wi'
thinking what's the rights and wrongs o' things, as I'n been many and
many's the time. And sure enough the wedding turned out all right,
on'y poor Mrs. Lammeter--that's Miss Osgood as was--died afore the
lasses were growed up; but for prosperity and everything respectable,
there's no family more looked on."
Every one of Mr. Macey's audience had heard this story many times, but
it was listened to as if it had been a favorite tune, and at certain
points the puffing of the pipes was momentarily suspended, that the
listeners might give their whole minds to the expected words. But
there was more to come; and Mr. Snell, the landlord, duly put the
leading question:--
"Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn't they say, when he
come into these parts?"
"Well, yes," said Mr. Macey; "but I dare say it's as much as this Mr.
Lammeter's done to keep it whole.... Why, they're stables four times
as big as Squire Cass's, for he thought o' nothing but hosses and
hunting, Cliff didn't--a Lunnon tailor, some folks said, as had gone
mad wi' cheating. For he couldn't ride, Lor bless you! they said he'd
got no more grip o' the hoss than if his legs had been cross-sticks:
my grandfather heared old Squire Cass say so many and many a time. But
ride he would, as if Old Harry had been a-driving him; and he'd a son,
a lad o' sixteen; and nothing would his father have him do but he must
ride and ride--though the lad was frightened, they said. And it was a
common saying as the father wanted to ride the tailor out o' the lad,
and make a gentleman on him--not but what I'm a tailor myself, but in
respect as God made me such, I'm proud on it, for 'Macey, tailor,' 's
been wrote up over our door since afore the Queen's heads went out on
the shillings. But Cliff, he was ashamed o' being called a tailor, and
he was sore vexed as his riding was laughed at, and nobody o' the
gentlefolks here about could abide him. Howsomever, the poor lad got
sickly and died, and the father didn't live long after him, for he
got queerer nor ever, and they said he used to go out i' the dead o'
the night, wi' a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o'
lights burning, for he got as he couldn't sleep; and there he'd stand,
cracking his whip and looking at his hosses; and they said it was a
mercy as the stables didn't get burnt down wi' the poor dumb creaturs
in 'em. But at last he died raving, and they found as he'd left all
his property, Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity, and that's how the
Warrens come to be Charity Land; though as for the stables, Mr.
Lammeter never uses 'em--they're out o' all charicter--Lor bless you!
if you was to set the doors a-banging in 'em, it 'ud sound like
thunder half o'er the parish."
"Ay, but there's more going on in the stables than what folks see by
daylight, eh, Mr. Macey?" said the landlord.
"Ay, ay; go that way of a dark night, that's all," said Mr. Macey,
winking mysteriously, "and then make believe, if you like, as you
didn't see lights i' the stables, nor hear the stamping o' the hosses,
nor the cracking o' the whips, and howling too, if it's tow'rt
daybreak. 'Cliff's Holiday' has been the name of it ever sin' I were a
boy; that's to say, some said as it was the holiday Old Harry gev him
from roasting, like. That's what my father told me, and he was a
reasonable man, though there's folks nowadays know what happened afore
they were born better nor they know their own business."
"What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas?" said the landlord, turning to
the farrier, who was swelling with impatience for his cue: "here's a
nut for _you_ to crack."
Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, and was proud of
his position.
"Say? I say what a man _should_ say as doesn't shut his eyes to look
at a finger-post. I say as I'm ready to wager any man ten pound, if
he'll stand out wi' me any dry night in the pasture before the Warren
stables, as we shall neither see lights nor hear noises, if it isn't
the blowing of our own noses. That's what I say, and I've said it many
a time; but there's nobody 'ull ventur a ten-pun' note on their
ghos'es as they make so sure of."
"Why, Dowlas, that's easy betting, that is," said Ben Winthrop. "You
might as well bet a man as he wouldn't catch the rheumatise if he
stood up to 's neck in the pool of a frosty night. It 'ud be fine fun
for a man to win his bet as he'd catch the rheumatise. Folks as
believe in Cliff's Holiday aren't a-going to ventur near it for a
matter o' ten pound."
"If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it," said Mr. Macey, with
a sarcastic smile, tapping his thumbs together, "he's no call to lay
any bet; let him go and stan' by himself--there's nobody 'ull hinder
him; and then he can let the parish'ners know if they're wrong."
"Thank you! I'm obliged to you," said the farrier, with a snort of
scorn. "If folks are fools, it's no business o' mine. _I_ don't want
to make out the truth about ghos'es; I know it a'ready. But I'm not
against a bet--everything fair and open. Let any man bet me ten pound
as I shall see Cliff's Holiday, and I'll go and stand by myself. I
want no company. I'd as lief do it as I'd fill this pipe."
"Ah, but who's to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do it? That's no fair
bet," said the butcher.
"No fair bet?" replied Mr. Dowlas angrily. "I should like to hear any
man stand up and say I want to bet unfair. Come now, Master Lundy, I
should like to hear you say it."
"Very like you would," said the butcher. "But it's no business o'
mine. You're none o' my bargains, and I aren't a-going to try and
'bate your price. If anybody'll bid for you at your own vallying, let
him. I'm for peace and quietness, I am."
"Yes, that's what every yapping cur is, when you hold a stick up at
him," said the farrier. "But I'm afraid o' neither man nor ghost, and
I'm ready to lay a fair bet--I aren't a turntail cur."
"Ay, but there's this in it, Dowlas," said the landlord, speaking in a
tone of much candor and tolerance. "There's folks, i' my opinion, they
can't see ghos'es, not if they stood as plain as a pike-staff before
'em. And there's reason i' that. For there's my wife, now, can't
smell, not if she'd the strongest o' cheese under her nose. I never
seed a ghost myself; but then I says to myself, 'Very like I haven't
got the smell for 'em.' I mean, putting a ghost for a smell, or else
contrariways. And so I'm for holding with both sides; for as I say,
the truth lies between 'em. And if Dowlas was to go and stand, and say
he'd never seen a wink o' Cliff's Holiday all the night through, I'd
back him; and if anybody said as Cliff's Holiday was certain sure for
all that, I'd back _him_ too. For the smell's what I go by."
The landlord's analogical argument was not well received by the
farrier--a man intensely opposed to compromise.
"Tut, tut," he said setting down his glass with refreshed irritation;
"what's the smell got to do with it? Did ever a ghost give a man a
black eye? That's what I should like to know. If ghos'es want me to
believe in 'em, let 'em leave off skulking i' the dark and i' lone
places--let 'em come where there's company and candles."
"As if ghos'es 'ud want to be believed in by anybody so ignorant!"
said Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at the farrier's crass imcompetence to
apprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena.