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 nightcap, 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
Cæsar 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
surprise 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 ἀπέρωτος ἒρως as old
Æschylus 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.”