Dinner-Time
When Adam heard that he was to dine upstairs with the large tenants, he
felt rather uncomfortable at the idea of being exalted in this way
above his mother and Seth, who were to dine in the cloisters below. But
Mr. Mills, the butler, assured him that Captain Donnithorne had given
particular orders about it, and would be very angry if Adam was not
there.
Adam nodded and went up to Seth, who was standing a few yards off.
“Seth, lad,” he said, “the captain has sent to say I’m to dine
upstairs—he wishes it particular, Mr. Mills says, so I suppose it ’ud
be behaving ill for me not to go. But I don’t like sitting up above
thee and mother, as if I was better than my own flesh and blood. Thee’t
not take it unkind, I hope?”
“Nay, nay, lad,” said Seth, “thy honour’s our honour; and if thee
get’st respect, thee’st won it by thy own deserts. The further I see
thee above me, the better, so long as thee feel’st like a brother to
me. It’s because o’ thy being appointed over the woods, and it’s
nothing but what’s right. That’s a place o’ trust, and thee’t above a
common workman now.”
“Aye,” said Adam, “but nobody knows a word about it yet. I haven’t
given notice to Mr. Burge about leaving him, and I don’t like to tell
anybody else about it before he knows, for he’ll be a good bit hurt, I
doubt. People ’ull be wondering to see me there, and they’ll like
enough be guessing the reason and asking questions, for there’s been so
much talk up and down about my having the place, this last three
weeks.”
“Well, thee canst say thee wast ordered to come without being told the
reason. That’s the truth. And mother ’ull be fine and joyful about it.
Let’s go and tell her.”
Adam was not the only guest invited to come upstairs on other grounds
than the amount he contributed to the rent-roll. There were other
people in the two parishes who derived dignity from their functions
rather than from their pocket, and of these Bartle Massey was one. His
lame walk was rather slower than usual on this warm day, so Adam
lingered behind when the bell rang for dinner, that he might walk up
with his old friend; for he was a little too shy to join the Poyser
party on this public occasion. Opportunities of getting to Hetty’s side
would be sure to turn up in the course of the day, and Adam contented
himself with that for he disliked any risk of being “joked” about
Hetty—the big, outspoken, fearless man was very shy and diffident as to
his love-making.
“Well, Mester Massey,” said Adam, as Bartle came up “I’m going to dine
upstairs with you to-day: the captain’s sent me orders.”
“Ah!” said Bartle, pausing, with one hand on his back. “Then there’s
something in the wind—there’s something in the wind. Have you heard
anything about what the old squire means to do?”
“Why, yes,” said Adam; “I’ll tell you what I know, because I believe
you can keep a still tongue in your head if you like, and I hope you’ll
not let drop a word till it’s common talk, for I’ve particular reasons
against its being known.”
“Trust to me, my boy, trust to me. I’ve got no wife to worm it out of
me and then run out and cackle it in everybody’s hearing. If you trust
a man, let him be a bachelor—let him be a bachelor.”
“Well, then, it was so far settled yesterday that I’m to take the
management o’ the woods. The captain sent for me t’ offer it me, when I
was seeing to the poles and things here and I’ve agreed to’t. But if
anybody asks any questions upstairs, just you take no notice, and turn
the talk to something else, and I’ll be obliged to you. Now, let us go
on, for we’re pretty nigh the last, I think.”
“I know what to do, never fear,” said Bartle, moving on. “The news will
be good sauce to my dinner. Aye, aye, my boy, you’ll get on. I’ll back
you for an eye at measuring and a head-piece for figures, against any
man in this county and you’ve had good teaching—you’ve had good
teaching.”
When they got upstairs, the question which Arthur had left unsettled,
as to who was to be president, and who vice, was still under
discussion, so that Adam’s entrance passed without remark.
“It stands to sense,” Mr. Casson was saying, “as old Mr. Poyser, as is
th’ oldest man i’ the room, should sit at top o’ the table. I wasn’t
butler fifteen year without learning the rights and the wrongs about
dinner.”
“Nay, nay,” said old Martin, “I’n gi’en up to my son; I’m no tenant
now: let my son take my place. Th’ ould foulks ha’ had their turn: they
mun make way for the young uns.”
“I should ha’ thought the biggest tenant had the best right, more nor
th’ oldest,” said Luke Britton, who was not fond of the critical Mr.
Poyser; “there’s Mester Holdsworth has more land nor anybody else on
th’ estate.”
“Well,” said Mr. Poyser, “suppose we say the man wi’ the foulest land
shall sit at top; then whoever gets th’ honour, there’ll be no envying
on him.”
“Eh, here’s Mester Massey,” said Mr. Craig, who, being a neutral in the
dispute, had no interest but in conciliation; “the schoolmaster ought
to be able to tell you what’s right. Who’s to sit at top o’ the table,
Mr. Massey?”
“Why, the broadest man,” said Bartle; “and then he won’t take up other
folks’ room; and the next broadest must sit at bottom.”
This happy mode of settling the dispute produced much laughter—a
smaller joke would have sufficed for that. Mr. Casson, however, did not
feel it compatible with his dignity and superior knowledge to join in
the laugh, until it turned out that he was fixed on as the second
broadest man. Martin Poyser the younger, as the broadest, was to be
president, and Mr. Casson, as next broadest, was to be vice.
Owing to this arrangement, Adam, being, of course, at the bottom of the
table, fell under the immediate observation of Mr. Casson, who, too
much occupied with the question of precedence, had not hitherto noticed
his entrance. Mr. Casson, we have seen, considered Adam “rather lifted
up and peppery-like”: he thought the gentry made more fuss about this
young carpenter than was necessary; they made no fuss about Mr. Casson,
although he had been an excellent butler for fifteen years.
“Well, Mr. Bede, you’re one o’ them as mounts hup’ards apace,” he said,
when Adam sat down. “You’ve niver dined here before, as I remember.”
“No, Mr. Casson,” said Adam, in his strong voice, that could be heard
along the table; “I’ve never dined here before, but I come by Captain
Donnithorne’s wish, and I hope it’s not disagreeable to anybody here.”
“Nay, nay,” said several voices at once, “we’re glad ye’re come. Who’s
got anything to say again’ it?”
“And ye’ll sing us ‘Over the hills and far away,’ after dinner, wonna
ye?” said Mr. Chowne. “That’s a song I’m uncommon fond on.”
“Peeh!” said Mr. Craig; “it’s not to be named by side o’ the Scotch
tunes. I’ve never cared about singing myself; I’ve had something better
to do. A man that’s got the names and the natur o’ plants in’s head
isna likely to keep a hollow place t’ hold tunes in. But a second
cousin o’ mine, a drovier, was a rare hand at remembering the Scotch
tunes. He’d got nothing else to think on.”
“The Scotch tunes!” said Bartle Massey, contemptuously; “I’ve heard
enough o’ the Scotch tunes to last me while I live. They’re fit for
nothing but to frighten the birds with—that’s to say, the English
birds, for the Scotch birds may sing Scotch for what I know. Give the
lads a bagpipe instead of a rattle, and I’ll answer for it the corn ’ll
be safe.”
“Yes, there’s folks as find a pleasure in undervallying what they know
but little about,” said Mr. Craig.
“Why, the Scotch tunes are just like a scolding, nagging woman,” Bartle
went on, without deigning to notice Mr. Craig’s remark. “They go on
with the same thing over and over again, and never come to a reasonable
end. Anybody ’ud think the Scotch tunes had always been asking a
question of somebody as deaf as old Taft, and had never got an answer
yet.”
Adam minded the less about sitting by Mr. Casson, because this position
enabled him to see Hetty, who was not far off him at the next table.
Hetty, however, had not even noticed his presence yet, for she was
giving angry attention to Totty, who insisted on drawing up her feet on
to the bench in antique fashion, and thereby threatened to make dusty
marks on Hetty’s pink-and-white frock. No sooner were the little fat
legs pushed down than up they came again, for Totty’s eyes were too
busy in staring at the large dishes to see where the plum pudding was
for her to retain any consciousness of her legs. Hetty got quite out of
patience, and at last, with a frown and pout, and gathering tears, she
said, “Oh dear, Aunt, I wish you’d speak to Totty; she keeps putting
her legs up so, and messing my frock.”
“What’s the matter wi’ the child? She can niver please you,” said the
mother. “Let her come by the side o’ me, then. _I_ can put up wi’ her.”
Adam was looking at Hetty, and saw the frown, and pout, and the dark
eyes seeming to grow larger with pettish half-gathered tears. Quiet
Mary Burge, who sat near enough to see that Hetty was cross and that
Adam’s eyes were fixed on her, thought that so sensible a man as Adam
must be reflecting on the small value of beauty in a woman whose temper
was bad. Mary was a good girl, not given to indulge in evil feelings,
but she said to herself, that, since Hetty had a bad temper, it was
better Adam should know it. And it was quite true that if Hetty had
been plain, she would have looked very ugly and unamiable at that
moment, and no one’s moral judgment upon her would have been in the
least beguiled. But really there was something quite charming in her
pettishness: it looked so much more like innocent distress than ill
humour; and the severe Adam felt no movement of disapprobation; he only
felt a sort of amused pity, as if he had seen a kitten setting up its
back, or a little bird with its feathers ruffled. He could not gather
what was vexing her, but it was impossible to him to feel otherwise
than that she was the prettiest thing in the world, and that if he
could have his way, nothing should ever vex her any more. And
presently, when Totty was gone, she caught his eye, and her face broke
into one of its brightest smiles, as she nodded to him. It was a bit of
flirtation—she knew Mary Burge was looking at them. But the smile was
like wine to Adam.