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.”
Chapter II.
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