to you, to say that you’ve known me all these years and yet haven’t sense enough to find out a great deal o’ the truth about me. You think, if I undertake to do a bit o’ work, I’ll do it well, be my pay big or little—and that’s true. I’d be ashamed to stand before you here if it wasna true. But it seems to me that’s a man’s plain duty, and nothing to be conceited about, and it’s pretty clear to me as I’ve never done more than my duty; for let us do what we will, it’s only making use o’ the sperrit and the powers that ha’ been given to us. And so this kindness o’ yours, I’m sure, is no debt you owe me, but a free gift, and as such I accept it and am thankful. And as to this new employment I’ve taken in hand, I’ll only say that I took it at Captain Donnithorne’s desire, and that I’ll try to fulfil his expectations. I’d wish for no better lot than to work under him, and to know that while I was getting my own bread I was taking care of his int’rests. For I believe he’s one o those gentlemen as wishes to do the right thing, and to leave the world a bit better than he found it, which it’s my belief every man may do, whether he’s gentle or simple, whether he sets a good bit o’ work going and finds the money, or whether he does the work with his own hands. There’s no occasion for me to say any more about what I feel towards him: I hope to show it through the rest o’ my life in my actions.”
There were various opinions about Adam’s speech: some of the women whispered that he didn’t show himself thankful enough, and seemed to speak as proud as could be; but most of the men were of opinion that nobody could speak more straightfor’ard, and that Adam was as fine a chap as need to be. While such observations were being buzzed about, mingled with wonderings as to what the old squire meant to do for a bailiff, and whether he was going to have a steward, the two gentlemen had risen, and were walking round to the table where the wives and children sat. There was none of the strong ale here, of course, but wine and dessert—sparkling gooseberry for the young ones, and some good sherry for the mothers. Mrs. Poyser was at the head of this table, and Totty was now seated in her lap, bending her small nose deep down into a wine-glass in search of the nuts floating there.
“How do you do, Mrs. Poyser?” said Arthur. “Weren’t you pleased to hear your husband make such a good speech to-day?”
“Oh, sir, the men are mostly so tongue-tied—you’re forced partly to guess what they mean, as you do wi’ the dumb creaturs.”
“What! you think you could have made it better for him?” said Mr. Irwine, laughing.
“Well, sir, when I want to say anything, I can mostly find words to say it in, thank God. Not as I’m a-finding faut wi’ my husband, for if he’s a man o’ few words, what he says he’ll stand to.”
“I’m sure I never saw a prettier party than this,” Arthur said, looking round at the apple-cheeked children. “My aunt and the Miss Irwines will come up and see you presently. They were afraid of the noise of the toasts, but it would be a shame for them not to see you at table.”
He walked on, speaking to the mothers and patting the children, while Mr. Irwine satisfied himself with standing still and nodding at a distance, that no one’s attention might be disturbed from the young squire, the hero of the day. Arthur did not venture to stop near Hetty, but merely bowed to her as he passed along the opposite side. The foolish child felt her heart swelling with discontent; for what woman was ever satisfied with apparent neglect, even when she knows it to be the mask of love? Hetty thought this was going to be the most miserable day she had had for a long while, a moment of chill daylight and reality came across her dream: Arthur, who had seemed so near to her only a few hours before, was separated from her, as the hero of a great procession is separated from a small outsider in the crowd.
Chapter IV.
The Games.
The great dance was not to begin until eight o’clock, but for any lads and lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass before then, there was music always at hand—for was not the band of the Benefit Club capable of playing excellent jigs, reels, and hornpipes? And, besides this, there was a grand band hired from Rosseter, who, with their wonderful wind-instruments and puffed-out cheeks, were themselves a delightful show to the small boys and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann’s fiddle, which, by an act of generous forethought, he had provided himself with, in case any one should be of sufficiently pure taste to prefer dancing to a solo on that instrument.
Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in front of the house, the games began. There were, of course, well-soaped poles to be climbed by the boys and youths, races to be run by the old women, races to be run in sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by the strong men, and a long list of challenges to such ambitious attempts as that of walking as many yards possible on one leg—feats in which it was generally remarked that Wiry Ben, being “the lissom’st, springest fellow i’ the country,” was sure to be pre-eminent. To crown all, there was to be a donkey-race—that sublimest of all races, conducted on the grand socialistic idea of everybody encouraging everybody else’s donkey, and the sorriest donkey winning.
And soon after four o’clock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in her damask satin and jewels and black lace, was led out by Arthur, followed by the whole family party, to her raised seat under the striped marquee, where she was to give out the prizes to the victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia had requested to resign that queenly office to the royal old lady, and Arthur was pleased with this opportunity of gratifying his godmother’s taste for stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the delicately clean, finely scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air of punctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine brought Miss Lydia, looking neutral and stiff in an elegant peach-blossom silk; and Mr. Irwine came last with his pale sister Anne. No other friend of the family, besides Mr. Gawaine, was invited to-day; there was to be a grand dinner for the neighbouring gentry on the morrow, but to-day all the forces were required for the entertainment of the tenants.
There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn from the park, but a temporary bridge had been made for the passage of the victors, and the groups of people standing, or seated here and there on benches, stretched on each side of the open space from the white marquees up to the sunk fence.
“Upon my word it’s a pretty sight,” said the old lady, in her deep voice, when she was seated, and looked round on the bright scene with its dark-green background; “and it’s the last fete-day I’m likely to see, unless you make haste and get married, Arthur. But take care you get a charming bride, else I would rather die without seeing her.”
“You’re so terribly fastidious, Godmother,” said Arthur, “I’m afraid I should never satisfy you with my choice.”
“Well, I won’t forgive you if she’s not handsome. I can’t be put off with amiability, which is always the excuse people are making for the existence of plain people. And she must not be silly; that will never do, because you’ll want managing, and a silly woman can’t manage you. Who is that tall young man, Dauphin, with the mild face? There, standing without his hat, and taking such care of that tall old woman by the side of him—his mother, of course. I like to see that.”
“What, don’t you know him, Mother?” said Mr. Irwine. “That is Seth Bede, Adam’s brother—a Methodist, but a very good fellow. Poor Seth has looked rather down-hearted of late; I thought it was because of his father’s dying in that sad way, but Joshua Rann tells me he wanted to marry that sweet little Methodist preacher who was here about a month ago, and I suppose she refused him.”
“Ah, I remember hearing about her. But there are no end of people here that I don’t know, for they’re grown up and altered so since I used to go about.”
“What excellent sight you have!” said old Mr. Donnithorne, who was holding a double glass up to his eyes, “to see the expression of that young man’s face so far off. His face is nothing but a pale blurred spot to me. But I fancy I have the advantage of you when we come to look close. I can read small print without spectacles.”