the captain as it hurts thy feelings for me to stay, and I’d rather go home upo’ that account: he won’t take it ill then, I daresay, and I’m willing.” He said this with some effort, for he really longed to be near Hetty this evening.
“Nay, nay, I wonna ha’ thee do that—the young squire ’ull be angered. Go an’ do what thee’t ordered to do, an’ me and Seth ’ull go whome. I know it’s a grit honour for thee to be so looked on—an’ who’s to be prouder on it nor thy mother? Hadna she the cumber o’ rearin’ thee an’ doin’ for thee all these ’ears?”
“Well, good-bye, then, Mother—good-bye, lad—remember Gyp when you get home,” said Adam, turning away towards the gate of the pleasure-grounds, where he hoped he might be able to join the Poysers, for he had been so occupied throughout the afternoon that he had had no time to speak to Hetty. His eye soon detected a distant group, which he knew to be the right one, returning to the house along the broad gravel road, and he hastened on to meet them.
“Why, Adam, I’m glad to get sight on y’ again,” said Mr. Poyser, who was carrying Totty on his arm. “You’re going t’ have a bit o’ fun, I hope, now your work’s all done. And here’s Hetty has promised no end o’ partners, an’ I’ve just been askin’ her if she’d agreed to dance wi’ you, an’ she says no.”
“Well, I didn’t think o’ dancing to-night,” said Adam, already tempted to change his mind, as he looked at Hetty.
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Poyser. “Why, everybody’s goin’ to dance to-night, all but th’ old squire and Mrs. Irwine. Mrs. Best’s been tellin’ us as Miss Lyddy and Miss Irwine ’ull dance, an’ the young squire ’ull pick my wife for his first partner, t’ open the ball: so she’ll be forced to dance, though she’s laid by ever sin’ the Christmas afore the little un was born. You canna for shame stand still, Adam, an’ you a fine young fellow and can dance as well as anybody.”
“Nay, nay,” said Mrs. Poyser, “it ’ud be unbecomin’. I know the dancin’s nonsense, but if you stick at everything because it’s nonsense, you wonna go far i’ this life. When your broth’s ready-made for you, you mun swallow the thickenin’, or else let the broth alone.”
“Then if Hetty ’ull dance with me,” said Adam, yielding either to Mrs. Poyser’s argument or to something else, “I’ll dance whichever dance she’s free.”
“I’ve got no partner for the fourth dance,” said Hetty; “I’ll dance that with you, if you like.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Poyser, “but you mun dance the first dance, Adam, else it’ll look partic’ler. There’s plenty o’ nice partners to pick an’ choose from, an’ it’s hard for the gells when the men stan’ by and don’t ask ’em.”
Adam felt the justice of Mr. Poyser’s observation: it would not do for him to dance with no one besides Hetty; and remembering that Jonathan Burge had some reason to feel hurt to-day, he resolved to ask Miss Mary to dance with him the first dance, if she had no other partner.
“There’s the big clock strikin’ eight,” said Mr. Poyser; “we must make haste in now, else the squire and the ladies ’ull be in afore us, an’ that wouldna look well.”
When they had entered the hall, and the three children under Molly’s charge had been seated on the stairs, the folding-doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Arthur entered in his regimentals, leading Mrs. Irwine to a carpet-covered dais ornamented with hot-house plants, where she and Miss Anne were to be seated with old Mr. Donnithorne, that they might look on at the dancing, like the kings and queens in the plays. Arthur had put on his uniform to please the tenants, he said, who thought as much of his militia dignity as if it had been an elevation to the premiership. He had not the least objection to gratify them in that way: his uniform was very advantageous to his figure.
The old squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall to greet the tenants and make polite speeches to the wives: he was always polite; but the farmers had found out, after long puzzling, that this polish was one of the signs of hardness. It was observed that he gave his most elaborate civility to Mrs. Poyser to-night, inquiring particularly about her health, recommending her to strengthen herself with cold water as he did, and avoid all drugs. Mrs. Poyser curtsied and thanked him with great self-command, but when he had passed on, she whispered to her husband, “I’ll lay my life he’s brewin’ some nasty turn against us. Old Harry doesna wag his tail so for nothin’.” Mr. Poyser had no time to answer, for now Arthur came up and said, “Mrs. Poyser, I’m come to request the favour of your hand for the first dance; and, Mr. Poyser, you must let me take you to my aunt, for she claims you as her partner.”
The wife’s pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of unwonted honour as Arthur led her to the top of the room; but Mr. Poyser, to whom an extra glass had restored his youthful confidence in his good looks and good dancing, walked along with them quite proudly, secretly flattering himself that Miss Lydia had never had a partner in her life who could lift her off the ground as he would. In order to balance the honours given to the two parishes, Miss Irwine danced with Luke Britton, the largest Broxton farmer, and Mr. Gawaine led out Mrs. Britton. Mr. Irwine, after seating his sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery, as he had agreed with Arthur beforehand, to see how the merriment of the cottagers was prospering. Meanwhile, all the less distinguished couples had taken their places: Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr. Craig, and Mary Burge by Adam; and now the music struck up, and the glorious country-dance, best of all dances, began.
Pity it was not a boarded floor! Then the rhythmic stamping of the thick shoes would have been better than any drums. That merry stamping, that gracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowal of the hand—where can we see them now? That simple dancing of well-covered matrons, laying aside for an hour the cares of house and dairy, remembering but not affecting youth, not jealous but proud of the young maidens by their side—that holiday sprightliness of portly husbands paying little compliments to their wives, as if their courting days were come again—those lads and lasses a little confused and awkward with their partners, having nothing to say—it would be a pleasant variety to see all that sometimes, instead of low dresses and large skirts, and scanning glances exploring costumes, and languid men in lacquered boots smiling with double meaning.
There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser’s pleasure in this dance: it was that he was always in close contact with Luke Britton, that slovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a little glazed coldness into his eye in the crossing of hands; but then, as Miss Irwine was opposite to him instead of the offensive Luke, he might freeze the wrong person. So he gave his face up to hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments.
How Hetty’s heart beat as Arthur approached her! He had hardly looked at her to-day: now he must take her hand. Would he press it? Would he look at her? She thought she would cry if he gave her no sign of feeling. Now he was there—he had taken her hand—yes, he was pressing it. Hetty turned pale as she looked up at him for an instant and met his eyes, before the dance carried him away. That pale look came upon Arthur like the beginning of a dull pain, which clung to him, though he must dance and smile and joke all the same. Hetty would look so, when he told her what he had to tell her; and he should never be able to bear it—he should be a fool and give way again. Hetty’s look did not really mean so much as he thought: it was only the sign of a struggle between the desire for him to notice her and the dread lest she should betray the desire to others. But Hetty’s face had a language that transcended her feelings. There are faces which nature charges with a meaning and pathos not belonging to the single human soul that flutters beneath them, but speaking the joys and sorrows of foregone generations—eyes that tell of deep love which doubtless has been and is somewhere, but not paired with these eyes—perhaps paired with pale eyes that can say nothing; just as a national language may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips that use it. That look of Hetty’s oppressed Arthur with a dread which yet had something of a terrible unconfessed delight in it, that she loved him too well. There was a hard task before him, for at that moment he felt he would have given up three years of his youth for the happiness of abandoning himself without remorse to his passion for Hetty.
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