Adam Bede
having a large cornelian seal attached, pendant like a plumb-line from
that promontory where his watch-pocket was situated; a silk
handkerchief of a yellow tone round his neck; and excellent grey ribbed
stockings, knitted by Mrs. Poyser’s own hand, setting off the
proportions of his leg. Mr. Poyser had no reason to be ashamed of his
leg, and suspected that the growing abuse of top-boots and other
fashions tending to disguise the nether limbs had their origin in a
pitiable degeneracy of the human calf. Still less had he reason to be
ashamed of his round jolly face, which was good humour itself as he
said, “Come, Hetty—come, little uns!” and giving his arm to his wife,
led the way through the causeway gate into the yard.
The “little uns” addressed were Marty and Tommy, boys of nine and
seven, in little fustian tailed coats and knee-breeches, relieved by
rosy cheeks and black eyes, looking as much like their father as a very
small elephant is like a very large one. Hetty walked between them, and
behind came patient Molly, whose task it was to carry Totty through the
yard and over all the wet places on the road; for Totty, having
speedily recovered from her threatened fever, had insisted on going to
church to-day, and especially on wearing her red-and-black necklace
outside her tippet. And there were many wet places for her to be
carried over this afternoon, for there had been heavy showers in the
morning, though now the clouds had rolled off and lay in towering
silvery masses on the horizon.
You might have known it was Sunday if you had only waked up in the
farmyard. The cocks and hens seemed to know it, and made only crooning
subdued noises; the very bull-dog looked less savage, as if he would
have been satisfied with a smaller bite than usual. The sunshine seemed
to call all things to rest and not to labour. It was asleep itself on
the moss-grown cow-shed; on the group of white ducks nestling together
with their bills tucked under their wings; on the old black sow
stretched languidly on the straw, while her largest young one found an
excellent spring-bed on his mother’s fat ribs; on Alick, the shepherd,
in his new smock-frock, taking an uneasy siesta, half-sitting,
half-standing on the granary steps. Alick was of opinion that church,
like other luxuries, was not to be indulged in often by a foreman who
had the weather and the ewes on his mind. “Church! Nay—I’n gotten
summat else to think on,” was an answer which he often uttered in a
tone of bitter significance that silenced further question. I feel sure
Alick meant no irreverence; indeed, I know that his mind was not of a
speculative, negative cast, and he would on no account have missed
going to church on Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and “Whissuntide.” But
he had a general impression that public worship and religious
ceremonies, like other non-productive employments, were intended for
people who had leisure.
“There’s Father a-standing at the yard-gate,” said Martin Poyser. “I
reckon he wants to watch us down the field. It’s wonderful what sight
he has, and him turned seventy-five.”
“Ah, I often think it’s wi’ th’ old folks as it is wi’ the babbies,”
said Mrs. Poyser; “they’re satisfied wi’ looking, no matter what
they’re looking at. It’s God A’mighty’s way o’ quietening ’em, I
reckon, afore they go to sleep.”
Old Martin opened the gate as he saw the family procession approaching,
and held it wide open, leaning on his stick—pleased to do this bit of
work; for, like all old men whose life has been spent in labour, he
liked to feel that he was still useful—that there was a better crop of
onions in the garden because he was by at the sowing—and that the cows
would be milked the better if he stayed at home on a Sunday afternoon
to look on. He always went to church on Sacrament Sundays, but not very
regularly at other times; on wet Sundays, or whenever he had a touch of
rheumatism, he used to read the three first chapters of Genesis
instead.
“They’ll ha’ putten Thias Bede i’ the ground afore ye get to the
churchyard,” he said, as his son came up. “It ’ud ha’ been better luck
if they’d ha’ buried him i’ the forenoon when the rain was fallin’;
there’s no likelihoods of a drop now; an’ the moon lies like a boat
there, dost see? That’s a sure sign o’ fair weather—there’s a many as
is false but that’s sure.”
“Aye, aye,” said the son, “I’m in hopes it’ll hold up now.”
“Mind what the parson says, mind what the parson says, my lads,” said
Grandfather to the black-eyed youngsters in knee-breeches, conscious of
a marble or two in their pockets which they looked forward to handling,
a little, secretly, during the sermon.
“Dood-bye, Dandad,” said Totty. “Me doin’ to church. Me dot my neklace
on. Dive me a peppermint.”
Grandad, shaking with laughter at this “deep little wench,” slowly
transferred his stick to his left hand, which held the gate open, and
slowly thrust his finger into the waistcoat pocket on which Totty had
fixed her eyes with a confident look of expectation.
And when they were all gone, the old man leaned on the gate again,
watching them across the lane along the Home Close, and through the far
gate, till they disappeared behind a bend in the hedge. For the
hedgerows in those days shut out one’s view, even on the better-managed
farms; and this afternoon, the dog-roses were tossing out their pink
wreaths, the nightshade was in its yellow and purple glory, the pale
honeysuckle grew out of reach, peeping high up out of a holly bush, and
over all an ash or a sycamore every now and then threw its shadow
across the path.
There were acquaintances at other gates who had to move aside and let
them pass: at the gate of the Home Close there was half the dairy of
cows standing one behind the other, extremely slow to understand that
their large bodies might be in the way; at the far gate there was the
mare holding her head over the bars, and beside her the liver-coloured
foal with its head towards its mother’s flank, apparently still much
embarrassed by its own straddling existence. The way lay entirely
through Mr. Poyser’s own fields till they reached the main road leading
to the village, and he turned a keen eye on the stock and the crops as
they went along, while Mrs. Poyser was ready to supply a running
commentary on them all. The woman who manages a dairy has a large share
in making the rent, so she may well be allowed to have her opinion on
stock and their “keep”—an exercise which strengthens her understanding
so much that she finds herself able to give her husband advice on most
other subjects.
“There’s that shorthorned Sally,” she said, as they entered the Home
Close, and she caught sight of the meek beast that lay chewing the cud
and looking at her with a sleepy eye. “I begin to hate the sight o’ the
cow; and I say now what I said three weeks ago, the sooner we get rid
of her the better, for there’s that little yallow cow as doesn’t give
half the milk, and yet I’ve twice as much butter from her.”
“Why, thee’t not like the women in general,” said Mr. Poyser; “they
like the shorthorns, as give such a lot o’ milk. There’s Chowne’s wife
wants him to buy no other sort.”
“What’s it sinnify what Chowne’s wife likes? A poor soft thing, wi’ no
more head-piece nor a sparrow. She’d take a big cullender to strain her
lard wi’, and then wonder as the scratchin’s run through. I’ve seen
enough of her to know as I’ll niver take a servant from her house
again—all hugger-mugger—and you’d niver know, when you went in, whether
it was Monday or Friday, the wash draggin’ on to th’ end o’ the week;
and as for her cheese, I know well enough it rose like a loaf in a tin
last year. And then she talks o’ the weather bein’ i’ fault, as there’s
folks ’ud stand on their heads and then say the fault was i’ their
boots.”
“Well, Chowne’s been wanting to buy Sally, so we can get rid of her if
thee lik’st,” said Mr. Poyser, secretly proud of his wife’s superior
power of putting two and two together; indeed, on recent market-days he
had more than once boasted of her discernment in this very matter of
shorthorns. “Aye, them as choose a soft for a wife may’s well buy up
the shorthorns, for if you get your head stuck in a bog, your legs
may’s well go after it. Eh! Talk o’ legs, there’s legs for you,” Mrs.
Poyser continued, as Totty, who had been set down now the road was dry,
toddled on in front of her father and mother. “There’s shapes! An’
she’s got such a long foot, she’ll be her father’s own child.”
“Aye, she’ll be welly such a one as Hetty i’ ten years’ time, on’y
she’s got _thy_ coloured eyes. I niver remember a blue eye i’ my
family; my mother had eyes as black as sloes, just like Hetty’s.”
“The child ’ull be none the worse for having summat as isn’t like
Hetty. An’ I’m none for having her so overpretty. Though for the matter
o’ that, there’s people wi’ light hair an’ blue eyes as pretty as them
wi’ black. If Dinah had got a bit o’ colour in her cheeks, an’ didn’t
stick that Methodist cap on her head, enough to frighten the cows,
folks ’ud think her as pretty as Hetty.”
“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, with rather a contemptuous emphasis, “thee
dostna know the pints of a woman. The men ’ud niver run after Dinah as
they would after Hetty.”
“What care I what the men ’ud run after? It’s well seen what choice the
most of ’em know how to make, by the poor draggle-tails o’ wives you
see, like bits o’ gauze ribbin, good for nothing when the colour’s
gone.”
“Well, well, thee canstna say but what I knowed how to make a choice
when I married thee,” said Mr. Poyser, who usually settled little
conjugal disputes by a compliment of this sort; “and thee wast twice as
buxom as Dinah ten year ago.”
“I niver said as a woman had need to be ugly to make a good missis of a
house. There’s Chowne’s wife ugly enough to turn the milk an’ save the
rennet, but she’ll niver save nothing any other way. But as for Dinah,
poor child, she’s niver likely to be buxom as long as she’ll make her
dinner o’ cake and water, for the sake o’ giving to them as want. She
provoked me past bearing sometimes; and, as I told her, she went clean
again’ the Scriptur’, for that says, ‘Love your neighbour as yourself’;
‘but,’ I said, ‘if you loved your neighbour no better nor you do
yourself, Dinah, it’s little enough you’d do for him. You’d be thinking
he might do well enough on a half-empty stomach.’ Eh, I wonder where
she is this blessed Sunday! Sitting by that sick woman, I daresay, as
she’d set her heart on going to all of a sudden.”
“Ah, it was a pity she should take such megrims into her head, when she
might ha’ stayed wi’ us all summer, and eaten twice as much as she
wanted, and it ’ud niver ha’ been missed. She made no odds in th’ house
at all, for she sat as still at her sewing as a bird on the nest, and
was uncommon nimble at running to fetch anything. If Hetty gets
married, theed’st like to ha’ Dinah wi’ thee constant.”
“It’s no use thinking o’ that,” said Mrs. Poyser. “You might as well
beckon to the flying swallow as ask Dinah to come an’ live here
comfortable, like other folks. If anything could turn her, _I_ should
ha’ turned her, for I’ve talked to her for a hour on end, and scolded
her too; for she’s my own sister’s child, and it behoves me to do what
I can for her. But eh, poor thing, as soon as she’d said us ‘good-bye’
an’ got into the cart, an’ looked back at me with her pale face, as is
welly like her Aunt Judith come back from heaven, I begun to be
frightened to think o’ the set-downs I’d given her; for it comes over
you sometimes as if she’d a way o’ knowing the rights o’ things more
nor other folks have. But I’ll niver give in as that’s ’cause she’s a
Methodist, no more nor a white calf’s white ’cause it eats out o’ the
same bucket wi’ a black un.”