Adam Bede
“Nay,” said Mr. Poyser, with as near an approach to a snarl as his
good-nature would allow; “I’m no opinion o’ the Methodists. It’s on’y
tradesfolks as turn Methodists; you nuver knew a farmer bitten wi’ them
maggots. There’s maybe a workman now an’ then, as isn’t overclever at’s
work, takes to preachin’ an’ that, like Seth Bede. But you see Adam, as
has got one o’ the best head-pieces hereabout, knows better; he’s a
good Churchman, else I’d never encourage him for a sweetheart for
Hetty.”
“Why, goodness me,” said Mrs. Poyser, who had looked back while her
husband was speaking, “look where Molly is with them lads! They’re the
field’s length behind us. How _could_ you let ’em do so, Hetty? Anybody
might as well set a pictur’ to watch the children as you. Run back and
tell ’em to come on.”
Mr. and Mrs. Poyser were now at the end of the second field, so they
set Totty on the top of one of the large stones forming the true
Loamshire stile, and awaited the loiterers; Totty observing with
complacency, “Dey naughty, naughty boys—me dood.”
The fact was that this Sunday walk through the fields was fraught with
great excitement to Marty and Tommy, who saw a perpetual drama going on
in the hedgerows, and could no more refrain from stopping and peeping
than if they had been a couple of spaniels or terriers. Marty was quite
sure he saw a yellow-hammer on the boughs of the great ash, and while
he was peeping, he missed the sight of a white-throated stoat, which
had run across the path and was described with much fervour by the
junior Tommy. Then there was a little greenfinch, just fledged,
fluttering along the ground, and it seemed quite possible to catch it,
till it managed to flutter under the blackberry bush. Hetty could not
be got to give any heed to these things, so Molly was called on for her
ready sympathy, and peeped with open mouth wherever she was told, and
said “Lawks!” whenever she was expected to wonder.
Molly hastened on with some alarm when Hetty had come back and called
to them that her aunt was angry; but Marty ran on first, shouting,
“We’ve found the speckled turkey’s nest, Mother!” with the instinctive
confidence that people who bring good news are never in fault.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, really forgetting all discipline in this
pleasant surprise, “that’s a good lad; why, where is it?”
“Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge. I saw it first, looking
after the greenfinch, and she sat on th’ nest.”
“You didn’t frighten her, I hope,” said the mother, “else she’ll
forsake it.”
“No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to Molly—didn’t I,
Molly?”
“Well, well, now come on,” said Mrs. Poyser, “and walk before Father
and Mother, and take your little sister by the hand. We must go
straight on now. Good boys don’t look after the birds of a Sunday.”
“But, Mother,” said Marty, “you said you’d give half-a-crown to find
the speckled turkey’s nest. Mayn’t I have the half-crown put into my
money-box?”
“We’ll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now, like a good boy.”
The father and mother exchanged a significant glance of amusement at
their eldest-born’s acuteness; but on Tommy’s round face there was a
cloud.
“Mother,” he said, half-crying, “Marty’s got ever so much more money in
his box nor I’ve got in mine.”
“Munny, _me_ want half-a-toun in _my_ bots,” said Totty.
“Hush, hush, hush,” said Mrs. Poyser, “did ever anybody hear such
naughty children? Nobody shall ever see their money-boxes any more, if
they don’t make haste and go on to church.”
This dreadful threat had the desired effect, and through the two
remaining fields the three pair of small legs trotted on without any
serious interruption, notwithstanding a small pond full of tadpoles,
alias “bullheads,” which the lads looked at wistfully.
The damp hay that must be scattered and turned afresh to-morrow was not
a cheering sight to Mr. Poyser, who during hay and corn harvest had
often some mental struggles as to the benefits of a day of rest; but no
temptation would have induced him to carry on any field-work, however
early in the morning, on a Sunday; for had not Michael Holdsworth had a
pair of oxen “sweltered” while he was ploughing on Good Friday? That
was a demonstration that work on sacred days was a wicked thing; and
with wickedness of any sort Martin Poyser was quite clear that he would
have nothing to do, since money got by such means would never prosper.
“It a’most makes your fingers itch to be at the hay now the sun shines
so,” he observed, as they passed through the “Big Meadow.” “But it’s
poor foolishness to think o’ saving by going against your conscience.
There’s that Jim Wakefield, as they used to call ‘Gentleman Wakefield,’
used to do the same of a Sunday as o’ weekdays, and took no heed to
right or wrong, as if there was nayther God nor devil. An’ what’s he
come to? Why, I saw him myself last market-day a-carrying a basket wi’
oranges in’t.”
“Ah, to be sure,” said Mrs. Poyser, emphatically, “you make but a poor
trap to catch luck if you go and bait it wi’ wickedness. The money as
is got so’s like to burn holes i’ your pocket. I’d niver wish us to
leave our lads a sixpence but what was got i’ the rightful way. And as
for the weather, there’s One above makes it, and we must put up wi’t:
it’s nothing of a plague to what the wenches are.”
Notwithstanding the interruption in their walk, the excellent habit
which Mrs. Poyser’s clock had of taking time by the forelock had
secured their arrival at the village while it was still a quarter to
two, though almost every one who meant to go to church was already
within the churchyard gates. Those who stayed at home were chiefly
mothers, like Timothy’s Bess, who stood at her own door nursing her
baby and feeling as women feel in that position—that nothing else can
be expected of them.
It was not entirely to see Thias Bede’s funeral that the people were
standing about the churchyard so long before service began; that was
their common practice. The women, indeed, usually entered the church at
once, and the farmers’ wives talked in an undertone to each other, over
the tall pews, about their illnesses and the total failure of doctor’s
stuff, recommending dandelion-tea, and other home-made specifics, as
far preferable—about the servants, and their growing exorbitance as to
wages, whereas the quality of their services declined from year to
year, and there was no girl nowadays to be trusted any further than you
could see her—about the bad price Mr. Dingall, the Treddleston grocer,
was giving for butter, and the reasonable doubts that might be held as
to his solvency, notwithstanding that Mrs. Dingall was a sensible
woman, and they were all sorry for _her_, for she had very good kin.
Meantime the men lingered outside, and hardly any of them except the
singers, who had a humming and fragmentary rehearsal to go through,
entered the church until Mr. Irwine was in the desk. They saw no reason
for that premature entrance—what could they do in church if they were
there before service began?—and they did not conceive that any power in
the universe could take it ill of them if they stayed out and talked a
little about “bus’ness.”
Chad Cranage looks like quite a new acquaintance to-day, for he has got
his clean Sunday face, which always makes his little granddaughter cry
at him as a stranger. But an experienced eye would have fixed on him at
once as the village blacksmith, after seeing the humble deference with
which the big saucy fellow took off his hat and stroked his hair to the
farmers; for Chad was accustomed to say that a working-man must hold a
candle to a personage understood to be as black as he was himself on
weekdays; by which evil-sounding rule of conduct he meant what was,
after all, rather virtuous than otherwise, namely, that men who had
horses to be shod must be treated with respect. Chad and the rougher
sort of workmen kept aloof from the grave under the white thorn, where
the burial was going forward; but Sandy Jim, and several of the
farm-labourers, made a group round it, and stood with their hats off,
as fellow-mourners with the mother and sons. Others held a midway
position, sometimes watching the group at the grave, sometimes
listening to the conversation of the farmers, who stood in a knot near
the church door, and were now joined by Martin Poyser, while his family
passed into the church. On the outside of this knot stood Mr. Casson,
the landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, in his most striking
attitude—that is to say, with the forefinger of his right hand thrust
between the buttons of his waistcoat, his left hand in his breeches
pocket, and his head very much on one side; looking, on the whole, like
an actor who has only a mono-syllabic part entrusted to him, but feels
sure that the audience discern his fitness for the leading business;
curiously in contrast with old Jonathan Burge, who held his hands
behind him and leaned forward, coughing asthmatically, with an inward
scorn of all knowingness that could not be turned into cash. The talk
was in rather a lower tone than usual to-day, hushed a little by the
sound of Mr. Irwine’s voice reading the final prayers of the
burial-service. They had all had their word of pity for poor Thias, but
now they had got upon the nearer subject of their own grievances
against Satchell, the Squire’s bailiff, who played the part of steward
so far as it was not performed by old Mr. Donnithorne himself, for that
gentleman had the meanness to receive his own rents and make bargains
about his own timber. This subject of conversation was an additional
reason for not being loud, since Satchell himself might presently be
walking up the paved road to the church door. And soon they became
suddenly silent; for Mr. Irwine’s voice had ceased, and the group round
the white thorn was dispersing itself towards the church.
They all moved aside, and stood with their hats off, while Mr. Irwine
passed. Adam and Seth were coming next, with their mother between them;
for Joshua Rann officiated as head sexton as well as clerk, and was not
yet ready to follow the rector into the vestry. But there was a pause
before the three mourners came on: Lisbeth had turned round to look
again towards the grave! Ah! There was nothing now but the brown earth
under the white thorn. Yet she cried less to-day than she had done any
day since her husband’s death. Along with all her grief there was mixed
an unusual sense of her own importance in having a “burial,” and in Mr.
Irwine’s reading a special service for her husband; and besides, she
knew the funeral psalm was going to be sung for him. She felt this
counter-excitement to her sorrow still more strongly as she walked with
her sons towards the church door, and saw the friendly sympathetic nods
of their fellow-parishioners.
The mother and sons passed into the church, and one by one the
loiterers followed, though some still lingered without; the sight of
Mr. Donnithorne’s carriage, which was winding slowly up the hill,
perhaps helping to make them feel that there was no need for haste.
But presently the sound of the bassoon and the key-bugles burst forth;
the evening hymn, which always opened the service, had begun, and every
one must now enter and take his place.
I cannot say that the interior of Hayslope Church was remarkable for
anything except for the grey age of its oaken pews—great square pews
mostly, ranged on each side of a narrow aisle. It was free, indeed,
from the modern blemish of galleries. The choir had two narrow pews to
themselves in the middle of the right-hand row, so that it was a short
process for Joshua Rann to take his place among them as principal bass,
and return to his desk after the singing was over. The pulpit and desk,