Adam Bede
it was a nice bit o’ work, and I liked doing it for her. But, you know,
those little friggling things take a deal o’ time. I only worked at it
in overhours—often late at night—and I had to go to Treddleston over
an’ over again about little bits o’ brass nails and such gear; and I
turned the little knobs and the legs, and carved th’ open work, after a
pattern, as nice as could be. And I was uncommon pleased with it when
it was done. And when I took it home, Miss Lyddy sent for me to bring
it into her drawing-room, so as she might give me directions about
fastening on the work—very fine needlework, Jacob and Rachel a-kissing
one another among the sheep, like a picture—and th’ old squire was
sitting there, for he mostly sits with her. Well, she was mighty
pleased with the screen, and then she wanted to know what pay she was
to give me. I didn’t speak at random—you know it’s not my way; I’d
calculated pretty close, though I hadn’t made out a bill, and I said,
‘One pound thirteen.’ That was paying for the mater’als and paying me,
but none too much, for my work. Th’ old squire looked up at this, and
peered in his way at the screen, and said, ‘One pound thirteen for a
gimcrack like that! Lydia, my dear, if you must spend money on these
things, why don’t you get them at Rosseter, instead of paying double
price for clumsy work here? Such things are not work for a carpenter
like Adam. Give him a guinea, and no more.’ Well, Miss Lyddy, I reckon,
believed what he told her, and she’s not overfond o’ parting with the
money herself—she’s not a bad woman at bottom, but she’s been brought
up under his thumb; so she began fidgeting with her purse, and turned
as red as her ribbon. But I made a bow, and said, ‘No, thank you,
madam; I’ll make you a present o’ the screen, if you please. I’ve
charged the regular price for my work, and I know it’s done well; and I
know, begging His Honour’s pardon, that you couldn’t get such a screen
at Rosseter under two guineas. I’m willing to give you my work—it’s
been done in my own time, and nobody’s got anything to do with it but
me; but if I’m paid, I can’t take a smaller price than I asked, because
that ’ud be like saying I’d asked more than was just. With your leave,
madam, I’ll bid you good-morning.’ I made my bow and went out before
she’d time to say any more, for she stood with the purse in her hand,
looking almost foolish. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, and I spoke
as polite as I could; but I can give in to no man, if he wants to make
it out as I’m trying to overreach him. And in the evening the footman
brought me the one pound thirteen wrapped in paper. But since then I’ve
seen pretty clear as th’ old squire can’t abide me.”
“That’s likely enough, that’s likely enough,” said Bartle meditatively.
“The only way to bring him round would be to show him what was for his
own interest, and that the captain may do—that the captain may do.”
“Nay, I don’t know,” said Adam; “the squire’s ’cute enough but it takes
something else besides ’cuteness to make folks see what’ll be their
interest in the long run. It takes some conscience and belief in right
and wrong, I see that pretty clear. You’d hardly ever bring round th’
old squire to believe he’d gain as much in a straightfor’ard way as by
tricks and turns. And, besides, I’ve not much mind to work under him: I
don’t want to quarrel with any gentleman, more particular an old
gentleman turned eighty, and I know we couldn’t agree long. If the
captain was master o’ th’ estate, it ’ud be different: he’s got a
conscience and a will to do right, and I’d sooner work for him nor for
any man living.”
“Well, well, my boy, if good luck knocks at your door, don’t you put
your head out at window and tell it to be gone about its business,
that’s all. You must learn to deal with odd and even in life, as well
as in figures. I tell you now, as I told you ten years ago, when you
pommelled young Mike Holdsworth for wanting to pass a bad shilling
before you knew whether he was in jest or earnest—you’re overhasty and
proud, and apt to set your teeth against folks that don’t square to
your notions. It’s no harm for me to be a bit fiery and
stiff-backed—I’m an old schoolmaster, and shall never want to get on to
a higher perch. But where’s the use of all the time I’ve spent in
teaching you writing and mapping and mensuration, if you’re not to get
for’ard in the world and show folks there’s some advantage in having a
head on your shoulders, instead of a turnip? Do you mean to go on
turning up your nose at every opportunity because it’s got a bit of a
smell about it that nobody finds out but yourself? It’s as foolish as
that notion o’ yours that a wife is to make a working-man comfortable.
Stuff and nonsense! Stuff and nonsense! Leave that to fools that never
got beyond a sum in simple addition. Simple addition enough! Add one
fool to another fool, and in six years’ time six fools more—they’re all
of the same denomination, big and little’s nothing to do with the sum!”
During this rather heated exhortation to coolness and discretion the
pipe had gone out, and Bartle gave the climax to his speech by striking
a light furiously, after which he puffed with fierce resolution, fixing
his eye still on Adam, who was trying not to laugh.
“There’s a good deal o’ sense in what you say, Mr. Massey,” Adam began,
as soon as he felt quite serious, “as there always is. But you’ll give
in that it’s no business o’ mine to be building on chances that may
never happen. What I’ve got to do is to work as well as I can with the
tools and mater’als I’ve got in my hands. If a good chance comes to me,
I’ll think o’ what you’ve been saying; but till then, I’ve got nothing
to do but to trust to my own hands and my own head-piece. I’m turning
over a little plan for Seth and me to go into the cabinet-making a bit
by ourselves, and win a extra pound or two in that way. But it’s
getting late now—it’ll be pretty near eleven before I’m at home, and
Mother may happen to lie awake; she’s more fidgety nor usual now. So
I’ll bid you good-night.”
“Well, well, we’ll go to the gate with you—it’s a fine night,” said
Bartle, taking up his stick. Vixen was at once on her legs, and without
further words the three walked out into the starlight, by the side of
Bartle’s potato-beds, to the little gate.
“Come to the music o’ Friday night, if you can, my boy,” said the old
man, as he closed the gate after Adam and leaned against it.
“Aye, aye,” said Adam, striding along towards the streak of pale road.
He was the only object moving on the wide common. The two grey donkeys,
just visible in front of the gorse bushes, stood as still as limestone
images—as still as the grey-thatched roof of the mud cottage a little
farther on. Bartle kept his eye on the moving figure till it passed
into the darkness, while Vixen, in a state of divided affection, had
twice run back to the house to bestow a parenthetic lick on her
puppies.
“Aye, aye,” muttered the schoolmaster, as Adam disappeared, “there you
go, stalking along—stalking along; but you wouldn’t have been what you
are if you hadn’t had a bit of old lame Bartle inside you. The
strongest calf must have something to suck at. There’s plenty of these
big, lumbering fellows ’ud never have known their A B C if it hadn’t
been for Bartle Massey. Well, well, Vixen, you foolish wench, what is
it, what is it? I must go in, must I? Aye, aye, I’m never to have a
will o’ my own any more. And those pups—what do you think I’m to do
with ’em, when they’re twice as big as you? For I’m pretty sure the
father was that hulking bull-terrier of Will Baker’s—wasn’t he now, eh,
you sly hussy?”(Here Vixen tucked her tail between her legs and ran
forward into the house. Subjects are sometimes broached which a
well-bred female will ignore.)
“But where’s the use of talking to a woman with babbies?” continued
Bartle. “She’s got no conscience—no conscience; it’s all run to milk.”
Book Third
Chapter XXII
Going to the Birthday Feast
The thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those half-dozen warm
days which sometimes occur in the middle of a rainy English summer. No
rain had fallen for the last three or four days, and the weather was
perfect for that time of the year: there was less dust than usual on
the dark-green hedge-rows and on the wild camomile that starred the
roadside, yet the grass was dry enough for the little children to roll
on it, and there was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy ripple,
high, high up in the far-off blue sky. Perfect weather for an outdoor
July merry-making, yet surely not the best time of year to be born in.
Nature seems to make a hot pause just then: all the loveliest flowers
are gone; the sweet time of early growth and vague hopes is past; and
yet the time of harvest and ingathering is not come, and we tremble at
the possible storms that may ruin the precious fruit in the moment of
its ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous green; the
waggon-loads of hay no longer creep along the lanes, scattering their
sweet-smelling fragments on the blackberry branches; the pastures are
often a little tanned, yet the corn has not got its last splendour of
red and gold; the lambs and calves have lost all traces of their
innocent frisky prettiness, and have become stupid young sheep and
cows. But it is a time of leisure on the farm—that pause between
hay-and corn-harvest, and so the farmers and labourers in Hayslope and
Broxton thought the captain did well to come of age just then, when
they could give their undivided minds to the flavour of the great cask
of ale which had been brewed the autumn after “the heir” was born, and
was to be tapped on his twenty-first birthday. The air had been merry
with the ringing of church-bells very early this morning, and every one
had made haste to get through the needful work before twelve, when it
would be time to think of getting ready to go to the Chase.
The midday sun was streaming into Hetty’s bedchamber, and there was no
blind to temper the heat with which it fell on her head as she looked
at herself in the old specked glass. Still, that was the only glass she
had in which she could see her neck and arms, for the small hanging
glass she had fetched out of the next room—the room that had been
Dinah’s—would show her nothing below her little chin; and that
beautiful bit of neck where the roundness of her cheek melted into
another roundness shadowed by dark delicate curls. And to-day she
thought more than usual about her neck and arms; for at the dance this
evening she was not to wear any neckerchief, and she had been busy
yesterday with her spotted pink-and-white frock, that she might make
the sleeves either long or short at will. She was dressed now just as
she was to be in the evening, with a tucker made of “real” lace, which
her aunt had lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with no
ornaments besides; she had even taken out her small round ear-rings
which she wore every day. But there was something more to be done,
apparently, before she put on her neckerchief and long sleeves, which
she was to wear in the day-time, for now she unlocked the drawer that
held her private treasures. It is more than a month since we saw her
unlock that drawer before, and now it holds new treasures, so much more
precious than the old ones that these are thrust into the corner. Hetty
would not care to put the large coloured glass ear-rings into her ears
now; for see! she has got a beautiful pair of gold and pearls and
garnet, lying snugly in a pretty little box lined with white satin. Oh,
the delight of taking out that little box and looking at the ear-rings!
Do not reason about it, my philosphical reader, and say that Hetty,
being very pretty, must have known that it did not signify whether she