Adam Bede
had on any ornaments or not; and that, moreover, to look at ear-rings
which she could not possibly wear out of her bedroom could hardly be a
satisfaction, the essence of vanity being a reference to the
impressions produced on others; you will never understand women’s
natures if you are so excessively rational. Try rather to divest
yourself of all your rational prejudices, as much as if you were
studying the psychology of a canary bird, and only watch the movements
of this pretty round creature as she turns her head on one side with an
unconscious smile at the ear-rings nestled in the little box. Ah, you
think, it is for the sake of the person who has given them to her, and
her thoughts are gone back now to the moment when they were put into
her hands. No; else why should she have cared to have ear-rings rather
than anything else? And I know that she had longed for ear-rings from
among all the ornaments she could imagine.
“Little, little ears!” Arthur had said, pretending to pinch them one
evening, as Hetty sat beside him on the grass without her hat. “I wish
I had some pretty ear-rings!” she said in a moment, almost before she
knew what she was saying—the wish lay so close to her lips, it _would_
flutter past them at the slightest breath. And the next day—it was only
last week—Arthur had ridden over to Rosseter on purpose to buy them.
That little wish so naively uttered seemed to him the prettiest bit of
childishness; he had never heard anything like it before; and he had
wrapped the box up in a great many covers, that he might see Hetty
unwrapping it with growing curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed
back their new delight into his.
No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled at the
ear-rings, for now she is taking them out of the box, not to press them
to her lips, but to fasten them in her ears—only for one moment, to see
how pretty they look, as she peeps at them in the glass against the
wall, with first one position of the head and then another, like a
listening bird. It is impossible to be wise on the subject of ear-rings
as one looks at her; what should those delicate pearls and crystals be
made for, if not for such ears? One cannot even find fault with the
tiny round hole which they leave when they are taken out; perhaps
water-nixies, and such lovely things without souls, have these little
round holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in. And Hetty
must be one of them: it is too painful to think that she is a woman,
with a woman’s destiny before her—a woman spinning in young ignorance a
light web of folly and vain hopes which may one day close round her and
press upon her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at once her
fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life of deep human
anguish.
But she cannot keep in the ear-rings long, else she may make her uncle
and aunt wait. She puts them quickly into the box again and shuts them
up. Some day she will be able to wear any ear-rings she likes, and
already she lives in an invisible world of brilliant costumes,
shimmering gauze, soft satin, and velvet, such as the lady’s maid at
the Chase has shown her in Miss Lydia’s wardrobe. She feels the
bracelets on her arms, and treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall
mirror. But she has one thing in the drawer which she can venture to
wear to-day, because she can hang it on the chain of dark-brown berries
which she has been used to wear on grand days, with a tiny flat
scent-bottle at the end of it tucked inside her frock; and she _must_
put on her brown berries—her neck would look so unfinished without it.
Hetty was not quite as fond of the locket as of the ear-rings, though
it was a handsome large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and
a beautiful gold border round the glass, which showed a light-brown
slightly waving lock, forming a background for two little dark rings.
She must keep it under her clothes, and no one would see it. But Hetty
had another passion, only a little less strong than her love of finery,
and that other passion made her like to wear the locket even hidden in
her bosom. She would always have worn it, if she had dared to encounter
her aunt’s questions about a ribbon round her neck. So now she slipped
it on along her chain of dark-brown berries, and snapped the chain
round her neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the locket
to hang a little way below the edge of her frock. And now she had
nothing to do but to put on her long sleeves, her new white gauze
neckerchief, and her straw hat trimmed with white to-day instead of the
pink, which had become rather faded under the July sun. That hat made
the drop of bitterness in Hetty’s cup to-day, for it was not quite
new—everybody would see that it was a little tanned against the white
ribbon—and Mary Burge, she felt sure, would have a new hat or bonnet
on. She looked for consolation at her fine white cotton stockings: they
really were very nice indeed, and she had given almost all her spare
money for them. Hetty’s dream of the future could not make her
insensible to triumph in the present. To be sure, Captain Donnithorne
loved her so that he would never care about looking at other people,
but then those other people didn’t know how he loved her, and she was
not satisfied to appear shabby and insignificant in their eyes even for
a short space.
The whole party was assembled in the house-place when Hetty went down,
all of course in their Sunday clothes; and the bells had been ringing
so this morning in honour of the captain’s twenty-first birthday, and
the work had all been got done so early, that Marty and Tommy were not
quite easy in their minds until their mother had assured them that
going to church was not part of the day’s festivities. Mr. Poyser had
once suggested that the house should be shut up and left to take care
of itself; “for,” said he, “there’s no danger of anybody’s breaking
in—everybody’ll be at the Chase, thieves an’ all. If we lock th’ house
up, all the men can go: it’s a day they wonna see twice i’ their
lives.” But Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: “I never left the
house to take care of itself since I was a missis, and I never will.
There’s been ill-looking tramps enoo’ about the place this last week,
to carry off every ham an’ every spoon we’n got; and they all collogue
together, them tramps, as it’s a mercy they hanna come and poisoned the
dogs and murdered us all in our beds afore we knowed, some Friday night
when we’n got the money in th’ house to pay the men. And it’s like
enough the tramps know where we’re going as well as we do oursens; for
if Old Harry wants any work done, you may be sure he’ll find the
means.”
“Nonsense about murdering us in our beds,” said Mr. Poyser; “I’ve got a
gun i’ our room, hanna I? and thee’st got ears as ’ud find it out if a
mouse was gnawing the bacon. Howiver, if thee wouldstna be easy, Alick
can stay at home i’ the forepart o’ the day, and Tim can come back
tow’rds five o’clock, and let Alick have his turn. They may let Growler
loose if anybody offers to do mischief, and there’s Alick’s dog too,
ready enough to set his tooth in a tramp if Alick gives him a wink.”
Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advisable to bar
and bolt to the utmost; and now, at the last moment before starting,
Nancy, the dairy-maid, was closing the shutters of the house-place,
although the window, lying under the immediate observation of Alick and
the dogs, might have been supposed the least likely to be selected for
a burglarious attempt.
The covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to carry the
whole family except the men-servants. Mr. Poyser and the grandfather
sat on the seat in front, and within there was room for all the women
and children; the fuller the cart the better, because then the jolting
would not hurt so much, and Nancy’s broad person and thick arms were an
excellent cushion to be pitched on. But Mr. Poyser drove at no more
than a walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting as
possible on this warm day, and there was time to exchange greetings and
remarks with the foot-passengers who were going the same way, specking
the paths between the green meadows and the golden cornfields with bits
of movable bright colour—a scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies that
nodded a little too thickly among the corn, or a dark-blue neckerchief
with ends flaunting across a brand-new white smock-frock. All Broxton
and all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and make merry there in
honour of “th’ heir”; and the old men and women, who had never been so
far down this side of the hill for the last twenty years, were being
brought from Broxton and Hayslope in one of the farmer’s waggons, at
Mr. Irwine’s suggestion. The church-bells had struck up again now—a
last tune, before the ringers came down the hill to have their share in
the festival; and before the bells had finished, other music was heard
approaching, so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that was drawing
Mr. Poyser’s cart, began to prick up his ears. It was the band of the
Benefit Club, which had mustered in all its glory—that is to say, in
bright-blue scarfs and blue favours, and carrying its banner with the
motto, “Let brotherly love continue,” encircling a picture of a
stone-pit.
The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every one must get
down at the lodges, and the vehicles must be sent back.
“Why, the Chase is like a fair a’ready,” said Mrs. Poyser, as she got
down from the cart, and saw the groups scattered under the great oaks,
and the boys running about in the hot sunshine to survey the tall poles
surmounted by the fluttering garments that were to be the prize of the
successful climbers. “I should ha’ thought there wasna so many people
i’ the two parishes. Mercy on us! How hot it is out o’ the shade! Come
here, Totty, else your little face ’ull be burnt to a scratchin’! They
might ha’ cooked the dinners i’ that open space an’ saved the fires. I
shall go to Mrs. Best’s room an’ sit down.”
“Stop a bit, stop a bit,” said Mr. Poyser. “There’s th’ waggin coming
wi’ th’ old folks in’t; it’ll be such a sight as wonna come o’er again,
to see ’em get down an’ walk along all together. You remember some on
’em i’ their prime, eh, Father?”
“Aye, aye,” said old Martin, walking slowly under the shade of the
lodge porch, from which he could see the aged party descend. “I
remember Jacob Taft walking fifty mile after the Scotch raybels, when
they turned back from Stoniton.”
He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as he
saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, descend from the waggon
and walk towards him, in his brown nightcap, and leaning on his two
sticks.
“Well, Mester Taft,” shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of his
voice—for though he knew the old man was stone deaf, he could not omit
the propriety of a greeting—“you’re hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen
to-day, for-all you’re ninety an’ better.”
“Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant,” said Feyther Taft in a treble
tone, perceiving that he was in company.
The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves worn and
grey, passed on along the least-winding carriage-road towards the
house, where a special table was prepared for them; while the Poyser
party wisely struck across the grass under the shade of the great
trees, but not out of view of the house-front, with its sloping lawn
and flower-beds, or of the pretty striped marquee at the edge of the
lawn, standing at right angles with two larger marquees on each side of
the open green space where the games were to be played. The house would
have been nothing but a plain square mansion of Queen Anne’s time, but