Adam Bede
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.
These were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led Mrs. Poyser,
who was panting with fatigue, and secretly resolving that neither judge
nor jury should force her to dance another dance, to take a quiet rest
in the dining-room, where supper was laid out for the guests to come
and take it as they chose.
“I’ve desired Hetty to remember as she’s got to dance wi’ you, sir,”
said the good innocent woman; “for she’s so thoughtless, she’d be like
enough to go an’ engage herself for ivery dance. So I told her not to
promise too many.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Poyser,” said Arthur, not without a twinge. “Now, sit
down in this comfortable chair, and here is Mills ready to give you
what you would like best.”
He hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due honour must
be paid to the married women before he asked any of the young ones; and
the country-dances, and the stamping, and the gracious nodding, and the
waving of the hands, went on joyously.
At last the time had come for the fourth dance—longed for by the
strong, grave Adam, as if he had been a delicate-handed youth of
eighteen; for we are all very much alike when we are in our first love;
and Adam had hardly ever touched Hetty’s hand for more than a transient
greeting—had never danced with her but once before. His eyes had
followed her eagerly to-night in spite of himself, and had taken in
deeper draughts of love. He thought she behaved so prettily, so
quietly; she did not seem to be flirting at all, she smiled less than
usual; there was almost a sweet sadness about her. “God bless her!” he
said inwardly; “I’d make her life a happy ’un, if a strong arm to work
for her, and a heart to love her, could do it.”
And then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming home from
work, and drawing Hetty to his side, and feeling her cheek softly
pressed against his, till he forgot where he was, and the music and the
tread of feet might have been the falling of rain and the roaring of
the wind, for what he knew.
But now the third dance was ended, and he might go up to her and claim
her hand. She was at the far end of the hall near the staircase,
whispering with Molly, who had just given the sleeping Totty into her
arms before running to fetch shawls and bonnets from the landing. Mrs.
Poyser had taken the two boys away into the dining-room to give them
some cake before they went home in the cart with Grandfather and Molly
was to follow as fast as possible.
“Let me hold her,” said Adam, as Molly turned upstairs; “the children
are so heavy when they’re asleep.”
Hetty was glad of the relief, for to hold Totty in her arms, standing,
was not at all a pleasant variety to her. But this second transfer had
the unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, who was not behind any child
of her age in peevishness at an unseasonable awaking. While Hetty was
in the act of placing her in Adam’s arms, and had not yet withdrawn her
own, Totty opened her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left fist
at Adam’s arm, and with her right caught at the string of brown beads
round Hetty’s neck. The locket leaped out from her frock, and the next
moment the string was broken, and Hetty, helpless, saw beads and locket
scattered wide on the floor.
“My locket, my locket!” she said, in a loud frightened whisper to Adam;
“never mind the beads.”
Adam had already seen where the locket fell, for it had attracted his
glance as it leaped out of her frock. It had fallen on the raised
wooden dais where the band sat, not on the stone floor; and as Adam
picked it up, he saw the glass with the dark and light locks of hair
under it. It had fallen that side upwards, so the glass was not broken.
He turned it over on his hand, and saw the enamelled gold back.
“It isn’t hurt,” he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who was unable
to take it because both her hands were occupied with Totty.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter, I don’t mind about it,” said Hetty, who had
been pale and was now red.
“Not matter?” said Adam, gravely. “You seemed very frightened about it.
I’ll hold it till you’re ready to take it,” he added, quietly closing