But there's
nobody rightly knows about those parts; only it couldn't be far
north'ard, nor much different from this country, for he brought a
fine breed o' sheep with him, so there must be pastures there, and
everything reasonable.
nobody rightly knows about those parts; only it couldn't be far
north'ard, nor much different from this country, for he brought a
fine breed o' sheep with him, so there must be pastures there, and
everything reasonable.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v09 - Dra to Eme
There was sense of present danger to
check the outgoing of her mind to the old home; and she strained
her eyes against the curtain of gloom that she might seize the
first sight of her whereabouts, – that she might catch some faint
suggestion of the spot towards which all her anxieties tended.
Oh, how welcome the widening of that dismal watery level,
the gradual uplifting of the cloudy firmament, the slowly defin-
ing blackness of objects above the glassy dark! Yes, she must
be out on the fields; those were the tops of hedgerow trees.
Which way did the river lie ? Looking behind her, she saw the
no
IX-337
## p. 5378 (#554) ###########################################
5378
GEORGE ELIOT
lines of black trees; looking before her, there were none; then
the river lay before her. She seized an oar and began to paddle
the boat forward with the energy of wakening hope; the dawning
seemed to advance more swiftly, now she was in action; and she
could soon see the poor dumb beasts crowding piteously on a
mound where they had taken refuge. Onward she paddled and
rowed by turns in the growing twilight; her wet clothes clung
round her, and her streaming hair was dashed about by the
wind, but she was hardly conscious of any bodily sensations, -
except a sensation of strength, inspired by mighty emotion.
Along with the sense of danger and possible rescue for those
long-remembered beings at the old home, there was an undefined
sense of reconcilement with her brother: what quarrel, what
harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the pres-
ence of a great calamity, when all the artificial vesture of our life
is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitive mortal
needs ? Vaguely Maggie felt this, in the strong resurgent love
towards her brother that swept away all the later impressions of
hard, cruel offense and misunderstanding, and left only the deep,
underlying, unshakable memories of early union.
But now there was a large dark mass in the distance, and
near to her Maggie could discern the current of the river. The
dark mass must be yes, it was - St. Ogg's. Ah, now she
knew which way to look for the first glimpse of the well-known
trees -- the gray willows, the now yellowing chestnuts - and above
them the old roof! But there was no color, no shape yet; all
was faint and dim. More and more strongly the energies seemed
to come and put themselves forth, as if her life were a stored-
up force that was being spent in this hour, unneeded for any
future.
She must get her boat into the current of the Floss, else she
would never be able to pass the Ripple and approach the house:
this was the thought that occurred to her, as she imagined with
more and more vividness the state of things round the old home.
But then she might be carried very far down, and be unable to
guide her boat out of the current again. For the first time dis-
tinct ideas of danger began to press upon her; but there was no
choice of courses, no room for hesitation, and she floated into the
current. Swiftly she went now, without effort; more and more
clearly in the lessening distance and the growing light she began
to discern the objects that she knew must be the well-known
H
1
1
## p. 5379 (#555) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5379
see
trees and roofs; nay, she was not far off a rushing muddy cur-
rent that must be the strangely altered Ripple.
Great God! there were floating masses in it, that might dash
against her boat as she passed, and cause her to perish too soon.
What were those masses ?
For the first time Maggie's heart began to beat in an agony
of dread. She sat helpless, dimly conscious that she was being
floated along, more intensely conscious of the anticipated clash.
But the horror was transient; it passed away before the oncom-
ing warehouses of St. Ogg's. She had passed the mouth of the
Ripple, then; now, she must use all her skill and power to man-
age the boat and get it if possible out of the current. She could
now that the bridge was broken down; she could see the
masts of a stranded vessel far out over the watery field.
But no
boats were to be seen moving on the river, — such as had been
laid hands on were employed in the flooded streets.
With new resolution Maggie seized her oar, and stood up
again to paddle; but the now ebbing tide added to the swiftness
of the river, and she was carried along beyond the bridge. She
could hear shouts from the windows overlooking the river, as if
the people there were calling to her. It was not till she had
passed on nearly to Tofton that she could get the boat clear of
the current. Then with one yearning look towards her uncle
Deane's house that lay farther down the river, she took to both
her oars and rowed with all her might across the watery fields,
back towards the Mill. Color was beginning to awake now, and
as she approached the Dorlcote fields, she could discern the tints
of the trees, could see the old Scotch firs far to the right; and
the home chestnuts,- oh, how deep they lay in the water, - deeper
than the trees on this side the hill! And the roof of the Mill —
where was it? Those heavy fragments hurrying down the Rip-
ple, - what had they meant? But it was not the house, - the
house stood firm; drowned up to the first story, but still firm;-
or was it broken in at the end towards the Mill ?
With panting joy that she was there at last, -joy that over-
came all distress, – Maggie neared the front of the house. At
first she heard no sound; she saw no object moving. Her boat
was on a level with the up-stairs window. She called out in a
loud piercing voice: -
« Tom, where are you? Mother, where are you? Here is
Maggie! ”
## p. 5380 (#556) ###########################################
5380
GEORGE ELIOT
1
Soon, from the window of the attic in the central gable, she
heard Tom's voice: -
“Who is it? Have you brought a boat ? »
"It is I, Tom,- Maggie. Where is mother ? »
“She is not here; she went to Garum the day before yester-
day. I'll come down to the lower window. ”
"Alone, Maggie? ” said Tom, in a voice of deep astonish-
ment, as he opened the middle window, on a level with the boat.
“Yes, Tom; God has taken care of me, to bring me to you.
Get in quickly. Is there no one else ? ”
"No," said Tom, stepping into the boat, "I fear the man is
drowned; he was carried down the Ripple, I think, when part
of the Mill fell with the crash of trees and stones against it;
I've shouted again and again, and there has been no answer.
Give me the oars, Maggie. ”
It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were
on the
wide water,— he face to face with Maggie, - that the full mean-
ing of what had happened rushed upon his mind. It came with
so overpowering a force,- it was such a new revelation to his
spirit of the depths in life that had lain beyond his vision, which
he had fancied so keen and clear,—that he was unable to ask a
question. They sat mutely gazing at each other,- Maggie with
eyes of intense life looking out from a weary, beaten face; Tom
pale, with a certain awe and humiliation. Thought was busy
though the lips were silent; and though he could ask no ques-
tion, he guessed a story of almost miraculous, Divinely protected
effort. But at last a mist gathered over the blue-gray eyes, and
the lips found a word they could utter,— the old childish Mag-
sie!
Maggie could make no answer but a long, deep sob of that
mysterious, wondrous happiness that is one with pain.
As soon as she could speak, she said:—“We will go to Lucy,
Tom; we'll go and see if she is safe, and then we can help the
rest. »
Tom rowed with untired vigor, and with a different speed
from poor Maggie's. The boat was soon in the current of the
river again, and soon they would be at Tofton.
Park House stands high up out of the flood,” said Maggie.
"Perhaps they have got Lucy there. "
Nothing else was said; a new danger was being carried towards
them by the river. Some wooden machinery had just given way
## p. 5381 (#557) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5381
on one of the wharves, and huge fragments were being floated
along. The sun was rising now, and the wide area of watery
desolation was spread out in dreadful clearness around them;
in dreadful clearness floated onward the hurrying, threatening
masses. A large company in a boat that was working its way
along under the Tofton houses observed their danger, and shouted,
Get out of the current!
But that could not be done at once; and Tom, looking before
him, saw death rushing on them. Huge fragments, clinging
together in fatal fellowship, made one wide mass across the
stream.
“It is coming, Maggie! ) Tom said, in a deep, hoarse voice,
loosing the oars and clasping her.
The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the water,
and the huge mass was hurrying on in hideous triumph.
But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black speck on
the golden water.
The boat reappeared, but brother and sister had gone down
in an embrace never to be parted; living through again in one
supreme moment the days when they had clasped their little
hands in love, and roamed the daisied fields together.
NATURE repairs her ravages, — repairs them with her sunshine,
and with human labor. The desolation wrought by that flood
had left little visible trace on the face of the earth, five years
The fifth autumn was rich in golden cornstacks, rising in
thick clusters among the distant hedgerows; the wharves and
warehouses on the Floss were busy again, with echoes of eager
voices, with hopeful lading and unlading.
And
every man and woman mentioned in this history was
still living, except those whose end we know.
Nature repairs her ravages, but not all. The uptorn trees
are not rooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is
a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the
hills underneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past
rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no
thorough repair.
Dorlcote Mill was rebuilt. And Dorlcote church-yard -- where
the brick grave that held a father whom we know, was found
with the stone laid prostrate upon it after the flood — had recov-
ered all its grassy order and decent quiet.
## p. 5382 (#558) ###########################################
5382
GEORGE ELIOT
Near that brick grave there was a tomb erected, very soon
after the flood, for two bodies that were found in close embrace;
and it was visited at different moments by two men who both
felt that their keenest joy and keenest sorrow were forever
buried there.
One of them visited the tomb again with a sweet face beside
him; but that was years after.
The other was always solitary. His great companionship was
among the trees of the Red Deeps, where the buried joy seemed
still to hover, like a revisiting spirit.
The tomb bore the names of Tom and Maggie Tulliver, and
below the names it was written :-
“In their death they were not divided. ”
THE VILLAGE WORTHIES
1
1
From (Silas Marner)
TE
He conversation, which was at a high pitch of animation when
Silas approached the door of the Rainbow, had as usual
been slow and intermittent when the company first assem-
bled. The pipes began to be puffed in a silence which had an
air of severity; the more important customers, who drank spirits
and sat nearest the fire, staring at each other as if a bet were
depending on the first man who winked; while the beer-drinkers,
chiefly men in fustian jackets and smock-frocks, kept their eyelids
down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, as if their
draughts of beer were a funeral duty attended with embarrassing
sadness. At last Mr. Snell, the landlord, a man of a neutral
disposition, accustomed to stand aloof from human differences
as those of beings who were all alike in need of liquor, broke
silence by saying in a doubtful tone to his cousin the butcher:-
“Some folks 'ud say that was a fine beast you druv in yester-
day, Bob? »
The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was not dis-
posed to answer rashly. He gave a few puffs before he spat,
and replied, “And they wouldn't be fur wrong, John. ”
After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as severely
as before.
«Was it a red Durham ? » said the farrier, taking up the
thread of discourse after the lapse of a few minutes.
## p. 5383 (#559) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5383
The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord looked at
the butcher, as the person who must take the responsibility of
answering
“Red it was,” said the butcher, in his good-humored husky
treble,– "and a Durham it was. ”
« Then you needn't tell me who you bought it of,” said the
farrier, looking round with some triumph: “I know who it is has
got the red Durhams o’ this country-side. And she'd a white
star on her brow, I'll bet a penny ? The farrier leaned forward
with his hands on his knees as he put this question, and his eyes
twinkled knowingly.
“Well, yes — she might,” said the butcher, slowly, consider-
ing that he was giving a decided affirmative.
« I don't say
contrairy. ”
"I knew that very well,” said the farrier, throwing himself
backward again, and speaking defiantly; "if I don't know Mr.
Lammeter's cows, I should like to know who does — that's all.
And as for the cow you've bought, bargain or no bargain, I've
been at the drenching of her - contradick me who will. ”
The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher's conversational
spirit was roused a little.
« I'm not for contradicking no man,” he said; “I'm for peace
and quietness. Some are for cutting long ribs — I'm for cutting
'em short myself; but I don't quarrel with 'em. All I say is, it's
a lovely carkiss — and anybody as was reasonable, it 'ud bring
tears into their eyes to look at it. ”
“Well, it's the cow as I drenched, whatever it is,” pursued the
farrier, angrily; "and it was Mr. Lammeter's cow, else you told
a lie when you said it was a red Durham. ”
“I tell no lies," said the butcher, with the same mild huski-
ness as before; (and I contradick none not if a man was to
swear himself black; he's no meat o' mine, nor none o' my bar-
gains. All I say is, it's a lovely carkiss. And what I say I'll
stick to; but I'll quarrel wi' no man. ”
"No," said the farrier with bitter sarcasm, looking at the
company generally; "and p'raps you aren't pig-headed; and p'raps
you didn't say the cow was a red Durham; and p'raps you didn't
say she'd got a star on her brow — stick to that, now you're
at it. ”
« Come, come,” said the landlord, “let the cow alone. The
truth lies atween you; you're both right and both wrong, as I
## p. 5384 (#560) ###########################################
5384
GEORGE ELIOT
allays say. And as for the cow's being Mr. Lammeter's, I say
nothing to that; but this I say, as the Rainbow's the Rainbow.
And for the matter o' that, if the talk is to be o' the Lammeters,
you know the most upo' that head, eh, Mr. Macey? You remem-
ber when first Mr. Lammeter's father come into these parts, and
took the Warrens ? »
Mr. Macey, tailor and parish clerk, the latter of which func-
tions rheumatism had of late obliged him to share with a small-
featured young man who sat opposite him, held his white head
on one side, and twirled his thumbs with an air of complacency,
slightly seasoned with criticism. He smiled pityingly in answer
to the landlord's appeal, and said:
"Ay, ay; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk. I've laid
by now, and gev up to the young uns. Ask them as have been
to school at Tarley; they've learned pernouncing; that's come up
since my day. ”
"If you're pointing at me, Mr. Macey,” said the deputy clerk,
with an air of anxious propriety, "I'm nowise a man to speak out
of my place. As the psalm says:
«< I know what's right; nor only so,
But also practice what I know. ) »
“Well, then, I wish you'd keep hold o' the tune when it's set
for you; if you're for practicing I wish you'd practice that,” said a
large jocose-looking man, an excellent wheelwright in his week-
day capacity, but on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as
he spoke, at two of the company who were known officially as
“the bassoon” and “the key bugle,” in the confidence that he was
expressing the sense of the musical profession in Raveloe.
Mr. Tookey the deputy clerk, who shared the unpopularity
common to deputies, turned very red, but replied with careful
moderation :-"Mr. Winthrop, if you'll bring me any proof as I'm
in the wrong, I'm not the man to say I won't alter. But there's
people set up their own ears for a standard, and expect the
whole choir to follow 'em. There may be two opinions, I hope. ”
“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied with
this attack on youthful presumption; "you're right there, Tookey:
there's allays two 'pinions; there's the 'pinion a man has of him-
sen, and there's the 'pinion other folks have on him. There'd
be two 'pinions about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear
itself. ”
## p. 5385 (#561) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5385
It's your
“Well, Mr. Macey,” said poor Tookey, serious amidst the
general laughter, “I undertook to partially fill up the office of
parish clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp's desire, whenever your infirm-
ities should make you unfitting; and it's one of the rights
thereof to sing in the choir - else why have you done the same
yourself? ”
“Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks,” said
Ben Winthrop. "The old gentleman's got a gift. Why, the
Squire used to invite him to take a glass, only to hear him sing
the Red Rovier'; didn't he, Mr. Macey? It's a nat'ral gift.
There's my little lad Aaron, he's got a gift — he can sing a tune
off straight, like a throstle. But as for you, Master Tookey,
you'd better stick to your Amens': your voice is well enough
when you keep it up
in
your nose.
inside as isn't
right made for music: it's no better nor a hollow stalk. ”
This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant
form of joke to the company at the Rainbow, and Ben Win-
throp's insult was felt by everybody to have capped Mr. Macey's
epigram.
"I see what it is plain enough,” said Mr. Tookey, unable to
keep cool any longer. “There's a consperacy to turn me out o'
the choir, as I shouldn't share the Christmas money that's
where it is. But I shall speak to Mr. Crackenthorp; I'll not be
put upon by no man. "
"Nay, nay, Tookey,” said Ben Winthrop.
« We'll pay you
your share to keep out of it -- that's what we'll do. There's
things folks 'ud pay to be rid on, besides varmin. ”
“Come, come,” said the landlord, who felt that paying people
for their absence was a principle dangerous to society; "a joke's
a joke. We're all good friends here, I hope. We must give and
take. You're both right and you're both wrong, as I say. I
agree wi' Mr. Macey here, as there's two opinions; and if mine
was asked, I should say they're both right. Tookey's right and
Winthrop's right, and they've only got to split the difference
and make themselves even. ”
The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in some con-
tempt at this trivial discussion. He had no ear for music himself,
and never went to church, as being of the medical profession, and
likely to be in requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher,
having music in his soul, had listened with a divided desire, for
Tookey's defeat and for the preservation of the peace.
## p. 5386 (#562) ###########################################
5386
GEORGE ELIOT
"To be sure,” he said, following up the landlord's conciliatory
view, we're fond of our old clerk; it's nat'ral, and him used
to be such a singer, and got a brother as is known for the first
fiddler in this country-side. Eh, it's a pity but what Solomon
lived in our village, and could give us a tune when he liked, eh,
Mr. Macey? I'd keep him in liver and lights for nothing - that
I would. ”
“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey, in the height of complacency;
our family's been known for musicianers as far back as any-
body can tell. But them things are dying out, as I tell Solomon
every time he comes round; there's no voices like what there
used to be, and there's nobody remembers what we remember, if
it ain't the old crows. "
“Ay, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father came
into these parts, don't you, Mr. Macey? " said the landlord.
"I should think I did,” said the old man, who had now gone
through that complimentary process necessary to bring him up
to the point of narration; "and a fine old gentleman he was- as
fine and finer nor the Mr. Lammeter as now is. He came from
a bit north'ard, so far as I could ever make out.
But there's
nobody rightly knows about those parts; only it couldn't be far
north'ard, nor much different from this country, for he brought a
fine breed o' sheep with him, so there must be pastures there, and
everything reasonable. We heard tell as he'd sold his own land
to come and take the Warrens, and that seemed odd for a man as
had land of his own, to come and rent a farm in a strange place.
But they said it was along of his wife's dying; though there's
reasons in things as nobody knows on — that's pretty much what
I've made out; though some folks are so wise that they'll find
you fifty reasons straight off, and all the while the real reason's
winking at 'em in the corner, and they niver see't. Howsom-
ever, it was soon as we'd got a new parish'ner as know'd
the rights and customs o' things, and kep a good house, and was
well looked on by everybody. And the young man — that's the
Mr. Lammeter as now is, for he'd niver a sister - soon begun to
court Miss Osgood, that's the sister o' the Mr. Osgood as now is,
and a fine handsome lass she was - eh, you can't think — they
pretend this young lass is like her, but that's the way wi' people
as don't know what come before 'em. I should know, for I helped
the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him marry
'em. ”
seen
## p. 5387 (#563) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5387
Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative in in-
stallments, expecting to be questioned according to precedent.
“Ay, and a partic'lar thing happened, didn't it, Mr. Macey,
so as you were likely to remember that marriage ? ” said the
landlord, in a congratulatory tone.
"I should think there did - a very partic'lar thing,” said Mr.
Macey, nodding sideways. “For Mr. Drumlow poor old gen-
tleman, I was fond on him, though he'd got a bit confused in
his head, what wi' age and wi' taking a drop o' summat warm
when the service come of a cold morning; and young Mr.
Lammeter he'd have no way but he must be married in Jani-
wary, which, to be sure, 's a unreasonable time to be married in,
for it isn't like a christening or a burying, as you can't help;
and so Mr. Drumlow — poor old gentleman, I was fond on him;
but when he come to put the questions, he put 'em by the rule
o' contrairy like, and he says, Wilt thou have this man to thy
wedded wife ? ' says he, and then he says, Wilt thou have this
woman to thy wedded husband ? ' says he. But the partic’larest
thing of all is, as nobody took any notice on it but me, and
they answered straight off Yes,' like as if it had been me saying
Amen' i' the right place, without listening to what went before. ”
“But you knew what was going on well enough, didn't you,
Mr. Macey? You were live enough, eh ? ” said the butcher.
"Lor bless you! ” said Mr. Macey, pausing, and smiling in
pity at the impotence of his hearers' imagination, -"why, I was
all of a tremble: it was as if I'd been a coat pulled by the two
tails, like; for I couldn't stop the parson, I couldn't take upon
me to do that; and yet I said to myself, I says, “Suppose they
shouldn't be fast married, 'cause the words are contrairy? ' and
my head went working like a mill, for I was allays uncommon
for turning things over and seeing all round 'em; and I says to
myself, Is't the meanin' or the words as makes folks fast i'
wedlock? ' For the parson meant right, and the bride and bride-
groom meant right. But then when I come to think on it,
meanin' goes but a little way i' most things, for you may mean
to stick things together and your glue may be bad, and then
where are you? And so I says to mysen, It isn't the meanin',
it's the glue. ' And I was worreted as if I'd got three bells to
pull at once, when we got into the vestry, and they begun to
sign their names. But where's the use o' talking ? - you can't
think what goes on in a 'cute man's inside. ”
## p. 5388 (#564) ###########################################
5388
GEORGE ELIOT
But you held in for all that, didn't you, Mr. Macey ? ” said
the landlord.
“Ay, I held in tight till I was by mysen, wi' Mr. Drumlow,
and then I out wi' everything, but respectful, as I allays did.
And he made light on it, and he says: -Pooh, pooh, Macey,
make yourself easy,' he says, 'it's neither the meaning nor the
words — it's the register does it — that's the glue. ' So you see
he settled it easy; for parsons and doctors know everything by
heart, like, so as they aren't worreted wi' thinking what's the
rights and wrongs o' things, as I'n been many and many's the
time. And sure enough the wedding turned out all right, on'y
poor Mrs. Lammeter — that's Miss Osgood as was — died afore
the lasses were growed up; but for prosperity and everything
respectable, there's no family more looked on. ”
Every one of Mr. Macey's audience had heard this story many
times, but it was listened to as if it had been a favorite tune,
and at certain points the puffing of the pipes was momentarily
suspended, that the listeners might give their whole minds to
the expected words. But there was more to come; and Mr.
Snell, the landlord, duly put the leading question:-
“Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn't they
say, when he come into these parts ? ”
“Well, yes," said Mr. Macey; but I dare say it's as much as
this Mr. Lammeter's done to keep it whole.
Why, they're
stables four times as big as Squire Cass's, for he thought o'
nothing but hosses and hunting, Cliff didn't -a Lunnon tailor,
some folks said, as had gone mad wi' cheating. For he couldn't
ride, Lor bless you! they said he'd got no more grip o' the hoss
than if his legs had been cross-sticks: my grandfather heared old
Squire Cass say so many and many a time. But ride he would,
as if Old Harry had been a-driving him; and he'd a son, a lad o'
sixteen; and nothing would his father have him do but he must
ride and ride — though the lad was frightened, they said. And it
was a common saying as the father wanted to ride the tailor out
o' the lad, and make a gentleman on him -- not but what I'm a
tailor myself, but in respect as God made me such, I'm proud on
it, for Macey, tailor,' 's been wrote up over our door since afore
the Queen's heads went out on the shillings. But Cliff, he was
ashamed o’ being called a tailor, and he was sore vexed as his
riding was laughed at, and nobody o' the gentlefolks here about
could abide him. Howsomever, the poor lad got sickly and died,
## p. 5389 (#565) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5389
and the father didn't live long after him, for he got queerer nor
ever, and they said he used to go out i' the dead o' the night,
wi' a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o' lights
burning, for he got as he couldn't sleep; and there he'd stand,
cracking his whip and looking at his hosses; and they said it was
a mercy as the stables didn't get burnt down wi’ the poor dumb
creaturs in 'em. But at last he died raving, and they found as
he'd left all his property, Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity,
and that's how the Warrens come to be Charity Land; though
as for the stables, Mr. Lammeter never uses 'em — they're out o'
all charicter — Lor bless you! if you was to set the doors a-banging
in 'em, it 'ud sound like thunder half o'er the parish. ”
"Ay, but there's more going on in the stables than what folks
see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey ? " said the landlord.
“Ay, ay; go that way of a dark night, that's all,” said Mr.
Macey, winking mysteriously, “and then make believe, if you
like, as you didn't see lights i' the stables, nor hear the stamping
o'the hosses, nor the cracking o' the whips, and howling too, if
it's tow'rt daybreak. Cliff's Holiday' has been the name of it
ever sin’ I were a boy; that's to say, some said as it was the
holiday Old Harry gev him from roasting, like. That's what my
father told me, and he was a reasonable man, though there's
folks nowadays know what happened afore they were born better
nor they know their own business. ”
“What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas ? " said the landlord,
turning to the farrier, who was swelling with impatience for his
cue: “here's a nut for you to crack. ”
Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, and was
proud of his position.
Say? I
say
what a
man should say as doesn't shut his
eyes to look at a finger-post. I say as I'm ready to wager any
man ten pound, if he'll stand out wi' me any dry night in the
pasture before the Warren stables, as we shall neither see lights
nor hear noises, if it isn't the blowing of our own noses. That's
what I say, and I've said it many a time; but there's nobody
'ull ventur a ten-pun' note on their ghos'es as they make so
sure of. ”
«Why, Dowlas, that's easy betting, that is,” said Ben Win-
throp. «You might as well bet a man as he wouldn't catch the
rheumatise if he stood up to 's neck in the pool of a frosty
night. It 'ud be fine fun for a man to win his bet as he'd
## p. 5390 (#566) ###########################################
5390
GEORGE ELIOT
I'd as
catch the rheumatise. Folks as believe in Cliff's Holiday aren't
a-going to ventur near it for a matter o' ten pound. ”
"If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it,” said Mr.
Macey, with a sarcastic smile, tapping his thumbs together, "he's
no call to lay any bet; let him go and stan' by himself - there's
nobody 'ull hinder him; and then he can let the parish'ners
know if they're wrong. ”
« Thank you! I'm obliged to you,” said the farrier, with a
snort of scorn. “If folks are fools, it's no business o' mine. I
don't want to make out the truth about ghos'es; I know it
a'ready. But I'm not against a bet — everything fair and open.
Let any man bet me ten pound as I shall see Cliff's Holiday,
and I'll go and stand by myself. I want no company.
lief do it as I'd fill this pipe. ”
“Ah, but who's to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do it?
That's no fair bet,” said the butcher.
“No fair bet ? ” replied Mr. Dowlas angrily. “I should like
to hear any man stand up and say I want to bet unfair. Come
now, Master Lundy, I should like to hear you say it. "
"Very like you would,” said the butcher.
« But it's no
business o' mine. You're none of my bargains, and I aren't
a-going to try and 'bate your price. If anybody'll bid for you
at your own vallying, let him. I'm for peace and quietness, I
am. ”
“Yes, that's what every yapping cur is, when you hold a
stick up at him," said the farrier. “But I'm afraid o' neither
man nor ghost, and I'm ready to lay a fair bet — I aren't a turn-
tail cur. ”
“Ay, but there's this in it, Dowlas,” said the landlord, speak-
ing in a tone of much candor and tolerance. « There's folks, i'
my opinion, they can't see ghos'es, not if they stood as plain as
a pike-staff before 'em. And there's reason i' that. For there's
my wife, now, can't smell, not if she'd the strongest o' cheese
under her nose. I never seed a ghost myself; but then I says
to myself, Very like I haven't got the smell for 'em. I mean,
putting a ghost for a smell, or else contrariways. And so I'm
for holding with both sides; for as I say, the truth lies between
'em. And if Dowlas was to go and stand, and say he'd never
seen a wink o' Cliff's Holiday, all the night through, I'd back
him; and if anybody said as Cliff's Holiday was certain sure for
all that, I'd back hiin too. For the smell's what I go by. ”
## p. 5391 (#567) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5391
The landlord's analogical argument was not well received by
the farrier -a man intensely opposed to compromise.
“Tut, tut,” he said setting down his glass with refreshed irri-
tation; what's the smell got to do with it? Did ever a ghost
give a man a black eye? That's what I should like to know. If
ghos'es want me to believe in 'em, let 'em leave off skulking i’
the dark and i' lone places — let 'em come where there's com-
pany and candles. »
“As if ghos'es 'ud want to be believed in by anybody so
ignorant! ” said Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at the farrier's crass
imcompetence to apprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena.
THE HALL FARM
From (Adam Bede)
E
VIDENTLY that gate is never opened; for the long grass and
the great hemlocks grow close against it; and if it were
opened, it is so rusty that the force necessary to turn to
on its hinges would be likely to pull down the square stone-
built pillars, to the detriment of the two stone lionesses which
grin with a doubtful carnivorous affability above coat of arms
surmounting each of the pillars. It would be easy enough, by
the aid of the nicks in the stone pillars, to climb over the brick
wall with its smooth stone coping; but by putting our eyes close
to the rusty bars of the gate, we can see the house well enough,
and all but the very corners of the grassy inclosure.
It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale
powdery lichen, which has dispersed itself with happy irregu-
larity, so as to bring the red brick into terms of friendly com-
panionship with the limestone ornaments surrounding the three
gables, the windows, and the door-place. But the windows are
patched with wooden panes, and the door, I think, is like the
gate - it is never opened: how it would groan and grate against
the stone floor if it were! For it is a solid, heavy, handsome
door, and must once have been in the habit of shutting with a
sonorous bang behind a liveried lackey who had just seen his
master and mistress off the grounds in a carriage and pair.
But at present one might fancy the house in the early stage
of a chancery suit, and that the fruit from that grand double
## p. 5392 (#568) ###########################################
5392
GEORGE ELIOT
1
1
.
I
row of walnut-trees on the right hand of the inclosure would
fall and rot among the grass; if it were not that we heard the
booming bark of dogs echoing from great buildings at the back.
And now the half-weaned calves that have been sheltering them-
selves in a gorse-built hovel against the left-hand wall come out
and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark, doubtless suppos-
ing that it has reference to buckets of milk.
Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by whom;
for imagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no fear of dogs,
but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity.
Put your face to one of the glass panes in the right-hand win-
dow: what do you see? A large open fireplace, with rusty dogs
in it, and a bare boarded floor; at the far end, fleeces of wool
stacked up; in the middle of the floor, some empty corn-bags.
That is the furniture of the dining-room. And what through the
left-hand window? Several clothes-horses, a pillion, a spinning.
wheel, and an old box wide open, and stuffed full of colored
rags. At the edge of this box there lies a great wooden doll,
which so far as mutilation is concerned bears a strong resem-
blance to the finest Greek sculpture, and especially in the total
loss of its nose. Near it there is a little chair, and the butt-end
of a boy's leather long-lashed whip.
The history of the house is plain now. It was once the resi-
dence of a country squire, whose family, probably dwindling
down to mere spinsterhood, got merged in the more territorial
name of Donnithorne. It was once the Hall; it is now the Hall
Farm. Like the life in some coast town that was once a water-
ing-place, and is now a port, where the genteel streets are silent
and grass-grown, and the docks and warehouses busy and reso-
nant, the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and no longer
radiates from the parlor, but from the kitchen and the farm-yard.
Plenty of life there! though this is the drowsiest time of the
year, just before hay harvest; and it is the drowsiest time of the
day too, for it is close upon three by the sun, and it is half-past
three by Mrs. Poyser's handsome eight-day clock. But there is
always a stronger sense of life when the sun is brilliant after
rain; and now he is pouring down his beams, and making
sparkles among the wet straw, and lighting up every patch of
vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow-shed, and turning
even the muddy water that is hurrying along the channel to the
drain into a mirror for the yellow-billed ducks, who are seizing
1
1
## p. 5393 (#569) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5393
the opportunity of getting a drink with as much body in it as
possible. There is quite a concert of noises: the great bull-dog,
chained against the stables, is thrown into furious exasperation
by the unwary approach of a cock too near the mouth of his
kennel, and sends forth a thundering bark, which is answered by
two fox-hounds shut up in the opposite cow-house; the old top-
knotted hens, scratching with their chicks among the straw, set
up a sympathetic croaking as the discomfited cock joins them;
a sow with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and curled
as to the tail, throws in some deep staccato notes; our friends
the calves are bleating from the home croft; and under all, a
fine ear discerns the continuous hum of human voices.
For the great barn doors are thrown wide open, and men are
busy there mending the harness under the superintendence of
Mr. Goby the "whittaw,” otherwise saddler, who entertains them
with the latest Treddleston gossip. It is certainly rather an
unfortunate day that Alick the shepherd has chosen for having
the whittaws, since the morning turned out so wet; and Mrs.
Poyser has spoken her mind pretty strongly as to the dirt which
the extra number of men's shoes brought into the house at din-
ner-time. Indeed, she has not yet recovered her equanimity on
the subject, though it is now nearly three hours since dinner
and the house floor is perfectly clean again; as clean as every.
thing else in that wonderful house-place, where the only chance
of collecting a few grains of dust would be to climb on the salt-
coffer, and put your finger on the high mantel shelf on which
the glittering brass candlesticks are enjoying their summer sin-
ecure; for at this time of year of course every one goes to bed
while it is yet light, or at least light enough to discern the out-
line of objects after you have bruised your shins against them.
Surely nowhere else could an oak clock-case and an oak table
have got to such a polish by the hand: genuine elbow polish,”
as Mrs. Poyser called it, for she thanked God she never had any
of your varnished rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorrel often took
the opportunity, when her aunt's back was turned, of looking
at the pleasing reflection of herself in those polished surfaces, for
the oak table was usually turned up like a screen, and was more
for ornament than for use; and she could see herself sometimes
in the great round pewter dishes that were ranged on the shelves
above the long deal dinner-table, or in the hobs of the grate,
which always shone like jasper.
IX--338
## p. 5394 (#570) ###########################################
5394
GEORGE ELIOT
1
Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for
the sun shone right on the pewter dishes, and from their reflect-
ing surfaces pleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow oak and
bright brass; — and on a still pleasanter object than these; for
some of the rays fell on Dinah's finely molded cheek, and lit
up her pale-red hair to auburn, as she bent over the heavy
household linen which she was mending for her aunt. No scene
could have been more peaceful, if Mrs. Poyser, who was ironing
a few things that still remained from the Monday's wash, had
not been making a frequent clinking with her iron, and moving
to and fro whenever she wanted it to cool; carrying the keen
glance of her blue-gray eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where
Hetty was making up the butter, and from the dairy to the
back kitchen, where Nancy was taking the pies out of the oven.
Do not suppose however that Mrs. Poyser was elderly or
shrewish in her appearance; she was a good-looking woman, not
more than eight-and-thirty, of fair complexion and sandy hair,
well-shapen, light-footed; the most conspicuous article in her
attire was an ample checkered linen apron, which almost covered
her skirt; and nothing could be plainer or less noticeable than
her cap and gown, for there was no weakness of which she was
less tolerant than feminine vanity, and the preference of orna-
ment to utility. The family likeness between her and her niece
Dinah Morris, with the contrast between her keenness and
Dinah's seraphic gentleness of expression, might have served a
painter as an excellent suggestion for a Martha and Mary. Their
eyes were just of the same color, but a striking test of the
difference in their operation was seen in the demeanor of Trip,
the black-and-tan terrier, whenever that much-suspected dog un-
warily exposed himself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. Poyser's
glance. Her tongue was not less keen than her eye, and when-
ever a damsel came within earshot, seemed to take up an unfin-
ished lecture, as a barrel organ takes up a tune, precisely at the
point where it had left off.
The fact that it was churning day was another reason why it
was inconvenient to have the whittaws, and why, consequently,
Mrs. Poyser should scold Molly the housemaid with unusual
severity. To all appearance Molly had got through her after-
dinner work in an exemplary manner, had “cleaned herself »
with great dispatch, and now came to ask submissively if she
should sit down to her spinning till milking-time. But this
## p. 5395 (#571) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5395
blameless conduct, according to Mrs. Poyser, shrouded a secret
indulgence of unbecoming wishes, which she now dragged forth
and held up to Molly's view with cutting eloquence.
« Spinning, indeed! It isn't spinning as you'd be at, I'll be
bound, and let you have your own way. I never knew your
equals for gallowsness. To think of a gell o' your age wanting
to go and sit with half-a-dozen men! I'd ha' been ashamed to
let the words pass over my lips if I'd been you. And you, as
have been here ever since last Michaelmas, and I hired you
at Treddles'on stattits, without a bit o' character - as I say, you
might be grateful to be hired in that way to a respectable place;
and you knew no more o' what belongs to work when you come
here than the mawkin i' the field. As poor a two-fisted thing as
ever I saw, you
know
you was.
Who taught you to scrub a
floor, I should like to know? Why, you'd leave the dirt in
heaps i' the corners - anybody 'ud think you'd never been brought
up among Christians.
And as for spinning, why you've wasted as
much as your wage i' the flax you've spoiled learning to spin.
And you've a right to feel that, and not to go about as gaping
and as thoughtless as if you was beholding to nobody. Comb
the wool for the whittaws, indeed! That's what you'd like to
be doing, is it? That's the way with you — that's the road you'd
all like to go, headlongs to ruin. You're never easy till you've
got some sweetheart as is as big a fool as yourself: you think
you'll be finely off when you're married, I dare say, and have
got a three-legged stool to sit on, and never a blanket to cover
you, and a bit o' oat-cake for your dinner, as three children are
a-snatching at. ”
“I'm sure I donna want t go wi' the whittaws,” said Molly,
whimpering, and quite overcome by this Dantean picture of her
future; «on'y we allays used to comb the wool for 'n at Mester
Ottley's, an' so I just asked ye. I donna want to set eyes on
the whittaws again; I wish I may never stir if I do. ”
“Mr. Ottley's, indeed!
check the outgoing of her mind to the old home; and she strained
her eyes against the curtain of gloom that she might seize the
first sight of her whereabouts, – that she might catch some faint
suggestion of the spot towards which all her anxieties tended.
Oh, how welcome the widening of that dismal watery level,
the gradual uplifting of the cloudy firmament, the slowly defin-
ing blackness of objects above the glassy dark! Yes, she must
be out on the fields; those were the tops of hedgerow trees.
Which way did the river lie ? Looking behind her, she saw the
no
IX-337
## p. 5378 (#554) ###########################################
5378
GEORGE ELIOT
lines of black trees; looking before her, there were none; then
the river lay before her. She seized an oar and began to paddle
the boat forward with the energy of wakening hope; the dawning
seemed to advance more swiftly, now she was in action; and she
could soon see the poor dumb beasts crowding piteously on a
mound where they had taken refuge. Onward she paddled and
rowed by turns in the growing twilight; her wet clothes clung
round her, and her streaming hair was dashed about by the
wind, but she was hardly conscious of any bodily sensations, -
except a sensation of strength, inspired by mighty emotion.
Along with the sense of danger and possible rescue for those
long-remembered beings at the old home, there was an undefined
sense of reconcilement with her brother: what quarrel, what
harshness, what unbelief in each other can subsist in the pres-
ence of a great calamity, when all the artificial vesture of our life
is gone, and we are all one with each other in primitive mortal
needs ? Vaguely Maggie felt this, in the strong resurgent love
towards her brother that swept away all the later impressions of
hard, cruel offense and misunderstanding, and left only the deep,
underlying, unshakable memories of early union.
But now there was a large dark mass in the distance, and
near to her Maggie could discern the current of the river. The
dark mass must be yes, it was - St. Ogg's. Ah, now she
knew which way to look for the first glimpse of the well-known
trees -- the gray willows, the now yellowing chestnuts - and above
them the old roof! But there was no color, no shape yet; all
was faint and dim. More and more strongly the energies seemed
to come and put themselves forth, as if her life were a stored-
up force that was being spent in this hour, unneeded for any
future.
She must get her boat into the current of the Floss, else she
would never be able to pass the Ripple and approach the house:
this was the thought that occurred to her, as she imagined with
more and more vividness the state of things round the old home.
But then she might be carried very far down, and be unable to
guide her boat out of the current again. For the first time dis-
tinct ideas of danger began to press upon her; but there was no
choice of courses, no room for hesitation, and she floated into the
current. Swiftly she went now, without effort; more and more
clearly in the lessening distance and the growing light she began
to discern the objects that she knew must be the well-known
H
1
1
## p. 5379 (#555) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5379
see
trees and roofs; nay, she was not far off a rushing muddy cur-
rent that must be the strangely altered Ripple.
Great God! there were floating masses in it, that might dash
against her boat as she passed, and cause her to perish too soon.
What were those masses ?
For the first time Maggie's heart began to beat in an agony
of dread. She sat helpless, dimly conscious that she was being
floated along, more intensely conscious of the anticipated clash.
But the horror was transient; it passed away before the oncom-
ing warehouses of St. Ogg's. She had passed the mouth of the
Ripple, then; now, she must use all her skill and power to man-
age the boat and get it if possible out of the current. She could
now that the bridge was broken down; she could see the
masts of a stranded vessel far out over the watery field.
But no
boats were to be seen moving on the river, — such as had been
laid hands on were employed in the flooded streets.
With new resolution Maggie seized her oar, and stood up
again to paddle; but the now ebbing tide added to the swiftness
of the river, and she was carried along beyond the bridge. She
could hear shouts from the windows overlooking the river, as if
the people there were calling to her. It was not till she had
passed on nearly to Tofton that she could get the boat clear of
the current. Then with one yearning look towards her uncle
Deane's house that lay farther down the river, she took to both
her oars and rowed with all her might across the watery fields,
back towards the Mill. Color was beginning to awake now, and
as she approached the Dorlcote fields, she could discern the tints
of the trees, could see the old Scotch firs far to the right; and
the home chestnuts,- oh, how deep they lay in the water, - deeper
than the trees on this side the hill! And the roof of the Mill —
where was it? Those heavy fragments hurrying down the Rip-
ple, - what had they meant? But it was not the house, - the
house stood firm; drowned up to the first story, but still firm;-
or was it broken in at the end towards the Mill ?
With panting joy that she was there at last, -joy that over-
came all distress, – Maggie neared the front of the house. At
first she heard no sound; she saw no object moving. Her boat
was on a level with the up-stairs window. She called out in a
loud piercing voice: -
« Tom, where are you? Mother, where are you? Here is
Maggie! ”
## p. 5380 (#556) ###########################################
5380
GEORGE ELIOT
1
Soon, from the window of the attic in the central gable, she
heard Tom's voice: -
“Who is it? Have you brought a boat ? »
"It is I, Tom,- Maggie. Where is mother ? »
“She is not here; she went to Garum the day before yester-
day. I'll come down to the lower window. ”
"Alone, Maggie? ” said Tom, in a voice of deep astonish-
ment, as he opened the middle window, on a level with the boat.
“Yes, Tom; God has taken care of me, to bring me to you.
Get in quickly. Is there no one else ? ”
"No," said Tom, stepping into the boat, "I fear the man is
drowned; he was carried down the Ripple, I think, when part
of the Mill fell with the crash of trees and stones against it;
I've shouted again and again, and there has been no answer.
Give me the oars, Maggie. ”
It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were
on the
wide water,— he face to face with Maggie, - that the full mean-
ing of what had happened rushed upon his mind. It came with
so overpowering a force,- it was such a new revelation to his
spirit of the depths in life that had lain beyond his vision, which
he had fancied so keen and clear,—that he was unable to ask a
question. They sat mutely gazing at each other,- Maggie with
eyes of intense life looking out from a weary, beaten face; Tom
pale, with a certain awe and humiliation. Thought was busy
though the lips were silent; and though he could ask no ques-
tion, he guessed a story of almost miraculous, Divinely protected
effort. But at last a mist gathered over the blue-gray eyes, and
the lips found a word they could utter,— the old childish Mag-
sie!
Maggie could make no answer but a long, deep sob of that
mysterious, wondrous happiness that is one with pain.
As soon as she could speak, she said:—“We will go to Lucy,
Tom; we'll go and see if she is safe, and then we can help the
rest. »
Tom rowed with untired vigor, and with a different speed
from poor Maggie's. The boat was soon in the current of the
river again, and soon they would be at Tofton.
Park House stands high up out of the flood,” said Maggie.
"Perhaps they have got Lucy there. "
Nothing else was said; a new danger was being carried towards
them by the river. Some wooden machinery had just given way
## p. 5381 (#557) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5381
on one of the wharves, and huge fragments were being floated
along. The sun was rising now, and the wide area of watery
desolation was spread out in dreadful clearness around them;
in dreadful clearness floated onward the hurrying, threatening
masses. A large company in a boat that was working its way
along under the Tofton houses observed their danger, and shouted,
Get out of the current!
But that could not be done at once; and Tom, looking before
him, saw death rushing on them. Huge fragments, clinging
together in fatal fellowship, made one wide mass across the
stream.
“It is coming, Maggie! ) Tom said, in a deep, hoarse voice,
loosing the oars and clasping her.
The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the water,
and the huge mass was hurrying on in hideous triumph.
But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black speck on
the golden water.
The boat reappeared, but brother and sister had gone down
in an embrace never to be parted; living through again in one
supreme moment the days when they had clasped their little
hands in love, and roamed the daisied fields together.
NATURE repairs her ravages, — repairs them with her sunshine,
and with human labor. The desolation wrought by that flood
had left little visible trace on the face of the earth, five years
The fifth autumn was rich in golden cornstacks, rising in
thick clusters among the distant hedgerows; the wharves and
warehouses on the Floss were busy again, with echoes of eager
voices, with hopeful lading and unlading.
And
every man and woman mentioned in this history was
still living, except those whose end we know.
Nature repairs her ravages, but not all. The uptorn trees
are not rooted again; the parted hills are left scarred; if there is
a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the
hills underneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past
rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past, there is no
thorough repair.
Dorlcote Mill was rebuilt. And Dorlcote church-yard -- where
the brick grave that held a father whom we know, was found
with the stone laid prostrate upon it after the flood — had recov-
ered all its grassy order and decent quiet.
## p. 5382 (#558) ###########################################
5382
GEORGE ELIOT
Near that brick grave there was a tomb erected, very soon
after the flood, for two bodies that were found in close embrace;
and it was visited at different moments by two men who both
felt that their keenest joy and keenest sorrow were forever
buried there.
One of them visited the tomb again with a sweet face beside
him; but that was years after.
The other was always solitary. His great companionship was
among the trees of the Red Deeps, where the buried joy seemed
still to hover, like a revisiting spirit.
The tomb bore the names of Tom and Maggie Tulliver, and
below the names it was written :-
“In their death they were not divided. ”
THE VILLAGE WORTHIES
1
1
From (Silas Marner)
TE
He conversation, which was at a high pitch of animation when
Silas approached the door of the Rainbow, had as usual
been slow and intermittent when the company first assem-
bled. The pipes began to be puffed in a silence which had an
air of severity; the more important customers, who drank spirits
and sat nearest the fire, staring at each other as if a bet were
depending on the first man who winked; while the beer-drinkers,
chiefly men in fustian jackets and smock-frocks, kept their eyelids
down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, as if their
draughts of beer were a funeral duty attended with embarrassing
sadness. At last Mr. Snell, the landlord, a man of a neutral
disposition, accustomed to stand aloof from human differences
as those of beings who were all alike in need of liquor, broke
silence by saying in a doubtful tone to his cousin the butcher:-
“Some folks 'ud say that was a fine beast you druv in yester-
day, Bob? »
The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was not dis-
posed to answer rashly. He gave a few puffs before he spat,
and replied, “And they wouldn't be fur wrong, John. ”
After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as severely
as before.
«Was it a red Durham ? » said the farrier, taking up the
thread of discourse after the lapse of a few minutes.
## p. 5383 (#559) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5383
The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord looked at
the butcher, as the person who must take the responsibility of
answering
“Red it was,” said the butcher, in his good-humored husky
treble,– "and a Durham it was. ”
« Then you needn't tell me who you bought it of,” said the
farrier, looking round with some triumph: “I know who it is has
got the red Durhams o’ this country-side. And she'd a white
star on her brow, I'll bet a penny ? The farrier leaned forward
with his hands on his knees as he put this question, and his eyes
twinkled knowingly.
“Well, yes — she might,” said the butcher, slowly, consider-
ing that he was giving a decided affirmative.
« I don't say
contrairy. ”
"I knew that very well,” said the farrier, throwing himself
backward again, and speaking defiantly; "if I don't know Mr.
Lammeter's cows, I should like to know who does — that's all.
And as for the cow you've bought, bargain or no bargain, I've
been at the drenching of her - contradick me who will. ”
The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher's conversational
spirit was roused a little.
« I'm not for contradicking no man,” he said; “I'm for peace
and quietness. Some are for cutting long ribs — I'm for cutting
'em short myself; but I don't quarrel with 'em. All I say is, it's
a lovely carkiss — and anybody as was reasonable, it 'ud bring
tears into their eyes to look at it. ”
“Well, it's the cow as I drenched, whatever it is,” pursued the
farrier, angrily; "and it was Mr. Lammeter's cow, else you told
a lie when you said it was a red Durham. ”
“I tell no lies," said the butcher, with the same mild huski-
ness as before; (and I contradick none not if a man was to
swear himself black; he's no meat o' mine, nor none o' my bar-
gains. All I say is, it's a lovely carkiss. And what I say I'll
stick to; but I'll quarrel wi' no man. ”
"No," said the farrier with bitter sarcasm, looking at the
company generally; "and p'raps you aren't pig-headed; and p'raps
you didn't say the cow was a red Durham; and p'raps you didn't
say she'd got a star on her brow — stick to that, now you're
at it. ”
« Come, come,” said the landlord, “let the cow alone. The
truth lies atween you; you're both right and both wrong, as I
## p. 5384 (#560) ###########################################
5384
GEORGE ELIOT
allays say. And as for the cow's being Mr. Lammeter's, I say
nothing to that; but this I say, as the Rainbow's the Rainbow.
And for the matter o' that, if the talk is to be o' the Lammeters,
you know the most upo' that head, eh, Mr. Macey? You remem-
ber when first Mr. Lammeter's father come into these parts, and
took the Warrens ? »
Mr. Macey, tailor and parish clerk, the latter of which func-
tions rheumatism had of late obliged him to share with a small-
featured young man who sat opposite him, held his white head
on one side, and twirled his thumbs with an air of complacency,
slightly seasoned with criticism. He smiled pityingly in answer
to the landlord's appeal, and said:
"Ay, ay; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk. I've laid
by now, and gev up to the young uns. Ask them as have been
to school at Tarley; they've learned pernouncing; that's come up
since my day. ”
"If you're pointing at me, Mr. Macey,” said the deputy clerk,
with an air of anxious propriety, "I'm nowise a man to speak out
of my place. As the psalm says:
«< I know what's right; nor only so,
But also practice what I know. ) »
“Well, then, I wish you'd keep hold o' the tune when it's set
for you; if you're for practicing I wish you'd practice that,” said a
large jocose-looking man, an excellent wheelwright in his week-
day capacity, but on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as
he spoke, at two of the company who were known officially as
“the bassoon” and “the key bugle,” in the confidence that he was
expressing the sense of the musical profession in Raveloe.
Mr. Tookey the deputy clerk, who shared the unpopularity
common to deputies, turned very red, but replied with careful
moderation :-"Mr. Winthrop, if you'll bring me any proof as I'm
in the wrong, I'm not the man to say I won't alter. But there's
people set up their own ears for a standard, and expect the
whole choir to follow 'em. There may be two opinions, I hope. ”
“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied with
this attack on youthful presumption; "you're right there, Tookey:
there's allays two 'pinions; there's the 'pinion a man has of him-
sen, and there's the 'pinion other folks have on him. There'd
be two 'pinions about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear
itself. ”
## p. 5385 (#561) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5385
It's your
“Well, Mr. Macey,” said poor Tookey, serious amidst the
general laughter, “I undertook to partially fill up the office of
parish clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp's desire, whenever your infirm-
ities should make you unfitting; and it's one of the rights
thereof to sing in the choir - else why have you done the same
yourself? ”
“Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks,” said
Ben Winthrop. "The old gentleman's got a gift. Why, the
Squire used to invite him to take a glass, only to hear him sing
the Red Rovier'; didn't he, Mr. Macey? It's a nat'ral gift.
There's my little lad Aaron, he's got a gift — he can sing a tune
off straight, like a throstle. But as for you, Master Tookey,
you'd better stick to your Amens': your voice is well enough
when you keep it up
in
your nose.
inside as isn't
right made for music: it's no better nor a hollow stalk. ”
This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant
form of joke to the company at the Rainbow, and Ben Win-
throp's insult was felt by everybody to have capped Mr. Macey's
epigram.
"I see what it is plain enough,” said Mr. Tookey, unable to
keep cool any longer. “There's a consperacy to turn me out o'
the choir, as I shouldn't share the Christmas money that's
where it is. But I shall speak to Mr. Crackenthorp; I'll not be
put upon by no man. "
"Nay, nay, Tookey,” said Ben Winthrop.
« We'll pay you
your share to keep out of it -- that's what we'll do. There's
things folks 'ud pay to be rid on, besides varmin. ”
“Come, come,” said the landlord, who felt that paying people
for their absence was a principle dangerous to society; "a joke's
a joke. We're all good friends here, I hope. We must give and
take. You're both right and you're both wrong, as I say. I
agree wi' Mr. Macey here, as there's two opinions; and if mine
was asked, I should say they're both right. Tookey's right and
Winthrop's right, and they've only got to split the difference
and make themselves even. ”
The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in some con-
tempt at this trivial discussion. He had no ear for music himself,
and never went to church, as being of the medical profession, and
likely to be in requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher,
having music in his soul, had listened with a divided desire, for
Tookey's defeat and for the preservation of the peace.
## p. 5386 (#562) ###########################################
5386
GEORGE ELIOT
"To be sure,” he said, following up the landlord's conciliatory
view, we're fond of our old clerk; it's nat'ral, and him used
to be such a singer, and got a brother as is known for the first
fiddler in this country-side. Eh, it's a pity but what Solomon
lived in our village, and could give us a tune when he liked, eh,
Mr. Macey? I'd keep him in liver and lights for nothing - that
I would. ”
“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey, in the height of complacency;
our family's been known for musicianers as far back as any-
body can tell. But them things are dying out, as I tell Solomon
every time he comes round; there's no voices like what there
used to be, and there's nobody remembers what we remember, if
it ain't the old crows. "
“Ay, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father came
into these parts, don't you, Mr. Macey? " said the landlord.
"I should think I did,” said the old man, who had now gone
through that complimentary process necessary to bring him up
to the point of narration; "and a fine old gentleman he was- as
fine and finer nor the Mr. Lammeter as now is. He came from
a bit north'ard, so far as I could ever make out.
But there's
nobody rightly knows about those parts; only it couldn't be far
north'ard, nor much different from this country, for he brought a
fine breed o' sheep with him, so there must be pastures there, and
everything reasonable. We heard tell as he'd sold his own land
to come and take the Warrens, and that seemed odd for a man as
had land of his own, to come and rent a farm in a strange place.
But they said it was along of his wife's dying; though there's
reasons in things as nobody knows on — that's pretty much what
I've made out; though some folks are so wise that they'll find
you fifty reasons straight off, and all the while the real reason's
winking at 'em in the corner, and they niver see't. Howsom-
ever, it was soon as we'd got a new parish'ner as know'd
the rights and customs o' things, and kep a good house, and was
well looked on by everybody. And the young man — that's the
Mr. Lammeter as now is, for he'd niver a sister - soon begun to
court Miss Osgood, that's the sister o' the Mr. Osgood as now is,
and a fine handsome lass she was - eh, you can't think — they
pretend this young lass is like her, but that's the way wi' people
as don't know what come before 'em. I should know, for I helped
the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him marry
'em. ”
seen
## p. 5387 (#563) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5387
Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative in in-
stallments, expecting to be questioned according to precedent.
“Ay, and a partic'lar thing happened, didn't it, Mr. Macey,
so as you were likely to remember that marriage ? ” said the
landlord, in a congratulatory tone.
"I should think there did - a very partic'lar thing,” said Mr.
Macey, nodding sideways. “For Mr. Drumlow poor old gen-
tleman, I was fond on him, though he'd got a bit confused in
his head, what wi' age and wi' taking a drop o' summat warm
when the service come of a cold morning; and young Mr.
Lammeter he'd have no way but he must be married in Jani-
wary, which, to be sure, 's a unreasonable time to be married in,
for it isn't like a christening or a burying, as you can't help;
and so Mr. Drumlow — poor old gentleman, I was fond on him;
but when he come to put the questions, he put 'em by the rule
o' contrairy like, and he says, Wilt thou have this man to thy
wedded wife ? ' says he, and then he says, Wilt thou have this
woman to thy wedded husband ? ' says he. But the partic’larest
thing of all is, as nobody took any notice on it but me, and
they answered straight off Yes,' like as if it had been me saying
Amen' i' the right place, without listening to what went before. ”
“But you knew what was going on well enough, didn't you,
Mr. Macey? You were live enough, eh ? ” said the butcher.
"Lor bless you! ” said Mr. Macey, pausing, and smiling in
pity at the impotence of his hearers' imagination, -"why, I was
all of a tremble: it was as if I'd been a coat pulled by the two
tails, like; for I couldn't stop the parson, I couldn't take upon
me to do that; and yet I said to myself, I says, “Suppose they
shouldn't be fast married, 'cause the words are contrairy? ' and
my head went working like a mill, for I was allays uncommon
for turning things over and seeing all round 'em; and I says to
myself, Is't the meanin' or the words as makes folks fast i'
wedlock? ' For the parson meant right, and the bride and bride-
groom meant right. But then when I come to think on it,
meanin' goes but a little way i' most things, for you may mean
to stick things together and your glue may be bad, and then
where are you? And so I says to mysen, It isn't the meanin',
it's the glue. ' And I was worreted as if I'd got three bells to
pull at once, when we got into the vestry, and they begun to
sign their names. But where's the use o' talking ? - you can't
think what goes on in a 'cute man's inside. ”
## p. 5388 (#564) ###########################################
5388
GEORGE ELIOT
But you held in for all that, didn't you, Mr. Macey ? ” said
the landlord.
“Ay, I held in tight till I was by mysen, wi' Mr. Drumlow,
and then I out wi' everything, but respectful, as I allays did.
And he made light on it, and he says: -Pooh, pooh, Macey,
make yourself easy,' he says, 'it's neither the meaning nor the
words — it's the register does it — that's the glue. ' So you see
he settled it easy; for parsons and doctors know everything by
heart, like, so as they aren't worreted wi' thinking what's the
rights and wrongs o' things, as I'n been many and many's the
time. And sure enough the wedding turned out all right, on'y
poor Mrs. Lammeter — that's Miss Osgood as was — died afore
the lasses were growed up; but for prosperity and everything
respectable, there's no family more looked on. ”
Every one of Mr. Macey's audience had heard this story many
times, but it was listened to as if it had been a favorite tune,
and at certain points the puffing of the pipes was momentarily
suspended, that the listeners might give their whole minds to
the expected words. But there was more to come; and Mr.
Snell, the landlord, duly put the leading question:-
“Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn't they
say, when he come into these parts ? ”
“Well, yes," said Mr. Macey; but I dare say it's as much as
this Mr. Lammeter's done to keep it whole.
Why, they're
stables four times as big as Squire Cass's, for he thought o'
nothing but hosses and hunting, Cliff didn't -a Lunnon tailor,
some folks said, as had gone mad wi' cheating. For he couldn't
ride, Lor bless you! they said he'd got no more grip o' the hoss
than if his legs had been cross-sticks: my grandfather heared old
Squire Cass say so many and many a time. But ride he would,
as if Old Harry had been a-driving him; and he'd a son, a lad o'
sixteen; and nothing would his father have him do but he must
ride and ride — though the lad was frightened, they said. And it
was a common saying as the father wanted to ride the tailor out
o' the lad, and make a gentleman on him -- not but what I'm a
tailor myself, but in respect as God made me such, I'm proud on
it, for Macey, tailor,' 's been wrote up over our door since afore
the Queen's heads went out on the shillings. But Cliff, he was
ashamed o’ being called a tailor, and he was sore vexed as his
riding was laughed at, and nobody o' the gentlefolks here about
could abide him. Howsomever, the poor lad got sickly and died,
## p. 5389 (#565) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5389
and the father didn't live long after him, for he got queerer nor
ever, and they said he used to go out i' the dead o' the night,
wi' a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o' lights
burning, for he got as he couldn't sleep; and there he'd stand,
cracking his whip and looking at his hosses; and they said it was
a mercy as the stables didn't get burnt down wi’ the poor dumb
creaturs in 'em. But at last he died raving, and they found as
he'd left all his property, Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity,
and that's how the Warrens come to be Charity Land; though
as for the stables, Mr. Lammeter never uses 'em — they're out o'
all charicter — Lor bless you! if you was to set the doors a-banging
in 'em, it 'ud sound like thunder half o'er the parish. ”
"Ay, but there's more going on in the stables than what folks
see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey ? " said the landlord.
“Ay, ay; go that way of a dark night, that's all,” said Mr.
Macey, winking mysteriously, “and then make believe, if you
like, as you didn't see lights i' the stables, nor hear the stamping
o'the hosses, nor the cracking o' the whips, and howling too, if
it's tow'rt daybreak. Cliff's Holiday' has been the name of it
ever sin’ I were a boy; that's to say, some said as it was the
holiday Old Harry gev him from roasting, like. That's what my
father told me, and he was a reasonable man, though there's
folks nowadays know what happened afore they were born better
nor they know their own business. ”
“What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas ? " said the landlord,
turning to the farrier, who was swelling with impatience for his
cue: “here's a nut for you to crack. ”
Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, and was
proud of his position.
Say? I
say
what a
man should say as doesn't shut his
eyes to look at a finger-post. I say as I'm ready to wager any
man ten pound, if he'll stand out wi' me any dry night in the
pasture before the Warren stables, as we shall neither see lights
nor hear noises, if it isn't the blowing of our own noses. That's
what I say, and I've said it many a time; but there's nobody
'ull ventur a ten-pun' note on their ghos'es as they make so
sure of. ”
«Why, Dowlas, that's easy betting, that is,” said Ben Win-
throp. «You might as well bet a man as he wouldn't catch the
rheumatise if he stood up to 's neck in the pool of a frosty
night. It 'ud be fine fun for a man to win his bet as he'd
## p. 5390 (#566) ###########################################
5390
GEORGE ELIOT
I'd as
catch the rheumatise. Folks as believe in Cliff's Holiday aren't
a-going to ventur near it for a matter o' ten pound. ”
"If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it,” said Mr.
Macey, with a sarcastic smile, tapping his thumbs together, "he's
no call to lay any bet; let him go and stan' by himself - there's
nobody 'ull hinder him; and then he can let the parish'ners
know if they're wrong. ”
« Thank you! I'm obliged to you,” said the farrier, with a
snort of scorn. “If folks are fools, it's no business o' mine. I
don't want to make out the truth about ghos'es; I know it
a'ready. But I'm not against a bet — everything fair and open.
Let any man bet me ten pound as I shall see Cliff's Holiday,
and I'll go and stand by myself. I want no company.
lief do it as I'd fill this pipe. ”
“Ah, but who's to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do it?
That's no fair bet,” said the butcher.
“No fair bet ? ” replied Mr. Dowlas angrily. “I should like
to hear any man stand up and say I want to bet unfair. Come
now, Master Lundy, I should like to hear you say it. "
"Very like you would,” said the butcher.
« But it's no
business o' mine. You're none of my bargains, and I aren't
a-going to try and 'bate your price. If anybody'll bid for you
at your own vallying, let him. I'm for peace and quietness, I
am. ”
“Yes, that's what every yapping cur is, when you hold a
stick up at him," said the farrier. “But I'm afraid o' neither
man nor ghost, and I'm ready to lay a fair bet — I aren't a turn-
tail cur. ”
“Ay, but there's this in it, Dowlas,” said the landlord, speak-
ing in a tone of much candor and tolerance. « There's folks, i'
my opinion, they can't see ghos'es, not if they stood as plain as
a pike-staff before 'em. And there's reason i' that. For there's
my wife, now, can't smell, not if she'd the strongest o' cheese
under her nose. I never seed a ghost myself; but then I says
to myself, Very like I haven't got the smell for 'em. I mean,
putting a ghost for a smell, or else contrariways. And so I'm
for holding with both sides; for as I say, the truth lies between
'em. And if Dowlas was to go and stand, and say he'd never
seen a wink o' Cliff's Holiday, all the night through, I'd back
him; and if anybody said as Cliff's Holiday was certain sure for
all that, I'd back hiin too. For the smell's what I go by. ”
## p. 5391 (#567) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5391
The landlord's analogical argument was not well received by
the farrier -a man intensely opposed to compromise.
“Tut, tut,” he said setting down his glass with refreshed irri-
tation; what's the smell got to do with it? Did ever a ghost
give a man a black eye? That's what I should like to know. If
ghos'es want me to believe in 'em, let 'em leave off skulking i’
the dark and i' lone places — let 'em come where there's com-
pany and candles. »
“As if ghos'es 'ud want to be believed in by anybody so
ignorant! ” said Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at the farrier's crass
imcompetence to apprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena.
THE HALL FARM
From (Adam Bede)
E
VIDENTLY that gate is never opened; for the long grass and
the great hemlocks grow close against it; and if it were
opened, it is so rusty that the force necessary to turn to
on its hinges would be likely to pull down the square stone-
built pillars, to the detriment of the two stone lionesses which
grin with a doubtful carnivorous affability above coat of arms
surmounting each of the pillars. It would be easy enough, by
the aid of the nicks in the stone pillars, to climb over the brick
wall with its smooth stone coping; but by putting our eyes close
to the rusty bars of the gate, we can see the house well enough,
and all but the very corners of the grassy inclosure.
It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale
powdery lichen, which has dispersed itself with happy irregu-
larity, so as to bring the red brick into terms of friendly com-
panionship with the limestone ornaments surrounding the three
gables, the windows, and the door-place. But the windows are
patched with wooden panes, and the door, I think, is like the
gate - it is never opened: how it would groan and grate against
the stone floor if it were! For it is a solid, heavy, handsome
door, and must once have been in the habit of shutting with a
sonorous bang behind a liveried lackey who had just seen his
master and mistress off the grounds in a carriage and pair.
But at present one might fancy the house in the early stage
of a chancery suit, and that the fruit from that grand double
## p. 5392 (#568) ###########################################
5392
GEORGE ELIOT
1
1
.
I
row of walnut-trees on the right hand of the inclosure would
fall and rot among the grass; if it were not that we heard the
booming bark of dogs echoing from great buildings at the back.
And now the half-weaned calves that have been sheltering them-
selves in a gorse-built hovel against the left-hand wall come out
and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark, doubtless suppos-
ing that it has reference to buckets of milk.
Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by whom;
for imagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no fear of dogs,
but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity.
Put your face to one of the glass panes in the right-hand win-
dow: what do you see? A large open fireplace, with rusty dogs
in it, and a bare boarded floor; at the far end, fleeces of wool
stacked up; in the middle of the floor, some empty corn-bags.
That is the furniture of the dining-room. And what through the
left-hand window? Several clothes-horses, a pillion, a spinning.
wheel, and an old box wide open, and stuffed full of colored
rags. At the edge of this box there lies a great wooden doll,
which so far as mutilation is concerned bears a strong resem-
blance to the finest Greek sculpture, and especially in the total
loss of its nose. Near it there is a little chair, and the butt-end
of a boy's leather long-lashed whip.
The history of the house is plain now. It was once the resi-
dence of a country squire, whose family, probably dwindling
down to mere spinsterhood, got merged in the more territorial
name of Donnithorne. It was once the Hall; it is now the Hall
Farm. Like the life in some coast town that was once a water-
ing-place, and is now a port, where the genteel streets are silent
and grass-grown, and the docks and warehouses busy and reso-
nant, the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and no longer
radiates from the parlor, but from the kitchen and the farm-yard.
Plenty of life there! though this is the drowsiest time of the
year, just before hay harvest; and it is the drowsiest time of the
day too, for it is close upon three by the sun, and it is half-past
three by Mrs. Poyser's handsome eight-day clock. But there is
always a stronger sense of life when the sun is brilliant after
rain; and now he is pouring down his beams, and making
sparkles among the wet straw, and lighting up every patch of
vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow-shed, and turning
even the muddy water that is hurrying along the channel to the
drain into a mirror for the yellow-billed ducks, who are seizing
1
1
## p. 5393 (#569) ###########################################
GEORGE ELIOT
5393
the opportunity of getting a drink with as much body in it as
possible. There is quite a concert of noises: the great bull-dog,
chained against the stables, is thrown into furious exasperation
by the unwary approach of a cock too near the mouth of his
kennel, and sends forth a thundering bark, which is answered by
two fox-hounds shut up in the opposite cow-house; the old top-
knotted hens, scratching with their chicks among the straw, set
up a sympathetic croaking as the discomfited cock joins them;
a sow with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and curled
as to the tail, throws in some deep staccato notes; our friends
the calves are bleating from the home croft; and under all, a
fine ear discerns the continuous hum of human voices.
For the great barn doors are thrown wide open, and men are
busy there mending the harness under the superintendence of
Mr. Goby the "whittaw,” otherwise saddler, who entertains them
with the latest Treddleston gossip. It is certainly rather an
unfortunate day that Alick the shepherd has chosen for having
the whittaws, since the morning turned out so wet; and Mrs.
Poyser has spoken her mind pretty strongly as to the dirt which
the extra number of men's shoes brought into the house at din-
ner-time. Indeed, she has not yet recovered her equanimity on
the subject, though it is now nearly three hours since dinner
and the house floor is perfectly clean again; as clean as every.
thing else in that wonderful house-place, where the only chance
of collecting a few grains of dust would be to climb on the salt-
coffer, and put your finger on the high mantel shelf on which
the glittering brass candlesticks are enjoying their summer sin-
ecure; for at this time of year of course every one goes to bed
while it is yet light, or at least light enough to discern the out-
line of objects after you have bruised your shins against them.
Surely nowhere else could an oak clock-case and an oak table
have got to such a polish by the hand: genuine elbow polish,”
as Mrs. Poyser called it, for she thanked God she never had any
of your varnished rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorrel often took
the opportunity, when her aunt's back was turned, of looking
at the pleasing reflection of herself in those polished surfaces, for
the oak table was usually turned up like a screen, and was more
for ornament than for use; and she could see herself sometimes
in the great round pewter dishes that were ranged on the shelves
above the long deal dinner-table, or in the hobs of the grate,
which always shone like jasper.
IX--338
## p. 5394 (#570) ###########################################
5394
GEORGE ELIOT
1
Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for
the sun shone right on the pewter dishes, and from their reflect-
ing surfaces pleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow oak and
bright brass; — and on a still pleasanter object than these; for
some of the rays fell on Dinah's finely molded cheek, and lit
up her pale-red hair to auburn, as she bent over the heavy
household linen which she was mending for her aunt. No scene
could have been more peaceful, if Mrs. Poyser, who was ironing
a few things that still remained from the Monday's wash, had
not been making a frequent clinking with her iron, and moving
to and fro whenever she wanted it to cool; carrying the keen
glance of her blue-gray eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where
Hetty was making up the butter, and from the dairy to the
back kitchen, where Nancy was taking the pies out of the oven.
Do not suppose however that Mrs. Poyser was elderly or
shrewish in her appearance; she was a good-looking woman, not
more than eight-and-thirty, of fair complexion and sandy hair,
well-shapen, light-footed; the most conspicuous article in her
attire was an ample checkered linen apron, which almost covered
her skirt; and nothing could be plainer or less noticeable than
her cap and gown, for there was no weakness of which she was
less tolerant than feminine vanity, and the preference of orna-
ment to utility. The family likeness between her and her niece
Dinah Morris, with the contrast between her keenness and
Dinah's seraphic gentleness of expression, might have served a
painter as an excellent suggestion for a Martha and Mary. Their
eyes were just of the same color, but a striking test of the
difference in their operation was seen in the demeanor of Trip,
the black-and-tan terrier, whenever that much-suspected dog un-
warily exposed himself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. Poyser's
glance. Her tongue was not less keen than her eye, and when-
ever a damsel came within earshot, seemed to take up an unfin-
ished lecture, as a barrel organ takes up a tune, precisely at the
point where it had left off.
The fact that it was churning day was another reason why it
was inconvenient to have the whittaws, and why, consequently,
Mrs. Poyser should scold Molly the housemaid with unusual
severity. To all appearance Molly had got through her after-
dinner work in an exemplary manner, had “cleaned herself »
with great dispatch, and now came to ask submissively if she
should sit down to her spinning till milking-time. But this
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GEORGE ELIOT
5395
blameless conduct, according to Mrs. Poyser, shrouded a secret
indulgence of unbecoming wishes, which she now dragged forth
and held up to Molly's view with cutting eloquence.
« Spinning, indeed! It isn't spinning as you'd be at, I'll be
bound, and let you have your own way. I never knew your
equals for gallowsness. To think of a gell o' your age wanting
to go and sit with half-a-dozen men! I'd ha' been ashamed to
let the words pass over my lips if I'd been you. And you, as
have been here ever since last Michaelmas, and I hired you
at Treddles'on stattits, without a bit o' character - as I say, you
might be grateful to be hired in that way to a respectable place;
and you knew no more o' what belongs to work when you come
here than the mawkin i' the field. As poor a two-fisted thing as
ever I saw, you
know
you was.
Who taught you to scrub a
floor, I should like to know? Why, you'd leave the dirt in
heaps i' the corners - anybody 'ud think you'd never been brought
up among Christians.
And as for spinning, why you've wasted as
much as your wage i' the flax you've spoiled learning to spin.
And you've a right to feel that, and not to go about as gaping
and as thoughtless as if you was beholding to nobody. Comb
the wool for the whittaws, indeed! That's what you'd like to
be doing, is it? That's the way with you — that's the road you'd
all like to go, headlongs to ruin. You're never easy till you've
got some sweetheart as is as big a fool as yourself: you think
you'll be finely off when you're married, I dare say, and have
got a three-legged stool to sit on, and never a blanket to cover
you, and a bit o' oat-cake for your dinner, as three children are
a-snatching at. ”
“I'm sure I donna want t go wi' the whittaws,” said Molly,
whimpering, and quite overcome by this Dantean picture of her
future; «on'y we allays used to comb the wool for 'n at Mester
Ottley's, an' so I just asked ye. I donna want to set eyes on
the whittaws again; I wish I may never stir if I do. ”
“Mr. Ottley's, indeed!
