Chapter VI
The Hall Farm
EVIDENTLY that gate is never opened, for the long grass and the greathemlocks grow close against it, and if it were opened, it is so rustythat the force necessary to turn it on its hinges would be likely topull down the square stone-built pillars, to the detriment of the twostone lionesses which grin with a doubtful carnivorous affability abovea 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 brickwall with its smooth stone coping; but by putting our eyes close to therusty bars of the gate, we can see the house well enough, and all butthe very corners of the grassy enclosure.
It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale powderylichen, which has dispersed itself with happy irregularity, so asto bring the red brick into terms of friendly companionship with thelimestone ornaments surrounding the three gables, the windows, and thedoor-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 andgrate 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 asonorous bang behind a liveried lackey, who had just seen his master andmistress off the grounds in a carriage and pair.
But at present one might fancy the house in the early stage of achancery suit, and that the fruit from that grand double row ofwalnut-trees on the right hand of the enclosure would fall and rot amongthe grass, if it were not that we heard the booming bark of dogs echoingfrom great buildings at the back. And now the half-weaned calves thathave been sheltering themselves in a gorse-built hovel against theleft-hand wall come out and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark,doubtless supposing that it has reference to buckets of milk.
Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by whom; forimagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no fear of dogs, but mayclimb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity. Put your faceto one of the glass panes in the right-hand window: what do you see? Alarge 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. Andwhat through the left-hand window? Several clothes-horses, a pillion,a spinning-wheel, and an old box wide open and stuffed full of colouredrags. At the edge of this box there lies a great wooden doll, which, sofar as mutilation is concerned, bears a strong resemblance to the finestGreek sculpture, and especially in the total loss of its nose. Near itthere is a little chair, and the butt end of a boy's leather long-lashedwhip.
The history of the house is plain now. It was once the residence ofa country squire, whose family, probably dwindling down to merespinsterhood, got merged in the more territorial name of Donnithorne. Itwas once the Hall; it is now the Hall Farm. Like the life in somecoast town that was once a watering-place, and is now a port, where thegenteel streets are silent and grass-grown, and the docks and warehousesbusy and resonant, the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and nolonger radiates from the parlour, but from the kitchen and the farmyard.
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 senseof life when the sun is brilliant after rain; and now he is pouringdown his beams, and making sparkles among the wet straw, and lightingup every patch of vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow-shed, andturning even the muddy water that is hurrying along the channel to thedrain into a mirror for the yellow-billed ducks, who are seizing theopportunity of getting a drink with as much body in it as possible.There is quite a concert of noises; the great bull-dog, chained againstthe stables, is thrown into furious exasperation by the unwary approachof a cock too near the mouth of his kennel, and sends forth a thunderingbark, which is answered by two fox-hounds shut up in the oppositecow-house; the old top-knotted hens, scratching with their chicks amongthe straw, set up a sympathetic croaking as the discomfited cock joinsthem; a sow with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and curled asto the tail, throws in some deep staccato notes; our friends the calvesare bleating from the home croft; and, under all, a fine ear discernsthe continuous hum of human voices.
For the great barn-doors are thrown wide open, and men are busythere mending the harness, under the superintendence of Mr. Goby,the "whittaw," otherwise saddler, who entertains them with the latestTreddleston gossip. It is certainly rather an unfortunate day thatAlick, the shepherd, has chosen for having the whittaws, since themorning turned out so wet; and Mrs. Poyser has spoken her mind prettystrongly as to the dirt which the extra number of men's shoes broughtinto the house at dinnertime. Indeed, she has not yet recovered herequanimity on the subject, though it is now nearly three hours sincedinner, and the house-floor is perfectly clean again; as clean aseverything else in that wonderful house-place, where the only chance ofcollecting 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 glitteringbrass candlesticks are enjoying their summer sinecure; for at this timeof year, of course, every one goes to bed while it is yet light, orat least light enough to discern the outline of objects after youhave bruised your shins against them. Surely nowhere else could anoak 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 Godshe never had any of your varnished rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorreloften took the opportunity, when her aunt's back was turned, of lookingat the pleasing reflection of herself in those polished surfaces, forthe oak table was usually turned up like a screen, and was more forornament than for use; and she could see herself sometimes in the greatround pewter dishes that were ranged on the shelves above the longdeal dinner-table, or in the hobs of the grate, which always shone likejasper.
Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for the sunshone right on the pewter dishes, and from their reflecting surfacespleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow oak and bright brass--andon a still pleasanter object than these, for some of the rays fell onDinah's finely moulded cheek, and lit up her pale red hair to auburn,as she bent over the heavy household linen which she was mending for heraunt. No scene could have been more peaceful, if Mrs. Poyser, who wasironing a few things that still remained from the Monday's wash, hadnot been making a frequent clinking with her iron and moving to andfro whenever she wanted it to cool; carrying the keen glance of herblue-grey eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where Hetty was makingup the butter, and from the dairy to the back kitchen, where Nancy wastaking the pies out of the oven. Do not suppose, however, that Mrs.Poyser was elderly or shrewish in her appearance; she was a good-lookingwoman, not more than eight-and-thirty, of fair complexion and sandyhair, well-shapen, light-footed. The most conspicuous article in herattire was an ample checkered linen apron, which almost covered herskirt; and nothing could be plainer or less noticeable than her capand gown, for there was no weakness of which she was less tolerant thanfeminine vanity, and the preference of ornament to utility. The familylikeness between her and her niece Dinah Morris, with the contrastbetween her keenness and Dinah's seraphic gentleness of expression,might have served a painter as an excellent suggestion for a Martha andMary. Their eyes were just of the same colour, but a striking test ofthe difference in their operation was seen in the demeanour of Trip, theblack-and-tan terrier, whenever that much-suspected dog unwarily exposedhimself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. Poyser's glance. Her tonguewas not less keen than her eye, and, whenever a damsel came withinearshot, seemed to take up an unfinished lecture, as a barrel-organtakes up a tune, precisely at the point where it had left off.
The fact that it was churning day was another reason why it wasinconvenient to have the whittaws, and why, consequently, Mrs.Poyser should scold Molly the housemaid with unusual severity. To allappearance Molly had got through her af
ter-dinner work in an exemplarymanner, 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 blameless conduct, according to Mrs. Poyser, shrouded a secretindulgence of unbecoming wishes, which she now dragged forth and held upto Molly's view with cutting eloquence.
"Spinning, indeed! It isn't spinning as you'd be at, I'll be bound, andlet you have your own way. I never knew your equals for gallowsness. Tothink 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 youat Treddles'on stattits, without a bit o' character--as I say, you mightbe grateful to be hired in that way to a respectable place; and you knewno 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 leavethe dirt in heaps i' the corners--anybody 'ud think you'd never beenbrought up among Christians. And as for spinning, why, you've wastedas 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 asthoughtless as if you was beholding to nobody. Comb the wool for thewhittaws, indeed! That's what you'd like to be doing, is it? That's theway 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 asyourself: you think you'll be finely off when you're married, I daresay,and have got a three-legged stool to sit on, and never a blanket tocover you, and a bit o' oat-cake for your dinner, as three children area-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 weallays used to comb the wool for 'n at Mester Ottley's; an' so I justaxed ye. I donna want to set eyes on the whittaws again; I wish I maynever stir if I do."
"Mr. Ottley's, indeed! It's fine talking o' what you did at Mr.Ottley's. Your missis there might like her floors dirted wi' whittawsfor what I know. There's no knowing what people WONNA like--such ways asI've heard of! I never had a gell come into my house as seemed to knowwhat cleaning was; I think people live like pigs, for my part. And as tothat Betty as was dairymaid at Trent's before she come to me, she'd ha'left the cheeses without turning from week's end to week's end, and thedairy thralls, I might ha' wrote my name on 'em, when I come downstairsafter my illness, as the doctor said it was inflammation--it was a mercyI got well of it. And to think o' your knowing no better, Molly, andbeen here a-going i' nine months, and not for want o' talking to,neither--and what are you stanning there for, like a jack as is rundown, instead o' getting your wheel out? You're a rare un for sittingdown to your work a little while after it's time to put by."
"Munny, my iron's twite told; pease put it down to warm."
The small chirruping voice that uttered this request came from a littlesunny-haired girl between three and four, who, seated on a high chairat the end of the ironing table, was arduously clutching the handle ofa miniature iron with her tiny fat fist, and ironing rags with anassiduity that required her to put her little red tongue out as far asanatomy would allow.
"Cold, is it, my darling? Bless your sweet face!" said Mrs. Poyser, whowas remarkable for the facility with which she could relapse from herofficial objurgatory to one of fondness or of friendly converse. "Nevermind! Mother's done her ironing now. She's going to put the ironingthings away."
"Munny, I tould 'ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see de whittawd."
"No, no, no; Totty 'ud get her feet wet," said Mrs. Poyser, carryingaway her iron. "Run into the dairy and see cousin Hetty make thebutter."
"I tould 'ike a bit o' pum-take," rejoined Totty, who seemed to beprovided with several relays of requests; at the same time, taking theopportunity of her momentary leisure to put her fingers into a bowlof starch, and drag it down so as to empty the contents with tolerablecompleteness on to the ironing sheet.
"Did ever anybody see the like?" screamed Mrs. Poyser, running towardsthe table when her eye had fallen on the blue stream. "The child'sallays i' mischief if your back's turned a minute. What shall I do toyou, you naughty, naughty gell?"
Totty, however, had descended from her chair with great swiftness, andwas already in retreat towards the dairy with a sort of waddling run,and an amount of fat on the nape of her neck which made her look likethe metamorphosis of a white suckling pig.
The starch having been wiped up by Molly's help, and the ironingapparatus put by, Mrs. Poyser took up her knitting which always layready at hand, and was the work she liked best, because she could carryit on automatically as she walked to and fro. But now she came and satdown opposite Dinah, whom she looked at in a meditative way, as sheknitted her grey worsted stocking.
"You look th' image o' your Aunt Judith, Dinah, when you sit a-sewing. Icould almost fancy it was thirty years back, and I was a little gellat home, looking at Judith as she sat at her work, after she'd donethe house up; only it was a little cottage, Father's was, and not a bigrambling house as gets dirty i' one corner as fast as you clean it inanother--but for all that, I could fancy you was your Aunt Judith, onlyher hair was a deal darker than yours, and she was stouter and broaderi' the shoulders. Judith and me allays hung together, though she hadsuch queer ways, but your mother and her never could agree. Ah, yourmother little thought as she'd have a daughter just cut out after thevery pattern o' Judith, and leave her an orphan, too, for Judith totake care on, and bring up with a spoon when SHE was in the graveyard atStoniton. I allays said that o' Judith, as she'd bear a pound weightany day to save anybody else carrying a ounce. And she was just the samefrom the first o' my remembering her; it made no difference in her, asI could see, when she took to the Methodists, only she talked a bitdifferent and wore a different sort o' cap; but she'd never in her lifespent a penny on herself more than keeping herself decent."
"She was a blessed woman," said Dinah; "God had given her a loving,self-forgetting nature, and He perfected it by grace. And she was veryfond of you too, Aunt Rachel. I often heard her talk of you in the samesort of way. When she had that bad illness, and I was only elevenyears old, she used to say, 'You'll have a friend on earth in your AuntRachel, if I'm taken from you, for she has a kind heart,' and I'm sureI've found it so."
"I don't know how, child; anybody 'ud be cunning to do anything for you,I think; you're like the birds o' th' air, and live nobody knows how.I'd ha' been glad to behave to you like a mother's sister, if you'd comeand live i' this country where there's some shelter and victual forman and beast, and folks don't live on the naked hills, like poultrya-scratching on a gravel bank. And then you might get married to somedecent man, and there'd be plenty ready to have you, if you'd only leaveoff that preaching, as is ten times worse than anything your Aunt Judithever did. And even if you'd marry Seth Bede, as is a poor wool-gatheringMethodist and's never like to have a penny beforehand, I know youruncle 'ud help you with a pig, and very like a cow, for he's allays beengood-natur'd to my kin, for all they're poor, and made 'em welcome tothe house; and 'ud do for you, I'll be bound, as much as ever he'd dofor Hetty, though she's his own niece. And there's linen in the houseas I could well spare you, for I've got lots o' sheeting andtable-clothing, and towelling, as isn't made up. There's a piece o'sheeting I could give you as that squinting Kitty spun--she was a raregirl to spin, for all she squinted, and the children couldn't abide her;and, you know, the spinning's going on constant, and there's new linenwove twice as fast as the old wears out. But where's the use o' talking,if ye wonna be persuaded, and settle down like any other woman in hersenses, i'stead o' wearing yourself out with walking and preaching,and giving away every penny you get, so as you've nothing saved againstsickness; and all the things you've got i' the world, I verily believe,'ud go into a bundle no bigger nor a double cheese. And all becauseyou've got notions i' your head about religion more nor what's i' theCatechism and the Prayer-book."
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"But not more than what's in the Bible, Aunt," said Dinah.
"Yes, and the Bible too, for that matter," Mrs. Poyser rejoined, rathersharply; "else why shouldn't them as know best what's in the Bible--theparsons and people as have got nothing to do but learn it--do the sameas you do? But, for the matter o' that, if everybody was to do likeyou, the world must come to a standstill; for if everybody tried todo without house and home, and with poor eating and drinking, and wasallays talking as we must despise the things o' the world as you say, Ishould like to know where the pick o' the stock, and the corn, and thebest new-milk cheeses 'ud have to go. Everybody 'ud be wanting breadmade o' tail ends and everybody 'ud be running after everybody elseto preach to 'em, istead o' bringing up their families, and laying byagainst a bad harvest. It stands to sense as that can't be the rightreligion."
"Nay, dear aunt, you never heard me say that all people are called toforsake their work and their families. It's quite right the land shouldbe ploughed and sowed, and the precious corn stored, and the thingsof this life cared for, and right that people should rejoice in theirfamilies, and provide for them, so that this is done in the fear of theLord, and that they are not unmindful of the soul's wants while they arecaring for the body. We can all be servants of God wherever our lot iscast, but He gives us different sorts of work, according as He fits usfor it and calls us to it. I can no more help spending my life in tryingto do what I can for the souls of others, than you could help running ifyou heard little Totty crying at the other end of the house; the voicewould go to your heart, you would think the dear child was in trouble orin danger, and you couldn't rest without running to help her and comforther."
"Ah," said Mrs. Poyser, rising and walking towards the door, "I know it'ud be just the same if I was to talk to you for hours. You'd make methe same answer, at th' end. I might as well talk to the running brookand tell it to stan' still."
The causeway outside the kitchen door was dry enough now for Mrs. Poyserto stand there quite pleasantly and see what was going on in the yard,the grey worsted stocking making a steady progress in her hands all thewhile. But she had not been standing there more than five minutes beforeshe came in again, and said to Dinah, in rather a flurried, awe-strickentone, "If there isn't Captain Donnithorne and Mr. Irwine a-coming intothe yard! I'll lay my life they're come to speak about your preachingon the Green, Dinah; it's you must answer 'em, for I'm dumb. I've saidenough a'ready about your bringing such disgrace upo' your uncle'sfamily. I wouldn't ha' minded if you'd been Mr. Poyser's ownniece--folks must put up wi' their own kin, as they put up wi' their ownnoses--it's their own flesh and blood. But to think of a niece o' minebeing cause o' my husband's being turned out of his farm, and me broughthim no fortin but my savin's----"
"Nay, dear Aunt Rachel," said Dinah gently, "you've no cause for suchfears. I've strong assurance that no evil will happen to you and myuncle and the children from anything I've done. I didn't preach withoutdirection."
"Direction! I know very well what you mean by direction," said Mrs.Poyser, knitting in a rapid and agitated manner. "When there's a biggermaggot than usual in your head you call it 'direction'; and then nothingcan stir you--you look like the statty o' the outside o' Treddles'onchurch, a-starin' and a-smilin' whether it's fair weather or foul. Ihanna common patience with you."
By this time the two gentlemen had reached the palings and had gotdown from their horses: it was plain they meant to come in. Mrs. Poyseradvanced to the door to meet them, curtsying low and trembling betweenanger with Dinah and anxiety to conduct herself with perfect proprietyon the occasion. For in those days the keenest of bucolic minds felt awhispering awe at the sight of the gentry, such as of old men felt whenthey stood on tiptoe to watch the gods passing by in tall human shape.
"Well, Mrs. Poyser, how are you after this stormy morning?" said Mr.Irwine, with his stately cordiality. "Our feet are quite dry; we shallnot soil your beautiful floor."
"Oh, sir, don't mention it," said Mrs. Poyser. "Will you and the captainplease to walk into the parlour?"
"No, indeed, thank you, Mrs. Poyser," said the captain, looking eagerlyround the kitchen, as if his eye were seeking something it could notfind. "I delight in your kitchen. I think it is the most charming roomI know. I should like every farmer's wife to come and look at it for apattern."
"Oh, you're pleased to say so, sir. Pray take a seat," said Mrs.Poyser, relieved a little by this compliment and the captain's evidentgood-humour, but still glancing anxiously at Mr. Irwine, who, she saw,was looking at Dinah and advancing towards her.
"Poyser is not at home, is he?" said Captain Donnithorne, seatinghimself where he could see along the short passage to the opendairy-door.
"No, sir, he isn't; he's gone to Rosseter to see Mr. West, the factor,about the wool. But there's Father i' the barn, sir, if he'd be of anyuse."
"No, thank you; I'll just look at the whelps and leave a message aboutthem with your shepherd. I must come another day and see your husband; Iwant to have a consultation with him about horses. Do you know when he'slikely to be at liberty?"
"Why, sir, you can hardly miss him, except it's o' Treddles'onmarket-day--that's of a Friday, you know. For if he's anywhere on thefarm we can send for him in a minute. If we'd got rid o' the Scantlands,we should have no outlying fields; and I should be glad of it, for ifever anything happens, he's sure to be gone to the Scantlands. Thingsallays happen so contrairy, if they've a chance; and it's an unnat'ralthing to have one bit o' your farm in one county and all the rest inanother."
"Ah, the Scantlands would go much better with Choyce's farm, especiallyas he wants dairyland and you've got plenty. I think yours is theprettiest farm on the estate, though; and do you know, Mrs. Poyser, if Iwere going to marry and settle, I should be tempted to turn you out, anddo up this fine old house, and turn farmer myself."
"Oh, sir," said Mrs. Poyser, rather alarmed, "you wouldn't like it atall. As for farming, it's putting money into your pocket wi' yourright hand and fetching it out wi' your left. As fur as I can see, it'sraising victual for other folks and just getting a mouthful for yourselfand your children as you go along. Not as you'd be like a poor man aswants to get his bread--you could afford to lose as much money as youliked i' farming--but it's poor fun losing money, I should think, thoughI understan' it's what the great folks i' London play at more thananything. For my husband heard at market as Lord Dacey's eldest son hadlost thousands upo' thousands to the Prince o' Wales, and they saidmy lady was going to pawn her jewels to pay for him. But you know moreabout that than I do, sir. But, as for farming, sir, I canna think asyou'd like it; and this house--the draughts in it are enough to cut youthrough, and it's my opinion the floors upstairs are very rotten, andthe rats i' the cellar are beyond anything."
"Why, that's a terrible picture, Mrs. Poyser. I think I should be doingyou a service to turn you out of such a place. But there's no chanceof that. I'm not likely to settle for the next twenty years, till I'm astout gentleman of forty; and my grandfather would never consent to partwith such good tenants as you."
"Well, sir, if he thinks so well o' Mr. Poyser for a tenant I wish youcould put in a word for him to allow us some new gates for the Fivecloses, for my husband's been asking and asking till he's tired, and tothink o' what he's done for the farm, and's never had a penny allowedhim, be the times bad or good. And as I've said to my husband often andoften, I'm sure if the captain had anything to do with it, it wouldn'tbe so. Not as I wish to speak disrespectful o' them as have got thepower i' their hands, but it's more than flesh and blood 'ull bearsometimes, to be toiling and striving, and up early and down late, andhardly sleeping a wink when you lie down for thinking as the cheesemay swell, or the cows may slip their calf, or the wheat may grow greenagain i' the sheaf--and after all, at th' end o' the year, it's likeas if you'd been cooking a feast and had got the smell of it for yourpains."
Mrs. Poyser, once launched into conversation, always sailed alongwithout any check from her preliminary awe of the gentry
. The confidenceshe felt in her own powers of exposition was a motive force thatovercame all resistance.
"I'm afraid I should only do harm instead of good, if I were to speakabout the gates, Mrs. Poyser," said the captain, "though I assure youthere's no man on the estate I would sooner say a word for than yourhusband. I know his farm is in better order than any other withinten miles of us; and as for the kitchen," he added, smiling, "I don'tbelieve there's one in the kingdom to beat it. By the by, I've neverseen your dairy: I must see your dairy, Mrs. Poyser."
"Indeed, sir, it's not fit for you to go in, for Hetty's in the middleo' making the butter, for the churning was thrown late, and I'm quiteashamed." This Mrs. Poyser said blushing, and believing that the captainwas really interested in her milk-pans, and would adjust his opinion ofher to the appearance of her dairy.
"Oh, I've no doubt it's in capital order. Take me in," said the captain,himself leading the way, while Mrs. Poyser followed.