The Essential Works of George Eliot. George Eliot

them that going to church was not part of the day’s festivities. Mr. Poyser had once suggested that the house should be shut up and left to take care of itself; “for,” said he, “there’s no danger of anybody’s breaking in—everybody’ll be at the Chase, thieves an’ all. If we lock th’ house up, all the men can go: it’s a day they wonna see twice i’ their lives.” But Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: “I never left the house to take care of itself since I was a missis, and I never will. There’s been ill-looking tramps enoo’ about the place this last week, to carry off every ham an’ every spoon we’n got; and they all collogue together, them tramps, as it’s a mercy they hanna come and poisoned the dogs and murdered us all in our beds afore we knowed, some Friday night when we’n got the money in th’ house to pay the men. And it’s like enough the tramps know where we’re going as well as we do oursens; for if Old Harry wants any work done, you may be sure he’ll find the means.”

      “Nonsense about murdering us in our beds,” said Mr. Poyser; “I’ve got a gun i’ our room, hanna I? and thee’st got ears as ’ud find it out if a mouse was gnawing the bacon. Howiver, if thee wouldstna be easy, Alick can stay at home i’ the forepart o’ the day, and Tim can come back tow’rds five o’clock, and let Alick have his turn. They may let Growler loose if anybody offers to do mischief, and there’s Alick’s dog too, ready enough to set his tooth in a tramp if Alick gives him a wink.”

      Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advisable to bar and bolt to the utmost; and now, at the last moment before starting, Nancy, the dairy-maid, was closing the shutters of the house-place, although the window, lying under the immediate observation of Alick and the dogs, might have been supposed the least likely to be selected for a burglarious attempt.

      The covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to carry the whole family except the men-servants. Mr. Poyser and the grandfather sat on the seat in front, and within there was room for all the women and children; the fuller the cart the better, because then the jolting would not hurt so much, and Nancy’s broad person and thick arms were an excellent cushion to be pitched on. But Mr. Poyser drove at no more than a walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting as possible on this warm day, and there was time to exchange greetings and remarks with the foot-passengers who were going the same way, specking the paths between the green meadows and the golden cornfields with bits of movable bright colour—a scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies that nodded a little too thickly among the corn, or a dark-blue neckerchief with ends flaunting across a brand-new white smock-frock. All Broxton and all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and make merry there in honour of “th’ heir”; and the old men and women, who had never been so far down this side of the hill for the last twenty years, were being brought from Broxton and Hayslope in one of the farmer’s waggons, at Mr. Irwine’s suggestion. The church-bells had struck up again now—a last tune, before the ringers came down the hill to have their share in the festival; and before the bells had finished, other music was heard approaching, so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that was drawing Mr. Poyser’s cart, began to prick up his ears. It was the band of the Benefit Club, which had mustered in all its glory—that is to say, in bright-blue scarfs and blue favours, and carrying its banner with the motto, “Let brotherly love continue,” encircling a picture of a stone-pit.

      The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every one must get down at the lodges, and the vehicles must be sent back.

      “Why, the Chase is like a fair a’ready,” said Mrs. Poyser, as she got down from the cart, and saw the groups scattered under the great oaks, and the boys running about in the hot sunshine to survey the tall poles surmounted by the fluttering garments that were to be the prize of the successful climbers. “I should ha’ thought there wasna so many people i’ the two parishes. Mercy on us! How hot it is out o’ the shade! Come here, Totty, else your little face ’ull be burnt to a scratchin’! They might ha’ cooked the dinners i’ that open space an’ saved the fires. I shall go to Mrs. Best’s room an’ sit down.”

      “Stop a bit, stop a bit,” said Mr. Poyser. “There’s th’ waggin coming wi’ th’ old folks in’t; it’ll be such a sight as wonna come o’er again, to see ’em get down an’ walk along all together. You remember some on ’em i’ their prime, eh, Father?”

      “Aye, aye,” said old Martin, walking slowly under the shade of the lodge porch, from which he could see the aged party descend. “I remember Jacob Taft walking fifty mile after the Scotch raybels, when they turned back from Stoniton.”

      He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as he saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, descend from the waggon and walk towards him, in his brown nightcap, and leaning on his two sticks.

      “Well, Mester Taft,” shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of his voice—for though he knew the old man was stone deaf, he could not omit the propriety of a greeting—“you’re hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen to-day, for-all you’re ninety an’ better.”

      “Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant,” said Feyther Taft in a treble tone, perceiving that he was in company.

      The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves worn and grey, passed on along the least-winding carriage-road towards the house, where a special table was prepared for them; while the Poyser party wisely struck across the grass under the shade of the great trees, but not out of view of the house-front, with its sloping lawn and flower-beds, or of the pretty striped marquee at the edge of the lawn, standing at right angles with two larger marquees on each side of the open green space where the games were to be played. The house would have been nothing but a plain square mansion of Queen Anne’s time, but for the remnant of an old abbey to which it was united at one end, in much the same way as one may sometimes see a new farmhouse rising high and prim at the end of older and lower farm-offices. The fine old remnant stood a little backward and under the shadow of tall beeches, but the sun was now on the taller and more advanced front, the blinds were all down, and the house seemed asleep in the hot midday. It made Hetty quite sad to look at it: Arthur must be somewhere in the back rooms, with the grand company, where he could not possibly know that she was come, and she should not see him for a long, long while—not till after dinner, when they said he was to come up and make a speech.

      But Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture. No grand company was come except the Irwines, for whom the carriage had been sent early, and Arthur was at that moment not in a back room, but walking with the rector into the broad stone cloisters of the old abbey, where the long tables were laid for all the cottage tenants and the farm-servants. A very handsome young Briton he looked to-day, in high spirits and a bright-blue frock-coat, the highest mode—his arm no longer in a sling. So open-looking and candid, too; but candid people have their secrets, and secrets leave no lines in young faces.

      “Upon my word,” he said, as they entered the cool cloisters, “I think the cottagers have the best of it: these cloisters make a delightful dining-room on a hot day. That was capital advice of yours, Irwine, about the dinners—to let them be as orderly and comfortable as possible, and only for the tenants: especially as I had only a limited sum after all; for though my grandfather talked of a carte blanche, he couldn’t make up his mind to trust me, when it came to the point.”

      “Never mind, you’ll give more pleasure in this quiet way,” said Mr. Irwine. “In this sort of thing people are constantly confounding liberality with riot and disorder. It sounds very grand to say that so many sheep and oxen were roasted whole, and everybody ate who liked to come; but in the end it generally happens that no one has had an enjoyable meal. If the people get a good dinner and a moderate quantity of ale in the middle of the day, they’ll be able to enjoy the games as the day cools. You can’t hinder some of them from getting too much towards evening, but drunkenness and darkness go better together than drunkenness and daylight.”

      “Well, I hope there won’t be much of it. I’ve kept the Treddleston people away by having a feast for them in the town; and I’ve got Casson and Adam Bede and some other good fellows to look to the giving out of ale in the booths, and to take care things don’t go too far. Come, let us go up above now and see the dinner-tables for the large tenants.”

      They