Chapter LIII
The Harvest Supper
As Adam was going homeward, on Wednesday evening, in the six o'clocksunlight, he saw in the distance the last load of barley winding its waytowards the yard-gate of the Hall Farm, and heard the chant of "HarvestHome!" rising and sinking like a wave. Fainter and fainter, and moremusical through the growing distance, the falling dying sound stillreached him, as he neared the Willow Brook. The low westering sun shoneright on the shoulders of the old Binton Hills, turning the unconscioussheep into bright spots of light; shone on the windows of the cottagetoo, and made them a-flame with a glory beyond that of amber oramethyst. It was enough to make Adam feel that he was in a great temple,and that the distant chant was a sacred song.
"It's wonderful," he thought, "how that sound goes to one's heart almostlike a funeral bell, for all it tells one o' the joyfullest time o' theyear, and the time when men are mostly the thankfullest. I suppose it'sa bit hard to us to think anything's over and gone in our lives; andthere's a parting at the root of all our joys. It's like what I feelabout Dinah. I should never ha' come to know that her love 'ud be thegreatest o' blessings to me, if what I counted a blessing hadn't beenwrenched and torn away from me, and left me with a greater need, so as Icould crave and hunger for a greater and a better comfort."
He expected to see Dinah again this evening, and get leave to accompanyher as far as Oakbourne; and then he would ask her to fix some time whenhe might go to Snowfield, and learn whether the last best hope that hadbeen born to him must be resigned like the rest. The work he had to doat home, besides putting on his best clothes, made it seven before hewas on his way again to the Hall Farm, and it was questionable whether,with his longest and quickest strides, he should be there in time evenfor the roast beef, which came after the plum pudding, for Mrs. Poyser'ssupper would be punctual.
Great was the clatter of knives and pewter plates and tin cans when Adamentered the house, but there was no hum of voices to this accompaniment:the eating of excellent roast beef, provided free of expense, was tooserious a business to those good farm-labourers to be performed witha divided attention, even if they had had anything to say to eachother--which they had not. And Mr. Poyser, at the head of the table, wastoo busy with his carving to listen to Bartle Massey's or Mr. Craig'sready talk.
"Here, Adam," said Mrs. Poyser, who was standing and looking on to seethat Molly and Nancy did their duty as waiters, "here's a place kept foryou between Mr. Massey and the boys. It's a poor tale you couldn't cometo see the pudding when it was whole."
Adam looked anxiously round for a fourth woman's figure, but Dinahwas not there. He was almost afraid of asking about her; besides, hisattention was claimed by greetings, and there remained the hope thatDinah was in the house, though perhaps disinclined to festivities on theeve of her departure.
It was a goodly sight--that table, with Martin Poyser's roundgood-humoured face and large person at the head of it helping hisservants to the fragrant roast beef and pleased when the empty platescame again. Martin, though usually blest with a good appetite, reallyforgot to finish his own beef to-night--it was so pleasant to him tolook on in the intervals of carving and see how the others enjoyed theirsupper; for were they not men who, on all the days of the year exceptChristmas Day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner, in a makeshift manner,under the hedgerows, and drank their beer out of wooden bottles--withrelish certainly, but with their mouths towards the zenith, after afashion more endurable to ducks than to human bipeds. Martin Poyser hadsome faint conception of the flavour such men must find in hot roastbeef and fresh-drawn ale. He held his head on one side and screwedup his mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey, and watched half-witted TomTholer, otherwise known as "Tom Saft," receiving his second plateful ofbeef. A grin of delight broke over Tom's face as the plate was set downbefore him, between his knife and fork, which he held erect, as ifthey had been sacred tapers. But the delight was too strong to continuesmouldering in a grin--it burst out the next instant in a long-drawn"haw, haw!" followed by a sudden collapse into utter gravity, as theknife and fork darted down on the prey. Martin Poyser's large personshook with his silent unctuous laugh. He turned towards Mrs. Poyser tosee if she too had been observant of Tom, and the eyes of husband andwife met in a glance of good-natured amusement.
"Tom Saft" was a great favourite on the farm, where he played the partof the old jester, and made up for his practical deficiencies by hissuccess in repartee. His hits, I imagine, were those of the flail, whichfalls quite at random, but nevertheless smashes an insect now and then.They were much quoted at sheep-shearing and haymaking times, but Irefrain from recording them here, lest Tom's wit should prove to belike that of many other bygone jesters eminent in their day--rather of atemporary nature, not dealing with the deeper and more lasting relationsof things.
Tom excepted, Martin Poyser had some pride in his servants andlabourers, thinking with satisfaction that they were the best worththeir pay of any set on the estate. There was Kester Bale, for example(Beale, probably, if the truth were known, but he was called Bale, andwas not conscious of any claim to a fifth letter), the old man with theclose leather cap and the network of wrinkles on his sun-browned face.Was there any man in Loamshire who knew better the "natur" of allfarming work? He was one of those invaluable labourers who can not onlyturn their hand to everything, but excel in everything they turn theirhand to. It is true Kester's knees were much bent outward by this time,and he walked with a perpetual curtsy, as if he were among the mostreverent of men. And so he was; but I am obliged to admit that theobject of his reverence was his own skill, towards which he performedsome rather affecting acts of worship. He always thatched the ricks--forif anything were his forte more than another, it was thatching--and whenthe last touch had been put to the last beehive rick, Kester, whose homelay at some distance from the farm, would take a walk to the rick-yardin his best clothes on a Sunday morning and stand in the lane, at a duedistance, to contemplate his own thatching, walking about to get eachrick from the proper point of view. As he curtsied along, with his eyesupturned to the straw knobs imitative of golden globes at the summitsof the beehive ricks, which indeed were gold of the best sort, you mighthave imagined him to be engaged in some pagan act of adoration.Kester was an old bachelor and reputed to have stockings full of coin,concerning which his master cracked a joke with him every pay-night:not a new unseasoned joke, but a good old one, that had been triedmany times before and had worn well. "Th' young measter's a merry mon,"Kester frequently remarked; for having begun his career by frighteningaway the crows under the last Martin Poyser but one, he could nevercease to account the reigning Martin a young master. I am not ashamedof commemorating old Kester. You and I are indebted to the hard hands ofsuch men--hands that have long ago mingled with the soil they tilled sofaithfully, thriftily making the best they could of the earth's fruits,and receiving the smallest share as their own wages.
Then, at the end of the table, opposite his master, there was Alick, theshepherd and head-man, with the ruddy face and broad shoulders, not onthe best terms with old Kester; indeed, their intercourse was confinedto an occasional snarl, for though they probably differed littleconcerning hedging and ditching and the treatment of ewes, there was aprofound difference of opinion between them as to their own respectivemerits. When Tityrus and Meliboeus happen to be on the same farm, theyare not sentimentally polite to each other. Alick, indeed, was not byany means a honeyed man. His speech had usually something of a snarlin it, and his broad-shouldered aspect something of the bull-dogexpression--"Don't you meddle with me, and I won't meddle with you." Buthe was honest even to the splitting of an oat-grain rather than hewould take beyond his acknowledged share, and as "close-fisted" withhis master's property as if it had been his own--throwing very smallhandfuls of damaged barley to the chickens, because a large handfulaffected his imagination painfully with a sense of profusion.Good-tempered Tim, the waggoner, who loved his horses, had his grudgeagainst Alick in the matter of corn. They rarely sp
oke to each other,and never looked at each other, even over their dish of cold potatoes;but then, as this was their usual mode of behaviour towards all mankind,it would be an unsafe conclusion that they had more than transient fitsof unfriendliness. The bucolic character at Hayslope, you perceive,was not of that entirely genial, merry, broad-grinning sort, apparentlyobserved in most districts visited by artists. The mild radiance of asmile was a rare sight on a field-labourer's face, and there was seldomany gradation between bovine gravity and a laugh. Nor was every labourerso honest as our friend Alick. At this very table, among Mr. Poyser'smen, there is that big Ben Tholoway, a very powerful thresher, butdetected more than once in carrying away his master's corn in hispockets--an action which, as Ben was not a philosopher, could hardly beascribed to absence of mind. However, his master had forgiven him, andcontinued to employ him, for the Tholoways had lived on the Common timeout of mind, and had always worked for the Poysers. And on the whole, Idaresay, society was not much the worse because Ben had not six monthsof it at the treadmill, for his views of depredation were narrow, andthe House of Correction might have enlarged them. As it was, Ben ate hisroast beef to-night with a serene sense of having stolen nothing morethan a few peas and beans as seed for his garden since the last harvestsupper, and felt warranted in thinking that Alick's suspicious eye, forever upon him, was an injury to his innocence.
But NOW the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, leavinga fair large deal table for the bright drinking-cans, and the foamingbrown jugs, and the bright brass candlesticks, pleasant to behold. NOW,the great ceremony of the evening was to begin--the harvest-song,in which every man must join. He might be in tune, if he liked to besingular, but he must not sit with closed lips. The movement was obligedto be in triple time; the rest was ad libitum.
As to the origin of this song--whether it came in its actual state fromthe brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually perfected by a schoolor succession of rhapsodists, I am ignorant. There is a stamp ofunity, of individual genius upon it, which inclines me to the formerhypothesis, though I am not blind to the consideration that this unitymay rather have arisen from that consensus of many minds which was acondition of primitive thought, foreign to our modern consciousness.Some will perhaps think that they detect in the first quatrainan indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists, failing inimaginative vigour, have supplied by the feeble device of iteration.Others, however, may rather maintain that this very iteration is anoriginal felicity, to which none but the most prosaic minds can beinsensible.
The ceremony connected with the song was a drinking ceremony. (Thatis perhaps a painful fact, but then, you know, we cannot reform ourforefathers.) During the first and second quatrain, sung decidedlyforte, no can was filled.
Here's a health unto our master, The founder of the feast; Here's a health unto our master And to our mistress!
And may his doings prosper, Whate'er he takes in hand, For we are all his servants, And are at his command.
But now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sungfortissimo, with emphatic raps of the table, which gave the effect ofcymbals and drum together, Alick's can was filled, and he was bound toempty it before the chorus ceased.
Then drink, boys, drink! And see ye do not spill, For if ye do, ye shall drink two, For 'tis our master's will.
When Alick had gone successfully through this test of steady-handedmanliness, it was the turn of old Kester, at his right hand--and so on,till every man had drunk his initiatory pint under the stimulus of thechorus. Tom Saft--the rogue--took care to spill a little by accident;but Mrs. Poyser (too officiously, Tom thought) interfered to prevent theexaction of the penalty.
To any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse ofobvious why the "Drink, boys, drink!" should have such an immediate andoften-repeated encore; but once entered, he would have seen that allfaces were at present sober, and most of them serious--it was theregular and respectable thing for those excellent farm-labourers to do,as much as for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over theirwine-glasses. Bartle Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive, hadgone out to see what sort of evening it was at an early stage in theceremony, and had not finished his contemplation until a silence offive minutes declared that "Drink, boys, drink!" was not likely tobegin again for the next twelvemonth. Much to the regret of the boysand Totty: on them the stillness fell rather flat, after that gloriousthumping of the table, towards which Totty, seated on her father's knee,contributed with her small might and small fist.
When Bartle re-entered, however, there appeared to be a general desirefor solo music after the choral. Nancy declared that Tim the waggonerknew a song and was "allays singing like a lark i' the stable,"whereupon Mr. Poyser said encouragingly, "Come, Tim, lad, let's hearit." Tim looked sheepish, tucked down his head, and said he couldn'tsing, but this encouraging invitation of the master's was echoed allround the table. It was a conversational opportunity: everybody couldsay, "Come, Tim," except Alick, who never relaxed into the frivolity ofunnecessary speech. At last, Tim's next neighbour, Ben Tholoway, beganto give emphasis to his speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing rathersavage, said, "Let me alooan, will ye? Else I'll ma' ye sing a toon yewonna like." A good-tempered waggoner's patience has limits, and Tim wasnot to be urged further.
"Well, then, David, ye're the lad to sing," said Ben, willing to showthat he was not discomfited by this check. "Sing 'My loove's a rooswi'out a thorn.'"
The amatory David was a young man of an unconscious abstractedexpression, which was due probably to a squint of superior intensityrather than to any mental characteristic; for he was not indifferent toBen's invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed his sleeve over hismouth in a way that was regarded as a symptom of yielding. And for sometime the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire to hearDavid's song. But in vain. The lyricism of the evening was in the cellarat present, and was not to be drawn from that retreat just yet.
Meanwhile the conversation at the head of the table had taken apolitical turn. Mr. Craig was not above talking politics occasionally,though he piqued himself rather on a wise insight than on specificinformation. He saw so far beyond the mere facts of a case that reallyit was superfluous to know them.
"I'm no reader o' the paper myself," he observed to-night, as he filledhis pipe, "though I might read it fast enough if I liked, for there'sMiss Lyddy has 'em and 's done with 'em i' no time. But there's Mills,now, sits i' the chimney-corner and reads the paper pretty nighfrom morning to night, and when he's got to th' end on't he's moreaddle-headed than he was at the beginning. He's full o' this peace now,as they talk on he's been reading and reading, and thinks he's got tothe bottom on't. 'Why, Lor' bless you, Mills,' says I, 'you see no moreinto this thing nor you can see into the middle of a potato. I'll tellyou what it is: you think it'll be a fine thing for the country. And I'mnot again' it--mark my words--I'm not again' it. But it's my opinion asthere's them at the head o' this country as are worse enemies to usnor Bony and all the mounseers he's got at 's back; for as for themounseers, you may skewer half-a-dozen of 'em at once as if they warfrogs.'"
"Aye, aye," said Martin Poyser, listening with an air of muchintelligence and edification, "they ne'er ate a bit o' beef i' theirlives. Mostly sallet, I reckon."
"And says I to Mills," continued Mr. Craig, "'Will you try to make mebelieve as furriners like them can do us half th' harm them ministersdo with their bad government? If King George 'ud turn 'em all away andgovern by himself, he'd see everything righted. He might take on BillyPitt again if he liked; but I don't see myself what we want wi' anybodybesides King and Parliament. It's that nest o' ministers does themischief, I tell you.'"
"Ah, it's fine talking," observed Mrs. Poyser, who was now seated nearher husband, with Totty on her lap--"it's fine talking. It's hard workto tell which is Old Harry when everybody's got boots on."
"As for this peace," said Mr. Poyser, turning his head
on one side ina dubitative manner and giving a precautionary puff to his pipe betweeneach sentence, "I don't know. Th' war's a fine thing for the country,an' how'll you keep up prices wi'out it? An' them French are a wickedsort o' folks, by what I can make out. What can you do better nor fight'em?"
"Ye're partly right there, Poyser," said Mr. Craig, "but I'm not again'the peace--to make a holiday for a bit. We can break it when we like,an' I'm in no fear o' Bony, for all they talk so much o' his cliverness.That's what I says to Mills this morning. Lor' bless you, he sees nomore through Bony!...why, I put him up to more in three minutes than hegets from's paper all the year round. Says I, 'Am I a gardener as knowshis business, or arn't I, Mills? Answer me that.' 'To be sure y' are,Craig,' says he--he's not a bad fellow, Mills isn't, for a butler, butweak i' the head. 'Well,' says I, 'you talk o' Bony's cliverness; wouldit be any use my being a first-rate gardener if I'd got nought but aquagmire to work on?' 'No,' says he. 'Well,' I says, 'that's justwhat it is wi' Bony. I'll not deny but he may be a bit cliver--he'sno Frenchman born, as I understand--but what's he got at's back butmounseers?'"
Mr. Craig paused a moment with an emphatic stare after this triumphantspecimen of Socratic argument, and then added, thumping the table ratherfiercely, "Why, it's a sure thing--and there's them 'ull bear witnessto't--as i' one regiment where there was one man a-missing, they putthe regimentals on a big monkey, and they fit him as the shell fits thewalnut, and you couldn't tell the monkey from the mounseers!"
"Ah! Think o' that, now!" said Mr. Poyser, impressed at once with thepolitical bearings of the fact and with its striking interest as ananecdote in natural history.
"Come, Craig," said Adam, "that's a little too strong. You don't believethat. It's all nonsense about the French being such poor sticks. Mr.Irwine's seen 'em in their own country, and he says they've plenty o'fine fellows among 'em. And as for knowledge, and contrivances, andmanufactures, there's a many things as we're a fine sight behind 'em in.It's poor foolishness to run down your enemies. Why, Nelson and therest of 'em 'ud have no merit i' beating 'em, if they were such offal asfolks pretend."
Mr. Poyser looked doubtfully at Mr. Craig, puzzled by this opposition ofauthorities. Mr. Irwine's testimony was not to be disputed; but, on theother hand, Craig was a knowing fellow, and his view was less startling.Martin had never "heard tell" of the French being good for much. Mr.Craig had found no answer but such as was implied in taking a longdraught of ale and then looking down fixedly at the proportions of hisown leg, which he turned a little outward for that purpose, when BartleMassey returned from the fireplace, where he had been smoking hisfirst pipe in quiet, and broke the silence by saying, as he thrust hisforefinger into the canister, "Why, Adam, how happened you not to be atchurch on Sunday? Answer me that, you rascal. The anthem went limpingwithout you. Are you going to disgrace your schoolmaster in his oldage?"
"No, Mr. Massey," said Adam. "Mr. and Mrs. Poyser can tell you where Iwas. I was in no bad company."
"She's gone, Adam--gone to Snowfield," said Mr. Poyser, reminded ofDinah for the first time this evening. "I thought you'd ha' persuadedher better. Nought 'ud hold her, but she must go yesterday forenoon. Themissis has hardly got over it. I thought she'd ha' no sperrit for th'harvest supper."
Mrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah several times since Adam had come in,but she had had "no heart" to mention the bad news.
"What!" said Bartle, with an air of disgust. "Was there a womanconcerned? Then I give you up, Adam."
"But it's a woman you'n spoke well on, Bartle," said Mr. Poyser. "Comenow, you canna draw back; you said once as women wouldna ha' been a badinvention if they'd all been like Dinah."
"I meant her voice, man--I meant her voice, that was all," said Bartle."I can bear to hear her speak without wanting to put wool in my ears. Asfor other things, I daresay she's like the rest o' the women--thinkstwo and two 'll come to make five, if she cries and bothers enough aboutit."
"Aye, aye!" said Mrs. Poyser; "one 'ud think, an' hear some folks talk,as the men war 'cute enough to count the corns in a bag o' wheat wi'only smelling at it. They can see through a barn-door, they can. Perhapsthat's the reason THEY can see so little o' this side on't."
Martin Poyser shook with delighted laughter and winked at Adam, as muchas to say the schoolmaster was in for it now.
"Ah!" said Bartle sneeringly, "the women are quick enough--they're quickenough. They know the rights of a story before they hear it, and cantell a man what his thoughts are before he knows 'em himself."
"Like enough," said Mrs. Poyser, "for the men are mostly so slow, theirthoughts overrun 'em, an' they can only catch 'em by the tail. I cancount a stocking-top while a man's getting's tongue ready an' when heouts wi' his speech at last, there's little broth to be made on't. It'syour dead chicks take the longest hatchin'. Howiver, I'm not denyin' thewomen are foolish: God Almighty made 'em to match the men."
"Match!" said Bartle. "Aye, as vinegar matches one's teeth. If a mansays a word, his wife 'll match it with a contradiction if he's amind for hot meat, his wife 'll match it with cold bacon if he laughs,she'll match him with whimpering. She's such a match as the horse-flyis to th' horse: she's got the right venom to sting him with--the rightvenom to sting him with."
"Yes," said Mrs. Poyser, "I know what the men like--a poor soft, as 'udsimper at 'em like the picture o' the sun, whether they did right orwrong, an' say thank you for a kick, an' pretend she didna know whichend she stood uppermost, till her husband told her. That's what a manwants in a wife, mostly; he wants to make sure o' one fool as 'ull tellhim he's wise. But there's some men can do wi'out that--they think somuch o' themselves a'ready. An' that's how it is there's old bachelors."
"Come, Craig," said Mr. Poyser jocosely, "you mun get married prettyquick, else you'll be set down for an old bachelor; an' you see what thewomen 'ull think on you."
"Well," said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate Mrs. Poyser and setting ahigh value on his own compliments, "I like a cleverish woman--a woman o'sperrit--a managing woman."
"You're out there, Craig," said Bartle, dryly; "you're out there. Youjudge o' your garden-stuff on a better plan than that. You pick thethings for what they can excel in--for what they can excel in. You don'tvalue your peas for their roots, or your carrots for their flowers. Now,that's the way you should choose women. Their cleverness 'll never cometo much--never come to much--but they make excellent simpletons, ripeand strong-flavoured."
"What dost say to that?" said Mr. Poyser, throwing himself back andlooking merrily at his wife.
"Say!" answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous fire kindling in hereye. "Why, I say as some folks' tongues are like the clocks as runon strikin', not to tell you the time o' the day, but because there'ssummat wrong i' their own inside..."
Mrs. Poyser would probably have brought her rejoinder to a furtherclimax, if every one's attention had not at this moment been called tothe other end of the table, where the lyricism, which had at first onlymanifested itself by David's sotto voce performance of "My love's a rosewithout a thorn," had gradually assumed a rather deafening and complexcharacter. Tim, thinking slightly of David's vocalization, was impelledto supersede that feeble buzz by a spirited commencement of "Three MerryMowers," but David was not to be put down so easily, and showed himselfcapable of a copious crescendo, which was rendering it doubtful whetherthe rose would not predominate over the mowers, when old Kester, withan entirely unmoved and immovable aspect, suddenly set up a quaveringtreble--as if he had been an alarum, and the time was come for him to gooff.
The company at Alick's end of the table took this form of vocalentertainment very much as a matter of course, being free from musicalprejudices; but Bartle Massey laid down his pipe and put his fingers inhis ears; and Adam, who had been longing to go ever since he had heardDinah was not in the house, rose and said he must bid good-night.
"I'll go with you, lad," said Bartle; "I'll go with you before my earsare split."
"I'll go round by the Common and see you
home, if you like, Mr. Massey,"said Adam.
"Aye, aye!" said Bartle; "then we can have a bit o' talk together. Inever get hold of you now."
"Eh! It's a pity but you'd sit it out," said Martin Poyser. "They'll allgo soon, for th' missis niver lets 'em stay past ten."
But Adam was resolute, so the good-nights were said, and the two friendsturned out on their starlight walk together.
"There's that poor fool, Vixen, whimpering for me at home," said Bartle."I can never bring her here with me for fear she should be struck withMrs. Poyser's eye, and the poor bitch might go limping for ever after."
"I've never any need to drive Gyp back," said Adam, laughing. "He alwaysturns back of his own head when he finds out I'm coming here."
"Aye, aye," said Bartle. "A terrible woman!--made of needles, made ofneedles. But I stick to Martin--I shall always stick to Martin. Andhe likes the needles, God help him! He's a cushion made on purpose for'em."
"But she's a downright good-natur'd woman, for all that," said Adam,"and as true as the daylight. She's a bit cross wi' the dogs when theyoffer to come in th' house, but if they depended on her, she'd take careand have 'em well fed. If her tongue's keen, her heart's tender: I'veseen that in times o' trouble. She's one o' those women as are betterthan their word."
"Well, well," said Bartle, "I don't say th' apple isn't sound at thecore; but it sets my teeth on edge--it sets my teeth on edge."