Chapter VI

by George Eliot

　　The conversation, which was at a high pitch of animation when Silasapproached the door of the Rainbow, had, as usual, been slow andintermittent when the company first assembled. The pipes began tobe puffed in a silence which had an air of severity; the moreimportant customers, who drank spirits and sat nearest the fire,staring at each other as if a bet were depending on the first manwho winked; while the beer-drinkers, chiefly men in fustian jacketsand smock-frocks, kept their eyelids down and rubbed their handsacross their mouths, as if their draughts of beer were a funerealduty attended with embarrassing sadness. At last Mr. Snell, thelandlord, a man of a neutral disposition, accustomed to stand alooffrom human differences as those of beings who were all alike in needof liquor, broke silence, by saying in a doubtful tone to his cousinthe butcher--"Some folks 'ud say that was a fine beast you druv in yesterday,Bob?"The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was not disposed toanswer 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 asbefore."Was it a red Durham?" said the farrier, taking up the thread ofdiscourse after the lapse of a few minutes.The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord looked at thebutcher, as the person who must take the responsibility ofanswering."Red it was," said the butcher, in his good-humoured husky treble--"and a Durham it was.""Then you needn't tell me who you bought it of," said thefarrier, looking round with some triumph; "I know who it is has gotthe red Durhams o' this country-side. And she'd a white star on herbrow, I'll bet a penny?" The farrier leaned forward with his handson his knees as he put this question, and his eyes twinkledknowingly."Well; yes--she might," said the butcher, slowly, consideringthat he was giving a decided affirmative. "I don't saycontrairy.""I knew that very well," said the farrier, throwing himselfbackward again, and speaking defiantly; "if I don't knowMr. 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 beenat the drenching of her--contradick me who will."The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher's conversationalspirit was roused a little."I'm not for contradicking no man," he said; "I'm for peace andquietness. Some are for cutting long ribs--I'm for cutting 'emshort myself; but I don't quarrel with 'em. All I say is, it's alovely carkiss--and anybody as was reasonable, it 'ud bring tearsinto their eyes to look at it.""Well, it's the cow as I drenched, whatever it is," pursued thefarrier, angrily; "and it was Mr. Lammeter's cow, else you told alie when you said it was a red Durham.""I tell no lies," said the butcher, with the same mild huskinessas before, "and I contradick none--not if a man was to swearhimself black: he's no meat o' mine, nor none o' my bargains. All Isay is, it's a lovely carkiss. And what I say, I'll stick to; butI'll quarrel wi' no man.""No," said the farrier, with bitter sarcasm, looking at thecompany generally; "and p'rhaps you aren't pig-headed; and p'rhapsyou didn't say the cow was a red Durham; and p'rhaps you didn't sayshe'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 truthlies atween you: you're both right and both wrong, as I 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 mostupo' that head, eh, Mr. Macey? You remember when firstMr. Lammeter's father come into these parts, and took the Warrens?"Mr. Macey, tailor and parish-clerk, the latter of which functionsrheumatism had of late obliged him to share with a small-featuredyoung man who sat opposite him, held his white head on one side, andtwirled his thumbs with an air of complacency, slightly seasonedwith criticism. He smiled pityingly, in answer to the landlord'sappeal, and said--"Aye, aye; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk. I've laidby now, and gev up to the young uns. Ask them as have been toschool at Tarley: they've learnt pernouncing; that's come up sincemy day.""If you're pointing at me, Mr. Macey," said the deputy clerk, withan air of anxious propriety, "I'm nowise a man to speak out of myplace. As the psalm says--"I know what's right, nor only so,But also practise what I know."""Well, then, I wish you'd keep hold o' the tune, when it's set foryou; if you're for practising, I wish you'd practise that,"said a large jocose-looking man, an excellent wheelwright in hisweek-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 wasexpressing the sense of the musical profession in Raveloe.Mr. Tookey, the deputy-clerk, who shared the unpopularity common todeputies, 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 uptheir own ears for a standard, and expect the whole choir to follow'em. There may be two opinions, I hope.""Aye, aye," said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied with thisattack on youthful presumption; "you're right there, Tookey:there's allays two 'pinions; there's the 'pinion a man has ofhimsen, and there's the 'pinion other folks have on him. There'd betwo 'pinions about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear itself.""Well, Mr. Macey," said poor Tookey, serious amidst the generallaughter, "I undertook to partially fill up the office ofparish-clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp's desire, whenever your infirmitiesshould make you unfitting; and it's one of the rights thereof tosing in the choir--else why have you done the same yourself?""Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks," said BenWinthrop. "The old gentleman's got a gift. Why, the Squire usedto invite him to take a glass, only to hear him sing the "RedRovier"; didn't he, Mr. Macey? It's a nat'ral gift. There's mylittle lad Aaron, he's got a gift--he can sing a tune offstraight, like a throstle. But as for you, Master Tookey, you'dbetter stick to your "Amens": your voice is well enough when youkeep it up in your nose. It's your inside as isn't right made formusic: it's no better nor a hollow stalk."This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant form of joketo the company at the Rainbow, and Ben Winthrop's insult was felt byeverybody to have capped Mr. Macey's epigram."I see what it is plain enough," said Mr. Tookey, unable to keepcool any longer. "There's a consperacy to turn me out o' thechoir, as I shouldn't share the Christmas money--that's where itis. But I shall speak to Mr. Crackenthorp; I'll not be put upon byno man.""Nay, nay, Tookey," said Ben Winthrop. "We'll pay you your shareto keep out of it--that's what we'll do. There's things folks 'udpay to be rid on, besides varmin.""Come, come," said the landlord, who felt that paying people fortheir absence was a principle dangerous to society; "a joke's ajoke. 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, Ishould say they're both right. Tookey's right and Winthrop's right,and they've only got to split the difference and make themselveseven."The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in some contemptat this trivial discussion. He had no ear for music himself, andnever went to church, as being of the medical profession, and likelyto be in requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher, havingmusic in his soul, had listened with a divided desire for Tookey'sdefeat and for the preservation of the peace."To be sure," he said, following up the landlord's conciliatoryview, "we're fond of our old clerk; it's nat'ral, and him used tobe such a singer, and got a brother as is known for the firstfiddler in this country-side. Eh, it's a pity but what Solomonlived in our village, and could give us a tune when we liked; eh,Mr. Macey? I'd keep him in liver and lights for nothing--that Iwould.""Aye, aye," said Mr. Macey, in the height of complacency; "ourfamily's been known for musicianers as far back as anybody can tell.But them things are dying out, as I tell Solomon every time he comesround; there's no voices like what there used to be, and there'snobody remembers what we remember, if it isn't the old crows.""Aye, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father come into theseparts, don't you, Mr. Macey?" said the landlord."I should think I did," said the old man, who had now gone throughthat complimentary process necessary to bring him up to the point ofnarration; "and a fine old gentleman he was--as fine, and finernor the Mr. Lammeter as now is. He came from a bit north'ard, sofar as I could ever make out. But there's nobody rightly knowsabout those parts: only it couldn't be far north'ard, nor muchdifferent from this country, for he brought a fine breed o' sheepwith him, so there must be pastures there, and everythingreasonable. We heared tell as he'd sold his own land to come andtake the Warrens, and that seemed odd for a man as had land of hisown, to come and rent a farm in a strange place. But they said itwas along of his wife's dying; though there's reasons in things asnobody knows on--that's pretty much what I've made out; yet somefolks are so wise, they'll find you fifty reasons straight off, andall the while the real reason's winking at 'em in the corner, andthey niver see't. Howsomever, it was soon seen as we'd got a newparish'ner as know'd the rights and customs o' things, and kep agood 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. Osgoodas 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 Ihelped the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him marry 'em."Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative in instalments,expecting to be questioned according to precedent."Aye, and a partic'lar thing happened, didn't it, Mr. Macey, so asyou were likely to remember that marriage?" said the landlord, ina congratulatory tone."I should think there did--a very partic'lar thing," saidMr. Macey, nodding sideways. "For Mr. Drumlow--poor oldgentleman, I was fond on him, though he'd got a bit confused in hishead, what wi' age and wi' taking a drop o' summat warm when theservice come of a cold morning. And young Mr. Lammeter, he'd haveno way but he must be married in Janiwary, which, to be sure, 's aunreasonable time to be married in, for it isn't like a christeningor a burying, as you can't help; and so Mr. Drumlow--poor oldgentleman, I was fond on him--but when he come to put thequestions, 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 hesays, "Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded husband?" says he.But the partic'larest thing of all is, as nobody took any notice onit but me, and they answered straight off "yes", like as if it hadbeen me saying "Amen" i' the right place, without listening to whatwent 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 atthe impotence of his hearer's imagination--"why, I was all of atremble: 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 fastmarried, 'cause the words are contrairy?" and my head went workinglike a mill, for I was allays uncommon for turning things over andseeing all round 'em; and I says to myself, "Is't the meanin' or thewords as makes folks fast i' wedlock?" For the parson meant right,and the bride and bridegroom meant right. But then, when I come tothink on it, meanin' goes but a little way i' most things, for youmay mean to stick things together and your glue may be bad, and thenwhere are you? And so I says to mysen, "It isn't the meanin', it'sthe glue." And I was worreted as if I'd got three bells to pull atonce, when we went into the vestry, and they begun to sign theirnames. But where's the use o' talking?--you can't think whatgoes on in a 'cute man's inside.""But you held in for all that, didn't you, Mr. Macey?" said thelandlord."Aye, I held in tight till I was by mysen wi' Mr. Drumlow, and thenI out wi' everything, but respectful, as I allays did. And he madelight on it, and he says, "Pooh, pooh, Macey, make yourself easy,"he says; "it's neither the meaning nor the words--it's theregester does it--that's the glue." So you see he settled iteasy; for parsons and doctors know everything by heart, like, so asthey 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 thewedding turned out all right, on'y poor Mrs. Lammeter--that's MissOsgood as was--died afore the lasses was growed up; but forprosperity and everything respectable, there's no family more lookedon."Every one of Mr. Macey's audience had heard this story many times,but it was listened to as if it had been a favourite tune, and atcertain points the puffing of the pipes was momentarily suspended,that the listeners might give their whole minds to the expectedwords. 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, whenhe come into these parts?""Well, yes," said Mr. Macey; "but I daresay it's as much as thisMr. Lammeter's done to keep it whole. For there was allays a talkas nobody could get rich on the Warrens: though he holds it cheap,for it's what they call Charity Land.""Aye, and there's few folks know so well as you how it come to beCharity Land, eh, Mr. Macey?" said the butcher."How should they?" said the old clerk, with some contempt."Why, my grandfather made the grooms' livery for that Mr. Cliff ascame and built the big stables at the Warrens. Why, they're stablesfour times as big as Squire Cass's, for he thought o' nothing buthosses and hunting, Cliff didn't--a Lunnon tailor, some folkssaid, as had gone mad wi' cheating. For he couldn't ride; lor blessyou! they said he'd got no more grip o' the hoss than if his legshad been cross-sticks: my grandfather heared old Squire Cass say somany and many a time. But ride he would, as if Old Harry had beena-driving him; and he'd a son, a lad o' sixteen; and nothing wouldhis father have him do, but he must ride and ride--though the ladwas frighted, they said. And it was a common saying as the fatherwanted to ride the tailor out o' the lad, and make a gentleman onhim--not but what I'm a tailor myself, but in respect as God mademe such, I'm proud on it, for "Macey, tailor", 's been wrote up overour 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 sorevexed as his riding was laughed at, and nobody o' the gentlefolkshereabout could abide him. Howsomever, the poor lad got sickly anddied, and the father didn't live long after him, for he got queerernor 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' lightsburning, 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 amercy as the stables didn't get burnt down wi' the poor dumbcreaturs in 'em. But at last he died raving, and they found as he'dleft all his property, Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity, andthat's how the Warrens come to be Charity Land; though, as for thestables, 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.""Aye, but there's more going on in the stables than what folks seeby daylight, eh, Mr. Macey?" said the landlord."Aye, aye; go that way of a dark night, that's all," saidMr. Macey, winking mysteriously, "and then make believe, if youlike, as you didn't see lights i' the stables, nor hear the stampingo' the hosses, nor the cracking o' the whips, and howling, too, ifit's tow'rt daybreak. "Cliff's Holiday" has been the name of itever sin' I were a boy; that's to say, some said as it was theholiday Old Harry gev him from roasting, like. That's what myfather told me, and he was a reasonable man, though there's folksnowadays know what happened afore they were born better nor theyknow their own business.""What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas?" said the landlord, turningto the farrier, who was swelling with impatience for his cue."There's a nut for you to crack."Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, and was proud ofhis position."Say? I say what a man should say as doesn't shut his eyes tolook at a finger-post. I say, as I'm ready to wager any man tenpound, if he'll stand out wi' me any dry night in the pasture beforethe 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, andI'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 Winthrop."You might as well bet a man as he wouldn't catch the rheumatise ifhe stood up to 's neck in the pool of a frosty night. It 'ud befine fun for a man to win his bet as he'd catch the rheumatise.Folks as believe in Cliff's Holiday aren't agoing to ventur near itfor 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 callto 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'rewrong.""Thank you! I'm obliged to you," said the farrier, with a snortof scorn. "If folks are fools, it's no business o' mine. Idon'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 manbet me ten pound as I shall see Cliff's Holiday, and I'll go andstand by myself. I want no company. I'd as lief do it as I'd fillthis pipe.""Ah, but who's to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do it? That's nofair bet," said the butcher."No fair bet?" replied Mr. Dowlas, angrily. "I should like tohear 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 businesso' mine. You're none o' my bargains, and I aren't a-going to tryand 'bate your price. If anybody 'll bid for you at your ownvallying, let him. I'm for peace and quietness, I am.""Yes, that's what every yapping cur is, when you hold a stick up athim," 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.""Aye, but there's this in it, Dowlas," said the landlord, speakingin a tone of much candour and tolerance. "There's folks, i' myopinion, they can't see ghos'es, not if they stood as plain as apike-staff before 'em. And there's reason i' that. For there's mywife, now, can't smell, not if she'd the strongest o' cheese underher nose. I never see'd a ghost myself; but then I says to myself,"Very like I haven't got the smell for 'em." I mean, putting aghost for a smell, or else contrairiways. And so, I'm for holdingwith both sides; for, as I say, the truth lies between 'em. And ifDowlas 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 anybodysaid as Cliff's Holiday was certain sure, for all that, I'd backhim too. For the smell's what I go by."The landlord's analogical argument was not well received by thefarrier--a man intensely opposed to compromise."Tut, tut," he said, setting down his glass with refreshedirritation; "what's the smell got to do with it? Did ever a ghostgive a man a black eye? That's what I should like to know. Ifghos'es want me to believe in 'em, let 'em leave off skulking i' thedark and i' lone places--let 'em come where there's company andcandles.""As if ghos'es 'ud want to be believed in by anybody so ignirant!"said Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at the farrier's crass incompetenceto apprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena.