Silas Marner by George Eliot (best short novels .txt) 📕

reply, and avoided looking at Nancy very markedly; for though these complimentary personalities were held to be in excellent taste in old-fashioned Raveloe society, reverent love has a politeness of its own which it teaches to men otherwise of small schooling. But the Squire was rather impatient at Godfrey’s showing himself a dull spark in this way. By this advanced hour of the day, the Squire was always in higher spirits than we have seen him in at the breakfast-table, and felt it quite pleasant to fulfil the hereditary duty of being noisily jovial and patronizing: the large silver snuff-box was in active service and was offered without fail to all neighbours from time to time, however often they might have declined the favour. At present, the Squire had only given an express welcome to the heads of families as they appeared; but always as the evening deepened, his hospitality rayed out more widely, till he had tapped the youngest guests on the back and shown a peculiar fondness for their presence, in the full belief that they must feel their lives made happy by their belonging to a parish where there was such a hearty man as Squire Cass to invite them and wish them well. Even in this early stage of the jovial mood, it was natural that he should wish to supply his son’s deficiencies by looking and speaking for him.

“Aye, aye,” he began, offering his snuff-box to Mr. Lammeter, who for the second time bowed his head and waved his hand in stiff rejection of the offer, “us old fellows may wish ourselves young to-night, when we see the mistletoe-bough in the White Parlour.

It’s true, most things are gone back’ard in these last thirty years—

the country’s going down since the old king fell ill. But when I look at Miss Nancy here, I begin to think the lasses keep up their quality;—ding me if I remember a sample to match her, not when I was a fine young fellow, and thought a deal about my pigtail. No offence to you, madam,” he added, bending to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who sat by him, “I didn’t know you when you were as young as Miss Nancy here.”

Mrs. Crackenthorp—a small blinking woman, who fidgeted incessantly with her lace, ribbons, and gold chain, turning her head about and making subdued noises, very much like a guinea-pig that twitches its nose and soliloquizes in all company indiscriminately—

now blinked and fidgeted towards the Squire, and said, “Oh, no—no offence.”

This emphatic compliment of the Squire’s to Nancy was felt by others besides Godfrey to have a diplomatic significance; and her father gave a slight additional erectness to his back, as he looked across the table at her with complacent gravity. That grave and orderly senior was not going to bate a jot of his dignity by seeming elated at the notion of a match between his family and the Squire’s: he was gratified by any honour paid to his daughter; but he must see an alteration in several ways before his consent would be vouchsafed.

His spare but healthy person, and high-featured firm face, that looked as if it had never been flushed by excess, was in strong contrast, not only with the Squire’s, but with the appearance of the Raveloe farmers generally—in accordance with a favourite saying of his own, that “breed was stronger than pasture”.

“Miss Nancy’s wonderful like what her mother was, though; isn’t she, Kimble?” said the stout lady of that name, looking round for her husband.

But Doctor Kimble (country apothecaries in old days enjoyed that title without authority of diploma), being a thin and agile man, was flitting about the room with his hands in his pockets, making himself agreeable to his feminine patients, with medical impartiality, and being welcomed everywhere as a doctor by hereditary right—not one of those miserable apothecaries who canvass for practice in strange neighbourhoods, and spend all their income in starving their one horse, but a man of substance, able to keep an extravagant table like the best of his patients. Time out of mind the Raveloe doctor had been a Kimble; Kimble was inherently a doctor’s name; and it was difficult to contemplate firmly the melancholy fact that the actual Kimble had no son, so that his practice might one day be handed over to a successor with the incongruous name of Taylor or Johnson. But in that case the wiser people in Raveloe would employ Dr. Blick of Flitton—as less unnatural.

“Did you speak to me, my dear?” said the authentic doctor, coming quickly to his wife’s side; but, as if foreseeing that she would be too much out of breath to repeat her remark, he went on immediately—

“Ha, Miss Priscilla, the sight of you revives the taste of that super-excellent pork-pie. I hope the batch isn’t near an end.”

“Yes, indeed, it is, doctor,” said Priscilla; “but I’ll answer for it the next shall be as good. My pork-pies don’t turn out well by chance.”

“Not as your doctoring does, eh, Kimble?—because folks forget to take your physic, eh?” said the Squire, who regarded physic and doctors as many loyal churchmen regard the church and the clergy—

tasting a joke against them when he was in health, but impatiently eager for their aid when anything was the matter with him. He tapped his box, and looked round with a triumphant laugh.

“Ah, she has a quick wit, my friend Priscilla has,” said the doctor, choosing to attribute the epigram to a lady rather than allow a brother-in-law that advantage over him. “She saves a little pepper to sprinkle over her talk—that’s the reason why she never puts too much into her pies. There’s my wife now, she never has an answer at her tongue’s end; but if I offend her, she’s sure to scarify my throat with black pepper the next day, or else give me the colic with watery greens. That’s an awful tit-for-tat.” Here the vivacious doctor made a pathetic grimace.

“Did you ever hear the like?” said Mrs. Kimble, laughing above her double chin with much good-humour, aside to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who blinked and nodded, and seemed to intend a smile, which, by the correlation of forces, went off in small twitchings and noises.

“I suppose that’s the sort of tit-for-tat adopted in your profession, Kimble, if you’ve a grudge against a patient,” said the rector.

“Never do have a grudge against our patients,” said Mr. Kimble, “except when they leave us: and then, you see, we haven’t the chance of prescribing for ‘em. Ha, Miss Nancy,” he continued, suddenly skipping to Nancy’s side, “you won’t forget your promise?

You’re to save a dance for me, you know.”

“Come, come, Kimble, don’t you be too for’ard,” said the Squire.

“Give the young uns fair-play. There’s my son Godfrey’ll be wanting to have a round with you if you run off with Miss Nancy.

He’s bespoke her for the first dance, I’ll be bound. Eh, sir! what do you say?” he continued, throwing himself backward, and looking at Godfrey. “Haven’t you asked Miss Nancy to open the dance with you?”

Godfrey, sorely uncomfortable under this significant insistence about Nancy, and afraid to think where it would end by the time his father had set his usual hospitable example of drinking before and after supper, saw no course open but to turn to Nancy and say, with as little awkwardness as possible—

“No; I’ve not asked her yet, but I hope she’ll consent—if somebody else hasn’t been before me.”

“No, I’ve not engaged myself,” said Nancy, quietly, though blushingly. (If Mr. Godfrey founded any hopes on her consenting to dance with him, he would soon be undeceived; but there was no need for her to be uncivil.)

“Then I hope you’ve no objections to dancing with me,” said Godfrey, beginning to lose the sense that there was anything uncomfortable in this arrangement.

“No, no objections,” said Nancy, in a cold tone.

“Ah, well, you’re a lucky fellow, Godfrey,” said uncle Kimble; “but you’re my godson, so I won’t stand in your way. Else I’m not so very old, eh, my dear?” he went on, skipping to his wife’s side again. “You wouldn’t mind my having a second after you were gone—

not if I cried a good deal first?”

“Come, come, take a cup o’ tea and stop your tongue, do,” said good-humoured Mrs. Kimble, feeling some pride in a husband who must be regarded as so clever and amusing by the company generally. If he had only not been irritable at cards!

While safe, well-tested personalities were enlivening the tea in this way, the sound of the fiddle approaching within a distance at which it could be heard distinctly, made the young people look at each other with sympathetic impatience for the end of the meal.

“Why, there’s Solomon in the hall,” said the Squire, “and playing my fav’rite tune, I believe—“The flaxen-headed ploughboy”—

he’s for giving us a hint as we aren’t enough in a hurry to hear him play. Bob,” he called out to his third long-legged son, who was at the other end of the room, “open the door, and tell Solomon to come in. He shall give us a tune here.”

Bob obeyed, and Solomon walked in, fiddling as he walked, for he would on no account break off in the middle of a tune.

“Here, Solomon,” said the Squire, with loud patronage. “Round here, my man. Ah, I knew it was “The flaxen-headed ploughboy”: there’s no finer tune.”

Solomon Macey, a small hale old man with an abundant crop of long white hair reaching nearly to his shoulders, advanced to the indicated spot, bowing reverently while he fiddled, as much as to say that he respected the company, though he respected the key-note more. As soon as he had repeated the tune and lowered his fiddle, he bowed again to the Squire and the rector, and said, “I hope I see your honour and your reverence well, and wishing you health and long life and a happy New Year. And wishing the same to you, Mr. Lammeter, sir; and to the other gentlemen, and the madams, and the young lasses.”

As Solomon uttered the last words, he bowed in all directions solicitously, lest he should be wanting in due respect. But thereupon he immediately began to prelude, and fell into the tune which he knew would be taken as a special compliment by Mr. Lammeter.

“Thank ye, Solomon, thank ye,” said Mr. Lammeter when the fiddle paused again. “That’s “Over the hills and far away”, that is. My father used to say to me, whenever we heard that tune, “Ah, lad, I

come from over the hills and far away.” There’s a many tunes I don’t make head or tail of; but that speaks to me like the blackbird’s whistle. I suppose it’s the name: there’s a deal in the name of a tune.”

But Solomon was already impatient to prelude again, and presently broke with much spirit into “Sir Roger de Coverley”, at which there was a sound of chairs pushed back, and laughing voices.

“Aye, aye, Solomon, we know what that means,” said the Squire, rising. “It’s time to begin the dance, eh? Lead the way, then, and we’ll all follow you.”

So Solomon, holding his white head on one side, and playing vigorously, marched forward at the head of the gay procession into the White Parlour, where the mistletoe-bough was hung, and multitudinous tallow candles made rather a brilliant effect, gleaming from among the berried holly-boughs, and reflected in the old-fashioned oval mirrors fastened in the panels of the white wainscot. A quaint procession! Old Solomon, in his seedy clothes and long white locks, seemed to be luring that decent company by the magic scream of his fiddle—luring discreet matrons in turban-shaped caps, nay, Mrs. Crackenthorp herself, the summit of