by George Eliot
Chapter XXI
The Night-School and the Schoolmaster
Bartle Massey's was one of a few scattered houses on the edge of acommon, which was divided by the road to Treddleston. Adam reached itin a quarter of an hour after leaving the Hall Farm; and when he had hishand on the door-latch, he could see, through the curtainless window,that there were eight or nine heads bending over the desks, lighted bythin dips.
When he entered, a reading lesson was going forward and Bartle Masseymerely nodded, leaving him to take his place where he pleased. He hadnot come for the sake of a lesson to-night, and his mind was too fullof personal matters, too full of the last two hours he had passed inHetty's presence, for him to amuse himself with a book till school wasover; so he sat down in a corner and looked on with an absent mind. Itwas a sort of scene which Adam had beheld almost weekly for years; heknew by heart every arabesque flourish in the framed specimen of BartleMassey's handwriting which hung over the schoolmaster's head, by way ofkeeping a lofty ideal before the minds of his pupils; he knew the backsof all the books on the shelf running along the whitewashed wall abovethe pegs for the slates; he knew exactly how many grains were gone outof the ear of Indian corn that hung from one of the rafters; he had longago exhausted the resources of his imagination in trying to thinkhow the bunch of leathery seaweed had looked and grown in its nativeelement; and from the place where he sat, he could make nothing of theold map of England that hung against the opposite wall, for age hadturned it of a fine yellow brown, something like that of a well-seasonedmeerschaum. The drama that was going on was almost as familiar as thescene, nevertheless habit had not made him indifferent to it, and evenin his present self-absorbed mood, Adam felt a momentary stirring of theold fellow-feeling, as he looked at the rough men painfully holding penor pencil with their cramped hands, or humbly labouring through theirreading lesson.
The reading class now seated on the form in front of the schoolmaster'sdesk consisted of the three most backward pupils. Adam would have knownit only by seeing Bartle Massey's face as he looked over his spectacles,which he had shifted to the ridge of his nose, not requiring them forpresent purposes. The face wore its mildest expression: the grizzledbushy eyebrows had taken their more acute angle of compassionatekindness, and the mouth, habitually compressed with a pout of the lowerlip, was relaxed so as to be ready to speak a helpful word or syllablein a moment. This gentle expression was the more interesting because theschoolmaster's nose, an irregular aquiline twisted a little on one side,had rather a formidable character; and his brow, moreover, had thatpeculiar tension which always impresses one as a sign of a keenimpatient temperament: the blue veins stood out like cords under thetransparent yellow skin, and this intimidating brow was softened by notendency to baldness, for the grey bristly hair, cut down to about aninch in length, stood round it in as close ranks as ever.
"Nay, Bill, nay," Bartle was saying in a kind tone, as he nodded toAdam, "begin that again, and then perhaps, it'll come to you what d-r-yspells. It's the same lesson you read last week, you know."
"Bill" was a sturdy fellow, aged four-and-twenty, an excellentstone-sawyer, who could get as good wages as any man in the trade of hisyears; but he found a reading lesson in words of one syllable a hardermatter to deal with than the hardest stone he had ever had to saw. Theletters, he complained, were so "uncommon alike, there was no tellin''em one from another," the sawyer's business not being concerned withminute differences such as exist between a letter with its tailturned up and a letter with its tail turned down. But Bill had a firmdetermination that he would learn to read, founded chiefly on tworeasons: first, that Tom Hazelow, his cousin, could read anything "rightoff," whether it was print or writing, and Tom had sent him a letterfrom twenty miles off, saying how he was prospering in the world and hadgot an overlooker's place; secondly, that Sam Phillips, who sawed withhim, had learned to read when he was turned twenty, and what could bedone by a little fellow like Sam Phillips, Bill considered, couldbe done by himself, seeing that he could pound Sam into wet clay ifcircumstances required it. So here he was, pointing his big fingertowards three words at once, and turning his head on one side that hemight keep better hold with his eye of the one word which was to bediscriminated out of the group. The amount of knowledge Bartle Masseymust possess was something so dim and vast that Bill's imaginationrecoiled before it: he would hardly have ventured to deny that theschoolmaster might have something to do in bringing about the regularreturn of daylight and the changes in the weather.
The man seated next to Bill was of a very different type: he was aMethodist brickmaker who, after spending thirty years of his life inperfect satisfaction with his ignorance, had lately "got religion," andalong with it the desire to read the Bible. But with him, too, learningwas a heavy business, and on his way out to-night he had offered asusual a special prayer for help, seeing that he had undertaken this hardtask with a single eye to the nourishment of his soul--that he mighthave a greater abundance of texts and hymns wherewith to banish evilmemories and the temptations of old habit--or, in brief language,the devil. For the brickmaker had been a notorious poacher, and wassuspected, though there was no good evidence against him, of being theman who had shot a neighbouring gamekeeper in the leg. However thatmight be, it is certain that shortly after the accident referred to,which was coincident with the arrival of an awakening Methodist preacherat Treddleston, a great change had been observed in the brickmaker; andthough he was still known in the neighbourhood by his old sobriquet of"Brimstone," there was nothing he held in so much horror as any furthertransactions with that evil-smelling element. He was a broad-chestedfellow with a fervid temperament, which helped him better in imbibingreligious ideas than in the dry process of acquiring the mere humanknowledge of the alphabet. Indeed, he had been already a little shakenin his resolution by a brother Methodist, who assured him that theletter was a mere obstruction to the Spirit, and expressed a fear thatBrimstone was too eager for the knowledge that puffeth up.
The third beginner was a much more promising pupil. He was a tall butthin and wiry man, nearly as old as Brimstone, with a very pale face andhands stained a deep blue. He was a dyer, who in the course of dippinghomespun wool and old women's petticoats had got fired with the ambitionto learn a great deal more about the strange secrets of colour. He hadalready a high reputation in the district for his dyes, and he wasbent on discovering some method by which he could reduce the expenseof crimsons and scarlets. The druggist at Treddleston had given him anotion that he might save himself a great deal of labour and expense ifhe could learn to read, and so he had begun to give his spare hours tothe night-school, resolving that his "little chap" should lose no timein coming to Mr. Massey's day-school as soon as he was old enough.
It was touching to see these three big men, with the marks of their hardlabour about them, anxiously bending over the worn books and painfullymaking out, "The grass is green," "The sticks are dry," "The corn isripe"--a very hard lesson to pass to after columns of single wordsall alike except in the first letter. It was almost as if three roughanimals were making humble efforts to learn how they might become human.And it touched the tenderest fibre in Bartle Massey's nature, for suchfull-grown children as these were the only pupils for whom he hadno severe epithets and no impatient tones. He was not gifted with animperturbable temper, and on music-nights it was apparent that patiencecould never be an easy virtue to him; but this evening, as he glancesover his spectacles at Bill Downes, the sawyer, who is turning hishead on one side with a desperate sense of blankness before the lettersd-r-y, his eyes shed their mildest and most encouraging light.
After the reading class, two youths between sixteen and nineteen came upwith the imaginary bills of parcels, which they had been writing out ontheir slates and were now required to calculate "off-hand"--a test whichthey stood with such imperfect success that Bartle Massey, whose eyeshad been glaring at them ominously through his spectacles for someminutes, at length burst out in a bitter, high-pitched tone, pausingbetw
een every sentence to rap the floor with a knobbed stick whichrested between his legs.
"Now, you see, you don't do this thing a bit better than you did afortnight ago, and I'll tell you what's the reason. You want to learnaccounts--that's well and good. But you think all you need do to learnaccounts is to come to me and do sums for an hour or so, two or threetimes a-week; and no sooner do you get your caps on and turn out ofdoors again than you sweep the whole thing clean out of your mind. Yougo whistling about, and take no more care what you're thinking ofthan if your heads were gutters for any rubbish to swill through thathappened to be in the way; and if you get a good notion in 'em,it's pretty soon washed out again. You think knowledge is to be gotcheap--you'll come and pay Bartle Massey sixpence a-week, and he'll makeyou clever at figures without your taking any trouble. But knowledgeisn't to be got with paying sixpence, let me tell you. If you're to knowfigures, you must turn 'em over in your heads and keep your thoughtsfixed on 'em. There's nothing you can't turn into a sum, for there'snothing but what's got number in it--even a fool. You may say toyourselves, 'I'm one fool, and Jack's another; if my fool's head weighedfour pound, and Jack's three pound three ounces and three quarters, howmany pennyweights heavier would my head be than Jack's?' A man that hadgot his heart in learning figures would make sums for himself and work'em in his head. When he sat at his shoemaking, he'd count his stitchesby fives, and then put a price on his stitches, say half a farthing, andthen see how much money he could get in an hour; and then ask himselfhow much money he'd get in a day at that rate; and then how much tenworkmen would get working three, or twenty, or a hundred years at thatrate--and all the while his needle would be going just as fast as ifhe left his head empty for the devil to dance in. But the long and theshort of it is--I'll have nobody in my night-school that doesn't striveto learn what he comes to learn, as hard as if he was striving to getout of a dark hole into broad daylight. I'll send no man away becausehe's stupid: if Billy Taft, the idiot, wanted to learn anything, I'd notrefuse to teach him. But I'll not throw away good knowledge on peoplewho think they can get it by the sixpenn'orth, and carry it away with'em as they would an ounce of snuff. So never come to me again, if youcan't show that you've been working with your own heads, instead ofthinking that you can pay for mine to work for you. That's the last wordI've got to say to you."
With this final sentence, Bartle Massey gave a sharper rap than everwith his knobbed stick, and the discomfited lads got up to go with asulky look. The other pupils had happily only their writing-books toshow, in various stages of progress from pot-hooks to round text; andmere pen-strokes, however perverse, were less exasperating to Bartlethan false arithmetic. He was a little more severe than usual on JacobStorey's Z's, of which poor Jacob had written a pageful, all with theirtops turned the wrong way, with a puzzled sense that they were not right"somehow." But he observed in apology, that it was a letter you neverwanted hardly, and he thought it had only been there "to finish off th'alphabet, like, though ampusand (&) would ha' done as well, for what hecould see."
At last the pupils had all taken their hats and said their"Good-nights," and Adam, knowing his old master's habits, rose and said,"Shall I put the candles out, Mr. Massey?"
"Yes, my boy, yes, all but this, which I'll carry into the house; andjust lock the outer door, now you're near it," said Bartle, getting hisstick in the fitting angle to help him in descending from his stool.He was no sooner on the ground than it became obvious why the stickwas necessary--the left leg was much shorter than the right. But theschool-master was so active with his lameness that it was hardly thoughtof as a misfortune; and if you had seen him make his way along theschoolroom floor, and up the step into his kitchen, you would perhapshave understood why the naughty boys sometimes felt that his pace mightbe indefinitely quickened and that he and his stick might overtake themeven in their swiftest run.
The moment he appeared at the kitchen door with the candle in hishand, a faint whimpering began in the chimney-corner, and abrown-and-tan-coloured bitch, of that wise-looking breed with short legsand long body, known to an unmechanical generation as turnspits, camecreeping along the floor, wagging her tail, and hesitating at everyother step, as if her affections were painfully divided between thehamper in the chimney-corner and the master, whom she could not leavewithout a greeting.
"Well, Vixen, well then, how are the babbies?" said the schoolmaster,making haste towards the chimney-corner and holding the candle overthe low hamper, where two extremely blind puppies lifted up their headstowards the light from a nest of flannel and wool. Vixen could not evensee her master look at them without painful excitement: she got into thehamper and got out again the next moment, and behaved with true femininefolly, though looking all the while as wise as a dwarf with a largeold-fashioned head and body on the most abbreviated legs.
"Why, you've got a family, I see, Mr. Massey?" said Adam, smiling, ashe came into the kitchen. "How's that? I thought it was against the lawhere."
"Law? What's the use o' law when a man's once such a fool as to let awoman into his house?" said Bartle, turning away from the hamper withsome bitterness. He always called Vixen a woman, and seemed to have lostall consciousness that he was using a figure of speech. "If I'd knownVixen was a woman, I'd never have held the boys from drowning her; butwhen I'd got her into my hand, I was forced to take to her. And now yousee what she's brought me to--the sly, hypocritical wench"--Bartle spokethese last words in a rasping tone of reproach, and looked at Vixen, whopoked down her head and turned up her eyes towards him with a keensense of opprobrium--"and contrived to be brought to bed on a Sunday atchurch-time. I've wished again and again I'd been a bloody minded man,that I could have strangled the mother and the brats with one cord."
"I'm glad it was no worse a cause kept you from church," said Adam. "Iwas afraid you must be ill for the first time i' your life. And I wasparticularly sorry not to have you at church yesterday."
"Ah, my boy, I know why, I know why," said Bartle kindly, going up toAdam and raising his hand up to the shoulder that was almost on a levelwith his own head. "You've had a rough bit o' road to get over since Isaw you--a rough bit o' road. But I'm in hopes there are better timescoming for you. I've got some news to tell you. But I must get my supperfirst, for I'm hungry, I'm hungry. Sit down, sit down."
Bartel went into his little pantry, and brought out an excellenthome-baked loaf; for it was his one extravagance in these dear timesto eat bread once a-day instead of oat-cake; and he justified it byobserving, that what a schoolmaster wanted was brains, and oat-cake rantoo much to bone instead of brains. Then came a piece of cheese and aquart jug with a crown of foam upon it. He placed them all on theround deal table which stood against his large arm-chair in thechimney-corner, with Vixen's hamper on one side of it and a window-shelfwith a few books piled up in it on the other. The table was as clean asif Vixen had been an excellent housewife in a checkered apron so wasthe quarry floor; and the old carved oaken press, table, and chairs,which in these days would be bought at a high price in aristocratichouses, though, in that period of spider-legs and inlaid cupids, Bartlehad got them for an old song, where as free from dust as things could beat the end of a summer's day.
"Now, then, my boy, draw up, draw up. We'll not talk about business tillwe've had our supper. No man can be wise on an empty stomach. But," saidBartle, rising from his chair again, "I must give Vixen her suppertoo, confound her! Though she'll do nothing with it but nourish thoseunnecessary babbies. That's the way with these women--they've got nohead-pieces to nourish, and so their food all runs either to fat or tobrats."
He brought out of the pantry a dish of scraps, which Vixen at once fixedher eyes on, and jumped out of her hamper to lick up with the utmostdispatch.
"I've had my supper, Mr. Massey," said Adam, "so I'll look on while youeat yours. I've been at the Hall Farm, and they always have their supperbetimes, you know: they don't keep your late hours."
"I know little about their hours," said Bartle dryly, cutting hi
s breadand not shrinking from the crust. "It's a house I seldom go into, thoughI'm fond of the boys, and Martin Poyser's a good fellow. There's toomany women in the house for me: I hate the sound of women's voices;they're always either a-buzz or a-squeak--always either a-buzz ora-squeak. Mrs. Poyser keeps at the top o' the talk like a fife; andas for the young lasses, I'd as soon look at water-grubs. I know whatthey'll turn to--stinging gnats, stinging gnats. Here, take some ale, myboy: it's been drawn for you--it's been drawn for you."
"Nay, Mr. Massey," said Adam, who took his old friend's whim moreseriously than usual to-night, "don't be so hard on the creaturs God hasmade to be companions for us. A working-man 'ud be badly off withouta wife to see to th' house and the victual, and make things clean andcomfortable."
"Nonsense! It's the silliest lie a sensible man like you ever believed,to say a woman makes a house comfortable. It's a story got up becausethe women are there and something must be found for 'em to do. I tellyou there isn't a thing under the sun that needs to be done at all, butwhat a man can do better than a woman, unless it's bearing children, andthey do that in a poor make-shift way; it had better ha' been left tothe men--it had better ha' been left to the men. I tell you, a woman'ull bake you a pie every week of her life and never come to see thatthe hotter th' oven the shorter the time. I tell you, a woman 'ull makeyour porridge every day for twenty years and never think of measuringthe proportion between the meal and the milk--a little more or less,she'll think, doesn't signify. The porridge WILL be awk'ard now andthen: if it's wrong, it's summat in the meal, or it's summat in themilk, or it's summat in the water. Look at me! I make my own bread, andthere's no difference between one batch and another from year's end toyear's end; but if I'd got any other woman besides Vixen in the house,I must pray to the Lord every baking to give me patience if the breadturned out heavy. And as for cleanliness, my house is cleaner than anyother house on the Common, though the half of 'em swarm with women. WillBaker's lad comes to help me in a morning, and we get as much cleaningdone in one hour, without any fuss, as a woman 'ud get done in three,and all the while be sending buckets o' water after your ankles, and letthe fender and the fire-irons stand in the middle o' the floor half theday for you to break your shins against 'em. Don't tell me about Godhaving made such creatures to be companions for us! I don't say butHe might make Eve to be a companion to Adam in Paradise--there was nocooking to be spoilt there, and no other woman to cackle with and makemischief, though you see what mischief she did as soon as she'd anopportunity. But it's an impious, unscriptural opinion to say a woman'sa blessing to a man now; you might as well say adders and wasps, andfoxes and wild beasts are a blessing, when they're only the evils thatbelong to this state o' probation, which it's lawful for a man to keepas clear of as he can in this life, hoping to get quit of 'em for everin another--hoping to get quit of 'em for ever in another."
Bartle had become so excited and angry in the course of his invectivethat he had forgotten his supper, and only used the knife for thepurpose of rapping the table with the haft. But towards the close, theraps became so sharp and frequent, and his voice so quarrelsome, thatVixen felt it incumbent on her to jump out of the hamper and barkvaguely.
"Quiet, Vixen!" snarled Bartle, turning round upon her. "You're like therest o' the women--always putting in your word before you know why."
Vixen returned to her hamper again in humiliation, and her mastercontinued his supper in a silence which Adam did not choose tointerrupt; he knew the old man would be in a better humour when he hadhad his supper and lighted his pipe. Adam was used to hear him talk inthis way, but had never learned so much of Bartle's past life as to knowwhether his view of married comfort was founded on experience. On thatpoint Bartle was mute, and it was even a secret where he had livedprevious to the twenty years in which happily for the peasants andartisans of this neighbourhood he had been settled among them as theironly schoolmaster. If anything like a question was ventured on thissubject, Bartle always replied, "Oh, I've seen many places--I've been adeal in the south," and the Loamshire men would as soon have thought ofasking for a particular town or village in Africa as in "the south."
"Now then, my boy," said Bartle, at last, when he had poured out hissecond mug of ale and lighted his pipe, "now then, we'll have a littletalk. But tell me first, have you heard any particular news to-day?"
"No," said Adam, "not as I remember."
"Ah, they'll keep it close, they'll keep it close, I daresay. But Ifound it out by chance; and it's news that may concern you, Adam, elseI'm a man that don't know a superficial square foot from a solid."
Here Bartle gave a series of fierce and rapid puffs, looking earnestlythe while at Adam. Your impatient loquacious man has never any notion ofkeeping his pipe alight by gentle measured puffs; he is always lettingit go nearly out, and then punishing it for that negligence. At last hesaid, "Satchell's got a paralytic stroke. I found it out from the ladthey sent to Treddleston for the doctor, before seven o'clock thismorning. He's a good way beyond sixty, you know; it's much if he getsover it."
"Well," said Adam, "I daresay there'd be more rejoicing than sorrowin the parish at his being laid up. He's been a selfish, tale-bearing,mischievous fellow; but, after all, there's nobody he's done so muchharm to as to th' old squire. Though it's the squire himself as is toblame--making a stupid fellow like that a sort o' man-of-all-work, justto save th' expense of having a proper steward to look after th' estate.And he's lost more by ill management o' the woods, I'll be bound, than'ud pay for two stewards. If he's laid on the shelf, it's to be hopedhe'll make way for a better man, but I don't see how it's like to makeany difference to me."
"But I see it, but I see it," said Bartle, "and others besides me. Thecaptain's coming of age now--you know that as well as I do--and it's tobe expected he'll have a little more voice in things. And I know, andyou know too, what 'ud be the captain's wish about the woods, if therewas a fair opportunity for making a change. He's said in plenty ofpeople's hearing that he'd make you manager of the woods to-morrow, ifhe'd the power. Why, Carroll, Mr. Irwine's butler, heard him say so tothe parson not many days ago. Carroll looked in when we were smokingour pipes o' Saturday night at Casson's, and he told us about it; andwhenever anybody says a good word for you, the parson's ready to backit, that I'll answer for. It was pretty well talked over, I can tellyou, at Casson's, and one and another had their fling at you; for ifdonkeys set to work to sing, you're pretty sure what the tune'll be."
"Why, did they talk it over before Mr. Burge?" said Adam; "or wasn't hethere o' Saturday?"
"Oh, he went away before Carroll came; and Casson--he's always forsetting other folks right, you know--would have it Burge was the man tohave the management of the woods. 'A substantial man,' says he, 'withpretty near sixty years' experience o' timber: it 'ud be all very wellfor Adam Bede to act under him, but it isn't to be supposed the squire'ud appoint a young fellow like Adam, when there's his elders andbetters at hand!' But I said, 'That's a pretty notion o' yours, Casson.Why, Burge is the man to buy timber; would you put the woods into hishands and let him make his own bargains? I think you don't leave yourcustomers to score their own drink, do you? And as for age, what that'sworth depends on the quality o' the liquor. It's pretty well known who'sthe backbone of Jonathan Burge's business.'"
"I thank you for your good word, Mr. Massey," said Adam. "But, forall that, Casson was partly i' the right for once. There's not muchlikelihood that th' old squire 'ud ever consent t' employ me. I offendedhim about two years ago, and he's never forgiven me."
"Why, how was that? You never told me about it," said Bartle.
"Oh, it was a bit o' nonsense. I'd made a frame for a screen forMiss Lyddy--she's allays making something with her worsted-work, youknow--and she'd given me particular orders about this screen, and therewas as much talking and measuring as if we'd been planning a house.However, it was a nice bit o' work, and I liked doing it for her. But,you know, those little friggling things take a deal o' time. I onlyworked at it in
overhours--often late at night--and I had to go toTreddleston over an' over again about little bits o' brass nails andsuch gear; and I turned the little knobs and the legs, and carved th'open work, after a pattern, as nice as could be. And I was uncommonpleased with it when it was done. And when I took it home, Miss Lyddysent for me to bring it into her drawing-room, so as she might give medirections about fastening on the work--very fine needlework, Jacob andRachel a-kissing one another among the sheep, like a picture--and th'old squire was sitting there, for he mostly sits with her. Well, she wasmighty pleased with the screen, and then she wanted to know what pay shewas to give me. I didn't speak at random--you know it's not my way; I'dcalculated pretty close, though I hadn't made out a bill, and I said,'One pound thirty.' That was paying for the mater'als and paying me, butnone too much, for my work. Th' old squire looked up at this, and peeredin his way at the screen, and said, 'One pound thirteen for a gimcracklike that! Lydia, my dear, if you must spend money on these things,why don't you get them at Rosseter, instead of paying double price forclumsy work here? Such things are not work for a carpenter like Adam.Give him a guinea, and no more.' Well, Miss Lyddy, I reckon, believedwhat he told her, and she's not overfond o' parting with the moneyherself--she's not a bad woman at bottom, but she's been brought upunder his thumb; so she began fidgeting with her purse, and turned asred as her ribbon. But I made a bow, and said, 'No, thank you, madam;I'll make you a present o' the screen, if you please. I've chargedthe regular price for my work, and I know it's done well; and I know,begging His Honour's pardon, that you couldn't get such a screen atRosseter under two guineas. I'm willing to give you my work--it's beendone in my own time, and nobody's got anything to do with it but me; butif I'm paid, I can't take a smaller price than I asked, because that'ud be like saying I'd asked more than was just. With your leave, madam,I'll bid you good-morning.' I made my bow and went out before she'dtime to say any more, for she stood with the purse in her hand, lookingalmost foolish. I didn't mean to be disrespectful, and I spoke as politeas I could; but I can give in to no man, if he wants to make it out asI'm trying to overreach him. And in the evening the footman brought methe one pound thirteen wrapped in paper. But since then I've seen prettyclear as th' old squire can't abide me."
"That's likely enough, that's likely enough," said Bartle meditatively."The only way to bring him round would be to show him what was for hisown interest, and that the captain may do--that the captain may do."
"Nay, I don't know," said Adam; "the squire's 'cute enough but it takessomething else besides 'cuteness to make folks see what'll be theirinterest in the long run. It takes some conscience and belief in rightand wrong, I see that pretty clear. You'd hardly ever bring round th'old squire to believe he'd gain as much in a straightfor'ard way as bytricks and turns. And, besides, I've not much mind to work under him:I don't want to quarrel with any gentleman, more particular an oldgentleman turned eighty, and I know we couldn't agree long. If thecaptain was master o' th' estate, it 'ud be different: he's got aconscience and a will to do right, and I'd sooner work for him nor forany man living."
"Well, well, my boy, if good luck knocks at your door, don't you putyour head out at window and tell it to be gone about its business,that's all. You must learn to deal with odd and even in life, as wellas in figures. I tell you now, as I told you ten years ago, when youpommelled young Mike Holdsworth for wanting to pass a bad shillingbefore you knew whether he was in jest or earnest--you're overhasty andproud, and apt to set your teeth against folks that don't square to yournotions. It's no harm for me to be a bit fiery and stiff-backed--I'm anold schoolmaster, and shall never want to get on to a higher perch. Butwhere's the use of all the time I've spent in teaching you writing andmapping and mensuration, if you're not to get for'ard in the world andshow folks there's some advantage in having a head on your shoulders,instead of a turnip? Do you mean to go on turning up your nose at everyopportunity because it's got a bit of a smell about it that nobody findsout but yourself? It's as foolish as that notion o' yours that a wifeis to make a working-man comfortable. Stuff and nonsense! Stuff andnonsense! Leave that to fools that never got beyond a sum in simpleaddition. Simple addition enough! Add one fool to another fool, and insix years' time six fools more--they're all of the same denomination,big and little's nothing to do with the sum!"
During this rather heated exhortation to coolness and discretion thepipe had gone out, and Bartle gave the climax to his speech by strikinga light furiously, after which he puffed with fierce resolution, fixinghis eye still on Adam, who was trying not to laugh.
"There's a good deal o' sense in what you say, Mr. Massey," Adam began,as soon as he felt quite serious, "as there always is. But you'll givein that it's no business o' mine to be building on chances that maynever happen. What I've got to do is to work as well as I can with thetools and mater'als I've got in my hands. If a good chance comes to me,I'll think o' what you've been saying; but till then, I've got nothingto do but to trust to my own hands and my own head-piece. I'm turningover a little plan for Seth and me to go into the cabinet-making a bitby ourselves, and win a extra pound or two in that way. But it's gettinglate now--it'll be pretty near eleven before I'm at home, and Mother mayhappen to lie awake; she's more fidgety nor usual now. So I'll bid yougood-night."
"Well, well, we'll go to the gate with you--it's a fine night," saidBartle, taking up his stick. Vixen was at once on her legs, and withoutfurther words the three walked out into the starlight, by the side ofBartle's potato-beds, to the little gate.
"Come to the music o' Friday night, if you can, my boy," said the oldman, as he closed the gate after Adam and leaned against it.
"Aye, aye," said Adam, striding along towards the streak of pale road.He was the only object moving on the wide common. The two grey donkeys,just visible in front of the gorse bushes, stood as still as limestoneimages--as still as the grey-thatched roof of the mud cottage a littlefarther on. Bartle kept his eye on the moving figure till it passed intothe darkness, while Vixen, in a state of divided affection, had twicerun back to the house to bestow a parenthetic lick on her puppies.
"Aye, aye," muttered the schoolmaster, as Adam disappeared, "there yougo, stalking along--stalking along; but you wouldn't have been what youare if you hadn't had a bit of old lame Bartle inside you. The strongestcalf must have something to suck at. There's plenty of these big,lumbering fellows 'ud never have known their A B C if it hadn't been forBartle Massey. Well, well, Vixen, you foolish wench, what is it, what isit? I must go in, must I? Aye, aye, I'm never to have a will o' my ownany more. And those pups--what do you think I'm to do with 'em, whenthey're twice as big as you? For I'm pretty sure the father was thathulking bull-terrier of Will Baker's--wasn't he now, eh, you sly hussy?"
(Here Vixen tucked her tail between her legs and ran forward into thehouse. Subjects are sometimes broached which a well-bred female willignore.)
"But where's the use of talking to a woman with babbies?" continuedBartle. "She's got no conscience--no conscience; it's all run to milk."
Book Three
