Silas Marner, George Eliot [ebook reader for pc txt] 📗

show that you liked your cheer? And the parson naturally set an example in these social duties. For it would not have been possible for the Raveloe mind, without a peculiar revelation, to know that a clergyman should be a pale-faced memento of solemnities, instead of a reasonably faulty man whose exclusive authority to read prayers and preach, to christen, marry, and bury you, necessarily coexisted with the right to sell you the ground to be buried in and to take tithe in kind; on which last point, of course, there was a little grumbling, but not to the extent of irreligion⁠—not of deeper significance than the grumbling at the rain, which was by no means accompanied with a spirit of impious defiance, but with a desire that the prayer for fine weather might be read forthwith.

There was no reason, then, why the rector’s dancing should not be received as part of the fitness of things quite as much as the Squire’s, or why, on the other hand, Mr. Macey’s official respect should restrain him from subjecting the parson’s performance to that criticism with which minds of extraordinary acuteness must necessarily contemplate the doings of their fallible fellow-men.

“The Squire’s pretty springe, considering his weight,” said Mr. Macey, “and he stamps uncommon well. But Mr. Lammeter beats ’em all for shapes: you see he holds his head like a sodger, and he isn’t so cushiony as most o’ the oldish gentlefolks⁠—they run fat in general; and he’s got a fine leg. The parson’s nimble enough, but he hasn’t got much of a leg: it’s a bit too thick down’ard, and his knees might be a bit nearer wi’out damage; but he might do worse, he might do worse. Though he hasn’t that grand way o’ waving his hand as the Squire has.”

“Talk o’ nimbleness, look at Mrs. Osgood,” said Ben Winthrop, who was holding his son Aaron between his knees. “She trips along with her little steps, so as nobody can see how she goes⁠—it’s like as if she had little wheels to her feet. She doesn’t look a day older nor last year: she’s the finest-made woman as is, let the next be where she will.”

“I don’t heed how the women are made,” said Mr. Macey, with some contempt. “They wear nayther coat nor breeches: you can’t make much out o’ their shapes.”

“Fayder,” said Aaron, whose feet were busy beating out the tune, “how does that big cock’s-feather stick in Mrs. Crackenthorp’s yead? Is there a little hole for it, like in my shuttlecock?”

“Hush, lad, hush; that’s the way the ladies dress theirselves, that is,” said the father, adding, however, in an undertone to Mr. Macey, “It does make her look funny, though⁠—partly like a short-necked bottle wi’ a long quill in it. Hey, by jingo, there’s the young Squire leading off now, wi’ Miss Nancy for partners! There’s a lass for you!⁠—like a pink-and-white posy⁠—there’s nobody ’ud think as anybody could be so pritty. I shouldn’t wonder if she’s Madam Cass some day, arter all⁠—and nobody more rightfuller, for they’d make a fine match. You can find nothing against Master Godfrey’s shapes, Macey, I’ll bet a penny.”

Mr. Macey screwed up his mouth, leaned his head further on one side, and twirled his thumbs with a presto movement as his eyes followed Godfrey up the dance. At last he summed up his opinion.

“Pretty well down’ard, but a bit too round i’ the shoulder-blades. And as for them coats as he gets from the Flitton tailor, they’re a poor cut to pay double money for.”

“Ah, Mr. Macey, you and me are two folks,” said Ben, slightly indignant at this carping. “When I’ve got a pot o’ good ale, I like to swaller it, and do my inside good, i’stead o’ smelling and staring at it to see if I can’t find faut wi’ the brewing. I should like you to pick me out a finer-limbed young fellow nor Master Godfrey⁠—one as ’ud knock you down easier, or ’s more pleasanter-looksed when he’s piert and merry.”

“Tchuh!” said Mr. Macey, provoked to increased severity, “he isn’t come to his right colour yet: he’s partly like a slack-baked pie. And I doubt he’s got a soft place in his head, else why should he be turned round the finger by that offal Dunsey as nobody’s seen o’ late, and let him kill that fine hunting hoss as was the talk o’ the country? And one while he was allays after Miss Nancy, and then it all went off again, like a smell o’ hot porridge, as I may say. That wasn’t my way when I went a-coorting.”

“Ah, but mayhap Miss Nancy hung off, like, and your lass didn’t,” said Ben.

“I should say she didn’t,” said Mr. Macey, significantly. “Before I said ‘sniff,’ I took care to know as she’d say ‘snaff,’ and pretty quick too. I wasn’t a-going to open my mouth, like a dog at a fly, and snap it to again, wi’ nothing to swaller.”

“Well, I think Miss Nancy’s a-coming round again,” said Ben, “for Master Godfrey doesn’t look so downhearted tonight. And I see he’s for taking her away to sit down, now they’re at the end o’ the dance: that looks like sweethearting, that does.”

The reason why Godfrey and Nancy had left the dance was not so tender as Ben imagined. In the close press of couples a slight accident had happened to Nancy’s dress, which, while it was short enough to show her neat ankle in front, was long enough behind to be caught under the stately stamp of the Squire’s foot, so as to rend certain stitches at the waist, and cause much sisterly agitation in Priscilla’s mind, as well as serious concern in Nancy’s. One’s thoughts may be much occupied with love-struggles, but hardly so as to be insensible to a disorder in the general framework of things. Nancy had no sooner completed her duty in the figure they were dancing than she said to Godfrey, with a deep blush, that she must go and sit down till