More Links
The barley was all carried at last, and the harvest
suppers went by without waiting for the dismal black
crop of beans. The apples and nuts were gathered
and stored; the scent of whey departed from the farm-houses,
and the scent of brewing came in its stead. The
woods behind the Chase, and all the hedgerow trees,
took on a solemn splendour under the dark low-hanging
skies. Michaelmas was come, with its fragrant
basketfuls of purple damsons, and its paler purple
daisies, and its lads and lasses leaving or seeking
service and winding along between the yellow hedges,
with their bundles under their arms. But though
Michaelmas was come, Mr. Thurle, that desirable tenant,
did not come to the Chase Farm, and the old squire,
after all, had been obliged to put in a new bailiff.
It was known throughout the two parishes that the
squire’s plan had been frustrated because the
Poysers had refused to be “put upon,”
and Mrs. Poyser’s outbreak was discussed in all
the farm-houses with a zest which was only heightened
by frequent repetition. The news that “Bony”
was come back from Egypt was comparatively insipid,
and the repulse of the French in Italy was nothing
to Mrs. Poyser’s repulse of the old squire.
Mr. Irwine had heard a version of it in every parishioner’s
house, with the one exception of the Chase. But
since he had always, with marvellous skill, avoided
any quarrel with Mr. Donnithorne, he could not allow
himself the pleasure of laughing at the old gentleman’s
discomfiture with any one besides his mother, who
declared that if she were rich she should like to allow
Mrs. Poyser a pension for life, and wanted to invite
her to the parsonage that she might hear an account
of the scene from Mrs. Poyser’s own lips.
“No, no, Mother,” said Mr. Irwine; “it
was a little bit of irregular justice on Mrs. Poyser’s
part, but a magistrate like me must not countenance
irregular justice. There must be no report spread
that I have taken notice of the quarrel, else I shall
lose the little good influence I have over the old
man.”
“Well, I like that woman even better than her
cream-cheeses,” said Mrs. Irwine. “She
has the spirit of three men, with that pale face of
hers. And she says such sharp things too.”
“Sharp! Yes, her tongue is like a new-set
razor. She’s quite original in her talk
too; one of those untaught wits that help to stock
a country with proverbs. I told you that capital
thing I heard her say about Craig—that
he was like a cock, who thought the sun had risen to
hear him crow. Now that’s an AEsop’s
fable in a sentence.”
“But it will be a bad business if the old gentleman
turns them out of the farm next Michaelmas, eh?”
said Mrs. Irwine.
“Oh, that must not be; and Poyser is such a
good tenant that Donnithorne is likely to think twice,
and digest his spleen rather than turn them out.
But if he should give them notice at Lady Day, Arthur
and I must move heaven and earth to mollify him.
Such old parishioners as they are must not go.”
