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to do with it； it wouldn’t be so。 Not as I wish to speak disrespectful
o’ them as have got the power i’ their hands； but it’s more than
flesh and blood ’ull bear sometimes； to be toiling and striving； and
up early and down late； and hardly sleeping a wink when you lie
down for thinking as the cheese may swell； or the cows may slip
their calf； or the wheat may grow green again i’ the sheaf—and
after all； at th’ end o’ the year； it’s like as if you’d been cooking a
feast and had got the smell of it for your pains。”
Mrs。 Poyser； once launched into conversation； always sailed
along without any check from her preliminary awe of the gentry。
The confidence she felt in her own powers of exposition was a
motive force that overcame all resistance。
“I’m afraid I should only do harm instead of good； if I were to
speak about the gates； Mrs。 Poyser；” said the captain； “though I
assure you there’s no man on the estate I would sooner say a word
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for than your husband。 I know his farm is in better order than any
other within ten miles of us； and as for the kitchen；” he added；
smiling； “I don’t believe there’s one in the kingdom to beat it。 By
the by； I’ve never seen your dairy： I must see your dairy； Mrs。
Poyser。”
“Indeed； sir； it’s not fit for you to go in； for Hetty’s in the middle
o’ making the butter； for the churning was thrown late； and I’m
quite ashamed。” This Mrs。 Poyser said blushing； and believing
that the captain was really interested in her milk…pans； and would
adjust his opinion of her to the appearance of her dairy。 “Oh； I’ve
no doubt it’s in capital order。 Take me in；” said the captain；
himself leading the way； while Mrs。 Poyser followed。
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Chapter VII
The Dairy
he dairy was certainly worth looking at： it was a scene to
sicken for with a sort of calenture in hot and dusty
T
streets—such coolness； such purity； such fresh fragrance
of new…pressed cheese； of firm butter； of wooden vessels
perpetually bathed in pure water； such soft colouring of red
earthenware and creamy surfaces； brown wood and polished tin；
grey limestone and rich orange…red rust on the iron weights and
hooks and hinges。 But one gets only a confused notion of these
details when they surround a distractingly pretty girl of seventeen；
standing on little pattens and rounding her dimpled arm to lift a
pound of butter out of the scale。
Hetty blushed a deep rose…colour when Captain Donnithorne
entered the dairy and spoke to her； but it was not at all a
distressed blush； for it was inwreathed with smiles and dimples；
and with sparkles from under long； curled； dark eyelashes； and
while her aunt was discoursing to him about the limited amount of
milk that was to be spared for butter and cheese so long as the
calves were not all weaned； and a large quantity but inferior
quality of milk yielded by the shorthorn； which had been bought
on experiment； together with other matters which must be
interesting to a young gentleman who would one day be a
landlord； Hetty tossed and patted her pound of butter with quite a
self…possessed； coquettish air； slyly conscious that no turn of her
head was lost。
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There are various orders of beauty； causing men to make fools
of themselves in various styles； from the desperate to the sheepish；
but there is one order of beauty which seems made to turn the
heads not only of men； but of all intelligent mammals； even of
women。 It is a beauty like that of kittens； or very small downy
ducks making gentle rippling noises with their soft bills； or babies
just beginning to toddle and to engage in conscious mischief—a
beauty with which you can never be angry； but that you feel ready
to crush for inability to comprehend the state of mind into which it
throws you。 Hetty Sorrel’s was that sort of beauty。 Her aunt； Mrs。
Poyser； who professed to despise all personal attractions and
intended to be the severest of mentors； continually gazed at
Hetty’s charms by the sly； fascinated in spite of herself； and after
administering such a scolding as naturally flowed from her anxiety
to do well by her husband’s niece—who had no mother of her own
to scold her； poor thing！—she would often confess to her husband；
when they were safe out of hearing； that she firmly believed； “the
naughtier the little huzzy behaved； the prettier she looked。”
It is of little use for me to tell you that Hetty’s cheek was like a
rose…petal； that dimples played about her pouting lips； that her
large dark eyes hid a soft roguishness under their long lashes； and
that her curly hair； though all pushed back under her round cap
while she was at work； stole back in dark delicate rings on her
forehead； and about her white shell…like ears； it is of little use for
me to say how lovely was the contour of her pink…and…white
neckerchief； tucked into her low plum…coloured stuff bodice； or
how the linen butter…making apron； with its bib； seemed a thing to
be imitated in silk by duchesses； since it fell in such charming
lines； or how her brown stockings and thick…soled buckled shoes
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lost all that clumsiness which they must certainly have had when
empty of her foot and ankle—of little use； unless you have seen a
woman who affected you as Hetty affected her beholders； for
otherwise； though you might conjure up the image of a lovely
woman； she would not in the least resemble that distracting
kitten…like maiden。 I might mention all the divine charms of a
bright spring day； but if you had never in your life utterly
forgotten yourself in straining your eyes after the mounting lark；
or in wandering through the still lanes when the fresh…opened
blossoms fill them with a sacred silent beauty like that of fretted
aisles； where would be the use of my descriptive catalogue？ I
could never make you know what I meant by a bright spring day。
Hetty’s was a spring…tide beauty； it was the beauty of young
frisking things； round…limbed； gambolling； circumventing you by a
false air of innocence—the innocence of a young star…browed calf；
for example； that； being inclined for a promenade out of bounds；
leads you a severe steeplechase over hedge and ditch； and only
comes to a stand in the middle of a bog。
And they are the prettiest attitudes and movements into which
a pretty girl is thrown in making up butter—tossing movements
that give a charming curve to the arm； and a sideward inclination
of the round white neck； little patting and rolling movements with
the palm of the hand； and nice adaptations and finishings which
cannot at all be effected without a great play of the pouting mouth
and the dark eyes。 And then the butter itself seems to
communicate a fresh charm—it is so pure； so sweet…scented； it is
turned off the mould with such a beautiful firm surface； like
marble in a pale yellow