The old squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall to greet the tenants and make polite speeches to the wives:  he was always polite; but the farmers had found out, after long puzzling, that this polish was one of the signs of hardness.  It was observed that he gave his most elaborate civility to Mrs. Poyser to-night, inquiring particularly about her health, recommending her to strengthen herself with cold water as he did, and avoid all drugs.  Mrs. Poyser curtsied and thanked him with great self-command, but when he had passed on, she whispered to her husband, “I’ll lay my life he’s brewin’ some nasty turn against us.  Old Harry doesna wag his tail so for nothin’.”  Mr. Poyser had no time to answer, for now Arthur came up and said, “Mrs. Poyser, I’m come to request the favour of your hand for the first dance; and, Mr. Poyser, you must let me take you to my aunt, for she claims you as her partner.”

The wife’s pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of unwonted honour as Arthur led her to the top of the room; but Mr. Poyser, to whom an extra glass had restored his youthful confidence in his good looks and good dancing, walked along with them quite proudly, secretly flattering himself that Miss Lydia had never had a partner in her life who could lift her off the ground as he would.  In order to balance the honours given to the two parishes, Miss Irwine danced with Luke Britton, the largest Broxton farmer, and Mr. Gawaine led out Mrs. Britton.  Mr. Irwine, after seating his sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery, as he had agreed with Arthur beforehand, to see how the merriment of the cottagers was prospering.  Meanwhile, all the less distinguished couples had taken their places:  Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr. Craig, and Mary Burge by Adam; and now the music struck up, and the glorious country-dance, best of all dances, began.

Pity it was not a boarded floor!  Then the rhythmic stamping of the thick shoes would have been better than any drums.  That merry stamping, that gracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowal of the hand—­where can we see them now?  That simple dancing of well-covered matrons, laying aside for an hour the cares of house and dairy, remembering but not affecting youth, not jealous but proud of the young maidens by their side—­that holiday sprightliness of portly husbands paying little compliments to their wives, as if their courting days were come again—­those lads and lasses a little confused and awkward with their partners, having nothing to say—­it would be a pleasant variety to see all that sometimes, instead of low dresses and large skirts, and scanning glances exploring costumes, and languid men in lacquered boots smiling with double meaning.

There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser’s pleasure in this dance:  it was that he was always in close contact with Luke Britton, that slovenly farmer.  He thought of throwing a little glazed coldness into his eye in the crossing of hands; but then, as Miss Irwine was opposite to him instead of the offensive Luke, he might freeze the wrong person.  So he gave his face up to hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments.