Adam Bede
th’ haymaking if the meadows are flooded again. The brook’s fine and
full now: another day’s rain ’ud cover the plank, and we should have to
go round by the road.”
They were coming across the valley now, and had entered the pasture
through which the brook ran.
“Why, what’s that sticking against the willow?” continued Seth,
beginning to walk faster. Adam’s heart rose to his mouth: the vague
anxiety about his father was changed into a great dread. He made no
answer to Seth, but ran forward preceded by Gyp, who began to bark
uneasily; and in two moments he was at the bridge.
This was what the omen meant, then! And the grey-haired father, of whom
he had thought with a sort of hardness a few hours ago, as certain to
live to be a thorn in his side was perhaps even then struggling with
that watery death! This was the first thought that flashed through
Adam’s conscience, before he had time to seize the coat and drag out
the tall heavy body. Seth was already by his side, helping him, and
when they had it on the bank, the two sons in the first moment knelt
and looked with mute awe at the glazed eyes, forgetting that there was
need for action—forgetting everything but that their father lay dead
before them. Adam was the first to speak.
“I’ll run to Mother,” he said, in a loud whisper. “I’ll be back to thee
in a minute.”
Poor Lisbeth was busy preparing her sons’ breakfast, and their porridge
was already steaming on the fire. Her kitchen always looked the pink of
cleanliness, but this morning she was more than usually bent on making
her hearth and breakfast-table look comfortable and inviting.
“The lads ’ull be fine an’ hungry,” she said, half-aloud, as she
stirred the porridge. “It’s a good step to Brox’on, an’ it’s hungry air
o’er the hill—wi’ that heavy coffin too. Eh! It’s heavier now, wi’ poor
Bob Tholer in’t. Howiver, I’ve made a drap more porridge nor common
this mornin’. The feyther ’ull happen come in arter a bit. Not as he’ll
ate much porridge. He swallers sixpenn’orth o’ ale, an’ saves a
hap’orth o’ por-ridge—that’s his way o’ layin’ by money, as I’ve told
him many a time, an’ am likely to tell him again afore the day’s out.
Eh, poor mon, he takes it quiet enough; there’s no denyin’ that.”
But now Lisbeth heard the heavy “thud” of a running footstep on the
turf, and, turning quickly towards the door, she saw Adam enter,
looking so pale and overwhelmed that she screamed aloud and rushed
towards him before he had time to speak.
“Hush, Mother,” Adam said, rather hoarsely, “don’t be frightened.
Father’s tumbled into the water. Belike we may bring him round again.
Seth and me are going to carry him in. Get a blanket and make it hot as
the fire.”
In reality Adam was convinced that his father was dead but he knew
there was no other way of repressing his mother’s impetuous wailing
grief than by occupying her with some active task which had hope in it.
He ran back to Seth, and the two sons lifted the sad burden in
heart-stricken silence. The wide-open glazed eyes were grey, like
Seth’s, and had once looked with mild pride on the boys before whom
Thias had lived to hang his head in shame. Seth’s chief feeling was awe
and distress at this sudden snatching away of his father’s soul; but
Adam’s mind rushed back over the past in a flood of relenting and pity.
When death, the great Reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness
that we repent of, but our severity.
Chapter V
The Rector
Before twelve o’clock there had been some heavy storms of rain, and the
water lay in deep gutters on the sides of the gravel walks in the
garden of Broxton Parsonage; the great Provence roses had been cruelly
tossed by the wind and beaten by the rain, and all the delicate-stemmed
border flowers had been dashed down and stained with the wet soil. A
melancholy morning—because it was nearly time hay-harvest should begin,
and instead of that the meadows were likely to be flooded.
But people who have pleasant homes get indoor enjoyments that they
would never think of but for the rain. If it had not been a wet
morning, Mr. Irwine would not have been in the dining-room playing at
chess with his mother, and he loves both his mother and chess quite
well enough to pass some cloudy hours very easily by their help. Let me
take you into that dining-room and show you the Rev. Adolphus Irwine,
Rector of Broxton, Vicar of Hayslope, and Vicar of Blythe, a pluralist
at whom the severest Church reformer would have found it difficult to
look sour. We will enter very softly and stand still in the open
doorway, without awaking the glossy-brown setter who is stretched
across the hearth, with her two puppies beside her; or the pug, who is
dozing, with his black muzzle aloft, like a sleepy president.
The room is a large and lofty one, with an ample mullioned oriel window
at one end; the walls, you see, are new, and not yet painted; but the
furniture, though originally of an expensive sort, is old and scanty,
and there is no drapery about the window. The crimson cloth over the
large dining-table is very threadbare, though it contrasts pleasantly
enough with the dead hue of the plaster on the walls; but on this cloth
there is a massive silver waiter with a decanter of water on it, of the
same pattern as two larger ones that are propped up on the sideboard
with a coat of arms conspicuous in their centre. You suspect at once
that the inhabitants of this room have inherited more blood than
wealth, and would not be surprised to find that Mr. Irwine had a finely
cut nostril and upper lip; but at present we can only see that he has a
broad flat back and an abundance of powdered hair, all thrown backward
and tied behind with a black ribbon—a bit of conservatism in costume
which tells you that he is not a young man. He will perhaps turn round
by and by, and in the meantime we can look at that stately old lady,
his mother, a beautiful aged brunette, whose rich-toned complexion is
well set off by the complex wrappings of pure white cambric and lace
about her head and neck. She is as erect in her comely embonpoint as a
statue of Ceres; and her dark face, with its delicate aquiline nose,
firm proud mouth, and small, intense, black eye, is so keen and
sarcastic in its expression that you instinctively substitute a pack of
cards for the chess-men and imagine her telling your fortune. The small
brown hand with which she is lifting her queen is laden with pearls,
diamonds, and turquoises; and a large black veil is very carefully
adjusted over the crown of her cap, and falls in sharp contrast on the
white folds about her neck. It must take a long time to dress that old
lady in the morning! But it seems a law of nature that she should be
dressed so: she is clearly one of those children of royalty who have
never doubted their right divine and never met with any one so absurd
as to question it.
“There, Dauphin, tell me what that is!” says this magnificent old lady,
as she deposits her queen very quietly and folds her arms. “I should be
sorry to utter a word disagreeable to your feelings.”
“Ah, you witch-mother, you sorceress! How is a Christian man to win a
game off you? I should have sprinkled the board with holy water before
we began. You’ve not won that game by fair means, now, so don’t pretend
it.”
“Yes, yes, that’s what the beaten have always said of great conquerors.
But see, there’s the sunshine falling on the board, to show you more
clearly what a foolish move you made with that pawn. Come, shall I give
you another chance?”
“No, Mother, I shall leave you to your own conscience, now it’s
clearing up. We must go and plash up the mud a little, mus’n’t we,
Juno?” This was addressed to the brown setter, who had jumped up at the
sound of the voices and laid her nose in an insinuating way on her
master’s leg. “But I must go upstairs first and see Anne. I was called
away to Tholer’s funeral just when I was going before.”
“It’s of no use, child; she can’t speak to you. Kate says she has one
of her worst headaches this morning.”
“Oh, she likes me to go and see her just the same; she’s never too ill
to care about that.”
If you know how much of human speech is mere purposeless impulse or
habit, you will not wonder when I tell you that this identical
objection had been made, and had received the same kind of answer, many
hundred times in the course of the fifteen years that Mr. Irwine’s
sister Anne had been an invalid. Splendid old ladies, who take a long
time to dress in the morning, have often slight sympathy with sickly
daughters.
But while Mr. Irwine was still seated, leaning back in his chair and
stroking Juno’s head, the servant came to the door and said, “If you
please, sir, Joshua Rann wishes to speak with you, if you are at
liberty.”
“Let him be shown in here,” said Mrs. Irwine, taking up her knitting.
“I always like to hear what Mr. Rann has got to say. His shoes will be
dirty, but see that he wipes them Carroll.”
In two minutes Mr. Rann appeared at the door with very deferential
bows, which, however, were far from conciliating Pug, who gave a sharp
bark and ran across the room to reconnoitre the stranger’s legs; while
the two puppies, regarding Mr. Rann’s prominent calf and ribbed worsted
stockings from a more sensuous point of view, plunged and growled over
them in great enjoyment. Meantime, Mr. Irwine turned round his chair
and said, “Well, Joshua, anything the matter at Hayslope, that you’ve
come over this damp morning? Sit down, sit down. Never mind the dogs;
give them a friendly kick. Here, Pug, you rascal!”
It is very pleasant to see some men turn round; pleasant as a sudden
rush of warm air in winter, or the flash of firelight in the chill
dusk. Mr. Irwine was one of those men. He bore the same sort of
resemblance to his mother that our loving memory of a friend’s face
often bears to the face itself: the lines were all more generous, the
smile brighter, the expression heartier. If the outline had been less
finely cut, his face might have been called jolly; but that was not the
right word for its mixture of bonhomie and distinction.
“Thank Your Reverence,” answered Mr. Rann, endeavouring to look
unconcerned about his legs, but shaking them alternately to keep off
the puppies; “I’ll stand, if you please, as more becoming. I hope I see
you an’ Mrs. Irwine well, an’ Miss Irwine—an’ Miss Anne, I hope’s as
well as usual.”
“Yes, Joshua, thank you. You see how blooming my mother looks. She
beats us younger people hollow. But what’s the matter?”
“Why, sir, I had to come to Brox’on to deliver some work, and I thought
it but right to call and let you know the goins-on as there’s been i’
the village, such as I hanna seen i’ my time, and I’ve lived in it man
and boy sixty year come St. Thomas, and collected th’ Easter dues for
Mr. Blick before Your Reverence come into the parish, and been at the
ringin’ o’ every bell, and the diggin’ o’ every grave, and sung i’ the
choir long afore Bartle Massey come from nobody knows where, wi’ his
counter-singin’ and fine anthems, as puts everybody out but himself—one
takin’ it up after another like sheep a-bleatin’ i’ th’ fold. I know
what belongs to bein’ a parish clerk, and I know as I should be wantin’
i’ respect to Your Reverence, an’ church, an’ king, if I was t’ allow
such goins-on wi’out speakin’. I was took by surprise, an’ knowed
nothin’ on it beforehand, an’ I was so flustered, I was clean as if I’d
lost my tools. I hanna slep’ more nor four hour this night as is past
an’ gone; an’ then it was nothin’ but nightmare, as tired me worse nor
wakin’.”
“Why, what in the world is the matter, Joshua? Have the thieves been at
the church lead again?”
“Thieves! No, sir—an’ yet, as I may say, it _is_ thieves, an’