Adam Bede
it says as God put his sperrit into the workman as built the
tabernacle, to make him do all the carved work and things as wanted a
nice hand. And this is my way o’ looking at it: there’s the sperrit o’
God in all things and all times—weekday as well as Sunday—and i’ the
great works and inventions, and i’ the figuring and the mechanics. And
God helps us with our headpieces and our hands as well as with our
souls; and if a man does bits o’ jobs out o’ working hours—builds a
oven for ’s wife to save her from going to the bakehouse, or scrats at
his bit o’ garden and makes two potatoes grow istead o’ one, he’s doin’
more good, and he’s just as near to God, as if he was running after
some preacher and a-praying and a-groaning.”
“Well done, Adam!” said Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing to
shift his planks while Adam was speaking; “that’s the best sarmunt I’ve
heared this long while. By th’ same token, my wife’s been a-plaguin’ on
me to build her a oven this twelvemont.”
“There’s reason in what thee say’st, Adam,” observed Seth, gravely.
“But thee know’st thyself as it’s hearing the preachers thee find’st so
much fault with has turned many an idle fellow into an industrious un.
It’s the preacher as empties th’ alehouse; and if a man gets religion,
he’ll do his work none the worse for that.”
“On’y he’ll lave the panels out o’ th’ doors sometimes, eh, Seth?” said
Wiry Ben.
“Ah, Ben, you’ve got a joke again’ me as ’ll last you your life. But it
isna religion as was i’ fault there; it was Seth Bede, as was allays a
wool-gathering chap, and religion hasna cured him, the more’s the
pity.”
“Ne’er heed me, Seth,” said Wiry Ben, “y’ are a down-right good-hearted
chap, panels or no panels; an’ ye donna set up your bristles at every
bit o’ fun, like some o’ your kin, as is mayhap cliverer.”
“Seth, lad,” said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against
himself, “thee mustna take me unkind. I wasna driving at thee in what I
said just now. Some ’s got one way o’ looking at things and some ’s got
another.”
“Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean’st me no unkindness,” said Seth, “I know
that well enough. Thee’t like thy dog Gyp—thee bark’st at me sometimes,
but thee allays lick’st my hand after.”
All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the church clock
began to strike six. Before the first stroke had died away, Sandy Jim
had loosed his plane and was reaching his jacket; Wiry Ben had left a
screw half driven in, and thrown his screwdriver into his tool-basket;
Mum Taft, who, true to his name, had kept silence throughout the
previous conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the act
of lifting it; and Seth, too, had straightened his back, and was
putting out his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone had gone on with
his work as if nothing had happened. But observing the cessation of the
tools, he looked up, and said, in a tone of indignation, “Look there,
now! I can’t abide to see men throw away their tools i’ that way, the
minute the clock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i’ their
work and was afraid o’ doing a stroke too much.”
Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his
preparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said, “Aye,
aye, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y’ are six-an’-forty like
me, istid o’ six-an’-twenty, ye wonna be so flush o’ workin’ for
nought.”
“Nonsense,” said Adam, still wrathful; “what’s age got to do with it, I
wonder? Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man’s
arms drop down as if he was shot, before the clock’s fairly struck,
just as if he’d never a bit o’ pride and delight in ’s work. The very
grindstone ’ull go on turning a bit after you loose it.”
“Bodderation, Adam!” exclaimed Wiry Ben; “lave a chap aloon, will ’ee?
Ye war afinding faut wi’ preachers a while agoo—y’ are fond enough o’
preachin’ yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play
better nor work; that’ll ’commodate ye—it laves ye th’ more to do.”
With this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry Ben
shouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly followed by Mum
Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as if
he expected him to say something.
“Shalt go home before thee go’st to the preaching?” Adam asked, looking
up.
“Nay; I’ve got my hat and things at Will Maskery’s. I shan’t be home
before going for ten. I’ll happen see Dinah Morris safe home, if she’s
willing. There’s nobody comes with her from Poyser’s, thee know’st.”
“Then I’ll tell mother not to look for thee,” said Adam.
“Thee artna going to Poyser’s thyself to-night?” said Seth rather
timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop.
“Nay, I’m going to th’ school.”
Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head and
watching Adam more closely as he noticed the other workmen departing.
But no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist
his apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in his
master’s face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he would
doubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle for his
emotions, he was like many other worthy personages, destined to appear
more phlegmatic than nature had made him.
“What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?” said Adam, with the same
gentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to Seth.
Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, “Of course.” Poor
fellow, he had not a great range of expression.
The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam’s and Seth’s dinner;
and no official, walking in procession, could look more resolutely
unconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting at
his master’s heels.
On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, and
carried it to the house on the other side of the woodyard. It was a low
house, with smooth grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasant and
mellow in the evening light. The leaded windows were bright and
speckless, and the door-stone was as clean as a white boulder at ebb
tide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped
linen gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled
fowls which appeared to have been drawn towards her by an illusory
expectation of cold potatoes or barley. The old woman’s sight seemed to
be dim, for she did not recognize Adam till he said, “Here’s the key,
Dolly; lay it down for me in the house, will you?”
“Aye, sure; but wunna ye come in, Adam? Miss Mary’s i’ th’ house, and
Mester Burge ’ull be back anon; he’d be glad t’ ha’ ye to supper wi’m,
I’ll be’s warrand.”
“No, Dolly, thank you; I’m off home. Good evening.”
Adam hastened with long strides, Gyp close to his heels, out of the
workyard, and along the highroad leading away from the village and down
to the valley. As he reached the foot of the slope, an elderly
horseman, with his portmanteau strapped behind him, stopped his horse
when Adam had passed him, and turned round to have another long look at
the stalwart workman in paper cap, leather breeches, and dark-blue
worsted stockings.
Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was exciting, presently struck
across the fields, and now broke out into the tune which had all day
long been running in his head:
Let all thy converse be sincere,
Thy conscience as the noonday clear;
For God’s all-seeing eye surveys
Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways.
Chapter II
The Preaching
About a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance of excitement
in the village of Hayslope, and through the whole length of its little
street, from the Donnithorne Arms to the churchyard gate, the
inhabitants had evidently been drawn out of their houses by something
more than the pleasure of lounging in the evening sunshine. The
Donnithorne Arms stood at the entrance of the village, and a small
farmyard and stackyard which flanked it, indicating that there was a
pretty take of land attached to the inn, gave the traveller a promise
of good feed for himself and his horse, which might well console him
for the ignorance in which the weather-beaten sign left him as to the
heraldic bearings of that ancient family, the Donnithornes. Mr. Casson,
the landlord, had been for some time standing at the door with his
hands in his pockets, balancing himself on his heels and toes and
looking towards a piece of unenclosed ground, with a maple in the
middle of it, which he knew to be the destination of certain
grave-looking men and women whom he had observed passing at intervals.
Mr. Casson’s person was by no means of that common type which can be
allowed to pass without description. On a front view it appeared to
consist principally of two spheres, bearing about the same relation to
each other as the earth and the moon: that is to say, the lower sphere
might be said, at a rough guess, to be thirteen times larger than the
upper which naturally performed the function of a mere satellite and
tributary. But here the resemblance ceased, for Mr. Casson’s head was
not at all a melancholy-looking satellite nor was it a “spotty globe,”
as Milton has irreverently called the moon; on the contrary, no head
and face could look more sleek and healthy, and its expression—which
was chiefly confined to a pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the slight
knot and interruptions forming the nose and eyes being scarcely worth
mention—was one of jolly contentment, only tempered by that sense of
personal dignity which usually made itself felt in his attitude and
bearing. This sense of dignity could hardly be considered excessive in
a man who had been butler to “the family” for fifteen years, and who,
in his present high position, was necessarily very much in contact with
his inferiors. How to reconcile his dignity with the satisfaction of
his curiosity by walking towards the Green was the problem that Mr.
Casson had been revolving in his mind for the last five minutes; but
when he had partly solved it by taking his hands out of his pockets,
and thrusting them into the armholes of his waistcoat, by throwing his
head on one side, and providing himself with an air of contemptuous
indifference to whatever might fall under his notice, his thoughts were
diverted by the approach of the horseman whom we lately saw pausing to
have another look at our friend Adam, and who now pulled up at the door
of the Donnithorne Arms.
“Take off the bridle and give him a drink, ostler,” said the traveller
to the lad in a smock-frock, who had come out of the yard at the sound
of the horse’s hoofs.
“Why, what’s up in your pretty village, landlord?” he continued,
getting down. “There seems to be quite a stir.”
“It’s a Methodis’ preaching, sir; it’s been gev hout as a young woman’s
a-going to preach on the Green,” answered Mr. Casson, in a treble and
wheezy voice, with a slightly mincing accent. “Will you please to step
in, sir, an’ tek somethink?”
“No, I must be getting on to Rosseter. I only want a drink for my
horse. And what does your parson say, I wonder, to a young woman
preaching just under his nose?”
“Parson Irwine, sir, doesn’t live here; he lives at Brox’on, over the
hill there. The parsonage here’s a tumble-down place, sir, not fit for
gentry to live in. He comes here to preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir,
an’ puts up his hoss here. It’s a grey cob, sir, an’ he sets great
store by’t. He’s allays put up his hoss here, sir, iver since before I
hed the Donnithorne Arms. I’m not this countryman, you may tell by my
tongue, sir. They’re cur’ous talkers i’ this country, sir; the gentry’s
hard work to hunderstand ’em. I was brought hup among the gentry, sir,
an’ got the turn o’ their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you