Adam Bede
six-and-twenty years ago. She had forgotten his faults as we forget the
sorrows of our departed childhood, and thought of nothing but the young
husband’s kindness and the old man’s patience. Her eyes continued to
wander blankly until Seth came in and began to remove some of the
scattered things, and clear the small round deal table that he might
set out his mother’s tea upon it.
“What art goin’ to do?” she said, rather peevishly.
“I want thee to have a cup of tea, Mother,” answered Seth, tenderly.
“It’ll do thee good; and I’ll put two or three of these things away,
and make the house look more comfortable.”
“Comfortable! How canst talk o’ ma’in’ things comfortable? Let a-be,
let a-be. There’s no comfort for me no more,” she went on, the tears
coming when she began to speak, “now thy poor feyther’s gone, as I’n
washed for and mended, an’ got’s victual for him for thirty ’ear, an’
him allays so pleased wi’ iverything I done for him, an’ used to be so
handy an’ do the jobs for me when I war ill an’ cumbered wi’ th’ babby,
an’ made me the posset an’ brought it upstairs as proud as could be,
an’ carried the lad as war as heavy as two children for five mile an’
ne’er grumbled, all the way to Warson Wake, ’cause I wanted to go an’
see my sister, as war dead an’ gone the very next Christmas as e’er
come. An’ him to be drownded in the brook as we passed o’er the day we
war married an’ come home together, an’ he’d made them lots o’ shelves
for me to put my plates an’ things on, an’ showed ’em me as proud as
could be, ’cause he know’d I should be pleased. An’ he war to die an’
me not to know, but to be a-sleepin’ i’ my bed, as if I caredna nought
about it. Eh! An’ me to live to see that! An’ us as war young folks
once, an’ thought we should do rarely when we war married. Let a-be,
lad, let a-be! I wonna ha’ no tay. I carena if I ne’er ate nor drink no
more. When one end o’ th’ bridge tumbles down, where’s th’ use o’ th’
other stannin’? I may’s well die, an’ foller my old man. There’s no
knowin’ but he’ll want me.”
Here Lisbeth broke from words into moans, swaying herself backwards and
forwards on her chair. Seth, always timid in his behaviour towards his
mother, from the sense that he had no influence over her, felt it was
useless to attempt to persuade or soothe her till this passion was
past; so he contented himself with tending the back kitchen fire and
folding up his father’s clothes, which had been hanging out to dry
since morning—afraid to move about in the room where his mother was,
lest he should irritate her further.
But after Lisbeth had been rocking herself and moaning for some
minutes, she suddenly paused and said aloud to herself, “I’ll go an’
see arter Adam, for I canna think where he’s gotten; an’ I want him to
go upstairs wi’ me afore it’s dark, for the minutes to look at the
corpse is like the meltin’ snow.”
Seth overheard this, and coming into the kitchen again, as his mother
rose from her chair, he said, “Adam’s asleep in the workshop, mother.
Thee’dst better not wake him. He was o’erwrought with work and
trouble.”
“Wake him? Who’s a-goin’ to wake him? I shanna wake him wi’ lookin’ at
him. I hanna seen the lad this two hour—I’d welly forgot as he’d e’er
growed up from a babby when’s feyther carried him.”
Adam was seated on a rough bench, his head supported by his arm, which
rested from the shoulder to the elbow on the long planing-table in the
middle of the workshop. It seemed as if he had sat down for a few
minutes’ rest and had fallen asleep without slipping from his first
attitude of sad, fatigued thought. His face, unwashed since yesterday,
looked pallid and clammy; his hair was tossed shaggily about his
forehead, and his closed eyes had the sunken look which follows upon
watching and sorrow. His brow was knit, and his whole face had an
expression of weariness and pain. Gyp was evidently uneasy, for he sat
on his haunches, resting his nose on his master’s stretched-out leg,
and dividing the time between licking the hand that hung listlessly
down and glancing with a listening air towards the door. The poor dog
was hungry and restless, but would not leave his master, and was
waiting impatiently for some change in the scene. It was owing to this
feeling on Gyp’s part that, when Lisbeth came into the workshop and
advanced towards Adam as noiselessly as she could, her intention not to
awaken him was immediately defeated; for Gyp’s excitement was too great
to find vent in anything short of a sharp bark, and in a moment Adam
opened his eyes and saw his mother standing before him. It was not very
unlike his dream, for his sleep had been little more than living
through again, in a fevered delirious way, all that had happened since
daybreak, and his mother with her fretful grief was present to him
through it all. The chief difference between the reality and the vision
was that in his dream Hetty was continually coming before him in bodily
presence—strangely mingling herself as an actor in scenes with which
she had nothing to do. She was even by the Willow Brook; she made his
mother angry by coming into the house; and he met her with her smart
clothes quite wet through, as he walked in the rain to Treddleston, to
tell the coroner. But wherever Hetty came, his mother was sure to
follow soon; and when he opened his eyes, it was not at all startling
to see her standing near him.
“Eh, my lad, my lad!” Lisbeth burst out immediately, her wailing
impulse returning, for grief in its freshness feels the need of
associating its loss and its lament with every change of scene and
incident, “thee’st got nobody now but thy old mother to torment thee
and be a burden to thee. Thy poor feyther ’ull ne’er anger thee no
more; an’ thy mother may’s well go arter him—the sooner the better—for
I’m no good to nobody now. One old coat ’ull do to patch another, but
it’s good for nought else. Thee’dst like to ha’ a wife to mend thy
clothes an’ get thy victual, better nor thy old mother. An’ I shall be
nought but cumber, a-sittin’ i’ th’ chimney-corner. (Adam winced and
moved uneasily; he dreaded, of all things, to hear his mother speak of
Hetty.) But if thy feyther had lived, he’d ne’er ha’ wanted me to go to
make room for another, for he could no more ha’ done wi’out me nor one
side o’ the scissars can do wi’out th’ other. Eh, we should ha’ been
both flung away together, an’ then I shouldna ha’ seen this day, an’
one buryin’ ’ud ha’ done for us both.”
Here Lisbeth paused, but Adam sat in pained silence—he could not speak
otherwise than tenderly to his mother to-day, but he could not help
being irritated by this plaint. It was not possible for poor Lisbeth to
know how it affected Adam any more than it is possible for a wounded
dog to know how his moans affect the nerves of his master. Like all
complaining women, she complained in the expectation of being soothed,
and when Adam said nothing, she was only prompted to complain more
bitterly.
“I know thee couldst do better wi’out me, for thee couldst go where
thee likedst an’ marry them as thee likedst. But I donna want to say
thee nay, let thee bring home who thee wut; I’d ne’er open my lips to
find faut, for when folks is old an’ o’ no use, they may think
theirsens well off to get the bit an’ the sup, though they’n to swallow
ill words wi’t. An’ if thee’st set thy heart on a lass as’ll bring thee
nought and waste all, when thee mightst ha’ them as ’ud make a man on
thee, I’ll say nought, now thy feyther’s dead an’ drownded, for I’m no
better nor an old haft when the blade’s gone.”
Adam, unable to bear this any longer, rose silently from the bench and
walked out of the workshop into the kitchen. But Lisbeth followed him.
“Thee wutna go upstairs an’ see thy feyther then? I’n done everythin’
now, an’ he’d like thee to go an’ look at him, for he war allays so
pleased when thee wast mild to him.”
Adam turned round at once and said, “Yes, mother; let us go upstairs.
Come, Seth, let us go together.”
They went upstairs, and for five minutes all was silence. Then the key
was turned again, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. But
Adam did not come down again; he was too weary and worn-out to
encounter more of his mother’s querulous grief, and he went to rest on
his bed. Lisbeth no sooner entered the kitchen and sat down than she
threw her apron over her head, and began to cry and moan and rock
herself as before. Seth thought, “She will be quieter by and by, now we
have been upstairs”; and he went into the back kitchen again, to tend
his little fire, hoping that he should presently induce her to have
some tea.
Lisbeth had been rocking herself in this way for more than five
minutes, giving a low moan with every forward movement of her body,
when she suddenly felt a hand placed gently on hers, and a sweet treble
voice said to her, “Dear sister, the Lord has sent me to see if I can
be a comfort to you.”
Lisbeth paused, in a listening attitude, without removing her apron
from her face. The voice was strange to her. Could it be her sister’s
spirit come back to her from the dead after all those years? She
trembled and dared not look.
Dinah, believing that this pause of wonder was in itself a relief for
the sorrowing woman, said no more just yet, but quietly took off her
bonnet, and then, motioning silence to Seth, who, on hearing her voice,
had come in with a beating heart, laid one hand on the back of
Lisbeth’s chair and leaned over her, that she might be aware of a
friendly presence.
Slowly Lisbeth drew down her apron, and timidly she opened her dim dark
eyes. She saw nothing at first but a face—a pure, pale face, with
loving grey eyes, and it was quite unknown to her. Her wonder
increased; perhaps it _was_ an angel. But in the same instant Dinah had
laid her hand on Lisbeth’s again, and the old woman looked down at it.
It was a much smaller hand than her own, but it was not white and
delicate, for Dinah had never worn a glove in her life, and her hand
bore the traces of labour from her childhood upwards. Lisbeth looked
earnestly at the hand for a moment, and then, fixing her eyes again on
Dinah’s face, said, with something of restored courage, but in a tone
of surprise, “Why, ye’re a workin’ woman!”
“Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and I work in the cotton-mill when I am at
home.”
“Ah!” said Lisbeth slowly, still wondering; “ye comed in so light, like
the shadow on the wall, an’ spoke i’ my ear, as I thought ye might be a
sperrit. Ye’ve got a’most the face o’ one as is a-sittin’ on the grave
i’ Adam’s new Bible.”
“I come from the Hall Farm now. You know Mrs. Poyser—she’s my aunt, and
she has heard of your great affliction, and is very sorry; and I’m come
to see if I can be any help to you in your trouble; for I know your
sons Adam and Seth, and I know you have no daughter; and when the
clergyman told me how the hand of God was heavy upon you, my heart went
out towards you, and I felt a command to come and be to you in the
place of a daughter in this grief, if you will let me.”
“Ah! I know who y’ are now; y’ are a Methody, like Seth; he’s tould me
on you,” said Lisbeth fretfully, her overpowering sense of pain
returning, now her wonder was gone. “Ye’ll make it out as trouble’s a
good thing, like _he_ allays does. But where’s the use o’ talkin’ to me
a-that’n? Ye canna make the smart less wi’ talkin’. Ye’ll ne’er make me
believe as it’s better for me not to ha’ my old man die in’s bed, if he
must die, an’ ha’ the parson to pray by him, an’ me to sit by him, an’
tell him ne’er to mind th’ ill words I’ve gi’en him sometimes when I
war angered, an’ to gi’ him a bit an’ a sup, as long as a bit an’ a sup
he’d swallow. But eh! To die i’ the cold water, an’ us close to him,