Adam Bede
an’ ne’er to know; an’ me a-sleepin’, as if I ne’er belonged to him no
more nor if he’d been a journeyman tramp from nobody knows where!”
Here Lisbeth began to cry and rock herself again; and Dinah said, “Yes,
dear friend, your affliction is great. It would be hardness of heart to
say that your trouble was not heavy to bear. God didn’t send me to you
to make light of your sorrow, but to mourn with you, if you will let
me. If you had a table spread for a feast, and was making merry with
your friends, you would think it was kind to let me come and sit down
and rejoice with you, because you’d think I should like to share those
good things; but I should like better to share in your trouble and your
labour, and it would seem harder to me if you denied me that. You won’t
send me away? You’re not angry with me for coming?”
“Nay, nay; angered! who said I war angered? It war good on you to come.
An’ Seth, why donna ye get her some tay? Ye war in a hurry to get some
for me, as had no need, but ye donna think o’ gettin’ ’t for them as
wants it. Sit ye down; sit ye down. I thank you kindly for comin’, for
it’s little wage ye get by walkin’ through the wet fields to see an old
woman like me.... Nay, I’n got no daughter o’ my own—ne’er had one—an’
I warna sorry, for they’re poor queechy things, gells is; I allays
wanted to ha’ lads, as could fend for theirsens. An’ the lads ’ull be
marryin’—I shall ha’ daughters eno’, an’ too many. But now, do ye make
the tay as ye like it, for I’n got no taste i’ my mouth this day—it’s
all one what I swaller—it’s all got the taste o’ sorrow wi’t.”
Dinah took care not to betray that she had had her tea, and accepted
Lisbeth’s invitation very readily, for the sake of persuading the old
woman herself to take the food and drink she so much needed after a day
of hard work and fasting.
Seth was so happy now Dinah was in the house that he could not help
thinking her presence was worth purchasing with a life in which grief
incessantly followed upon grief; but the next moment he reproached
himself—it was almost as if he were rejoicing in his father’s sad
death. Nevertheless the joy of being with Dinah _would_ triumph—it was
like the influence of climate, which no resistance can overcome. And
the feeling even suffused itself over his face so as to attract his
mother’s notice, while she was drinking her tea.
“Thee may’st well talk o’ trouble bein’ a good thing, Seth, for thee
thriv’st on’t. Thee look’st as if thee know’dst no more o’ care an’
cumber nor when thee wast a babby a-lyin’ awake i’ th’ cradle. For
thee’dst allays lie still wi’ thy eyes open, an’ Adam ne’er ’ud lie
still a minute when he wakened. Thee wast allays like a bag o’ meal as
can ne’er be bruised—though, for the matter o’ that, thy poor feyther
war just such another. But _ye_’ve got the same look too” (here Lisbeth
turned to Dinah). “I reckon it’s wi’ bein’ a Methody. Not as I’m
a-findin’ faut wi’ ye for’t, for ye’ve no call to be frettin’, an’
somehow ye looken sorry too. Eh! Well, if the Methodies are fond o’
trouble, they’re like to thrive: it’s a pity they canna ha’t all, an’
take it away from them as donna like it. I could ha’ gi’en ’em plenty;
for when I’d gotten my old man I war worreted from morn till night; and
now he’s gone, I’d be glad for the worst o’er again.”
“Yes,” said Dinah, careful not to oppose any feeling of Lisbeth’s, for
her reliance, in her smallest words and deeds, on a divine guidance,
always issued in that finest woman’s tact which proceeds from acute and
ready sympathy; “yes, I remember too, when my dear aunt died, I longed
for the sound of her bad cough in the nights, instead of the silence
that came when she was gone. But now, dear friend, drink this other cup
of tea and eat a little more.”
“What!” said Lisbeth, taking the cup and speaking in a less querulous
tone, “had ye got no feyther and mother, then, as ye war so sorry about
your aunt?”
“No, I never knew a father or mother; my aunt brought me up from a
baby. She had no children, for she was never married and she brought me
up as tenderly as if I’d been her own child.”
“Eh, she’d fine work wi’ ye, I’ll warrant, bringin’ ye up from a babby,
an’ her a lone woman—it’s ill bringin’ up a cade lamb. But I daresay ye
warna franzy, for ye look as if ye’d ne’er been angered i’ your life.
But what did ye do when your aunt died, an’ why didna ye come to live
in this country, bein’ as Mrs. Poyser’s your aunt too?”
Dinah, seeing that Lisbeth’s attention was attracted, told her the
story of her early life—how she had been brought up to work hard, and
what sort of place Snowfield was, and how many people had a hard life
there—all the details that she thought likely to interest Lisbeth. The
old woman listened, and forgot to be fretful, unconsciously subject to
the soothing influence of Dinah’s face and voice. After a while she was
persuaded to let the kitchen be made tidy; for Dinah was bent on this,
believing that the sense of order and quietude around her would help in
disposing Lisbeth to join in the prayer she longed to pour forth at her
side. Seth, meanwhile, went out to chop wood, for he surmised that
Dinah would like to be left alone with his mother.
Lisbeth sat watching her as she moved about in her still quick way, and
said at last, “Ye’ve got a notion o’ cleanin’ up. I wouldna mind ha’in
ye for a daughter, for ye wouldna spend the lad’s wage i’ fine clothes
an’ waste. Ye’re not like the lasses o’ this countryside. I reckon
folks is different at Snowfield from what they are here.”
“They have a different sort of life, many of ’em,” said Dinah; “they
work at different things—some in the mill, and many in the mines, in
the villages round about. But the heart of man is the same everywhere,
and there are the children of this world and the children of light
there as well as elsewhere. But we’ve many more Methodists there than
in this country.”
“Well, I didna know as the Methody women war like ye, for there’s Will
Maskery’s wife, as they say’s a big Methody, isna pleasant to look at,
at all. I’d as lief look at a tooad. An’ I’m thinkin’ I wouldna mind if
ye’d stay an’ sleep here, for I should like to see ye i’ th’ house i’
th’ mornin’. But mayhappen they’ll be lookin for ye at Mester
Poyser’s.”
“No,” said Dinah, “they don’t expect me, and I should like to stay, if
you’ll let me.”
“Well, there’s room; I’n got my bed laid i’ th’ little room o’er the
back kitchen, an’ ye can lie beside me. I’d be glad to ha’ ye wi’ me to
speak to i’ th’ night, for ye’ve got a nice way o’ talkin’. It puts me
i’ mind o’ the swallows as was under the thack last ’ear when they fust
begun to sing low an’ soft-like i’ th’ mornin’. Eh, but my old man war
fond o’ them birds! An’ so war Adam, but they’n ne’er comed again this
’ear. Happen they’re dead too.”
“There,” said Dinah, “now the kitchen looks tidy, and now, dear
Mother—for I’m your daughter to-night, you know—I should like you to
wash your face and have a clean cap on. Do you remember what David did,
when God took away his child from him? While the child was yet alive he
fasted and prayed to God to spare it, and he would neither eat nor
drink, but lay on the ground all night, beseeching God for the child.
But when he knew it was dead, he rose up from the ground and washed and
anointed himself, and changed his clothes, and ate and drank; and when
they asked him how it was that he seemed to have left off grieving now
the child was dead, he said, ‘While the child was yet alive, I fasted
and wept; for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me,
that the child may live? But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast?
Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return
to me.’”
“Eh, that’s a true word,” said Lisbeth. “Yea, my old man wonna come
back to me, but I shall go to him—the sooner the better. Well, ye may
do as ye like wi’ me: there’s a clean cap i’ that drawer, an’ I’ll go
i’ the back kitchen an’ wash my face. An’ Seth, thee may’st reach down
Adam’s new Bible wi’ th’ picters in, an’ she shall read us a chapter.
Eh, I like them words—‘I shall go to him, but he wonna come back to
me.’”
Dinah and Seth were both inwardly offering thanks for the greater
quietness of spirit that had come over Lisbeth. This was what Dinah had
been trying to bring about, through all her still sympathy and absence
from exhortation. From her girlhood upwards she had had experience
among the sick and the mourning, among minds hardened and shrivelled
through poverty and ignorance, and had gained the subtlest perception
of the mode in which they could best be touched and softened into
willingness to receive words of spiritual consolation or warning. As
Dinah expressed it, “she was never left to herself; but it was always
given her when to keep silence and when to speak.” And do we not all
agree to call rapid thought and noble impulse by the name of
inspiration? After our subtlest analysis of the mental process, we must
still say, as Dinah did, that our highest thoughts and our best deeds
are all given to us.
And so there was earnest prayer—there was faith, love, and hope pouring
forth that evening in the little kitchen. And poor, aged, fretful
Lisbeth, without grasping any distinct idea, without going through any
course of religious emotions, felt a vague sense of goodness and love,
and of something right lying underneath and beyond all this sorrowing
life. She couldn’t understand the sorrow; but, for these moments, under
the subduing influence of Dinah’s spirit, she felt that she must be
patient and still.
Chapter XI
In the Cottage
It was but half-past four the next morning when Dinah, tired of lying
awake listening to the birds and watching the growing light through the
little window in the garret roof, rose and began to dress herself very
quietly, lest she should disturb Lisbeth. But already some one else was
astir in the house, and had gone downstairs, preceded by Gyp. The dog’s
pattering step was a sure sign that it was Adam who went down; but
Dinah was not aware of this, and she thought it was more likely to be
Seth, for he had told her how Adam had stayed up working the night
before. Seth, however, had only just awakened at the sound of the
opening door. The exciting influence of the previous day, heightened at
last by Dinah’s unexpected presence, had not been counteracted by any
bodily weariness, for he had not done his ordinary amount of hard work;
and so when he went to bed; it was not till he had tired himself with
hours of tossing wakefulness that drowsiness came, and led on a heavier
morning sleep than was usual with him.
But Adam had been refreshed by his long rest, and with his habitual
impatience of mere passivity, he was eager to begin the new day and
subdue sadness by his strong will and strong arm. The white mist lay in
the valley; it was going to be a bright warm day, and he would start to
work again when he had had his breakfast.
“There’s nothing but what’s bearable as long as a man can work,” he
said to himself; “the natur o’ things doesn’t change, though it seems
as if one’s own life was nothing but change. The square o’ four is
sixteen, and you must lengthen your lever in proportion to your weight,
is as true when a man’s miserable as when he’s happy; and the best o’
working is, it gives you a grip hold o’ things outside your own lot.”
As he dashed the cold water over his head and face, he felt completely
himself again, and with his black eyes as keen as ever and his thick
black hair all glistening with the fresh moisture, he went into the
workshop to look out the wood for his father’s coffin, intending that
he and Seth should carry it with them to Jonathan Burge’s and have the