Adam Bede
it was sorrow because the chief source of his past trouble and vexation
was for ever gone out of his reach. He had not been able to press his
father’s hand before their parting, and say, “Father, you know it was
all right between us; I never forgot what I owed you when I was a lad;
you forgive me if I have been too hot and hasty now and then!” Adam
thought but little to-day of the hard work and the earnings he had
spent on his father: his thoughts ran constantly on what the old man’s
feelings had been in moments of humiliation, when he had held down his
head before the rebukes of his son. When our indignation is borne in
submissive silence, we are apt to feel twinges of doubt afterwards as
to our own generosity, if not justice; how much more when the object of
our anger has gone into everlasting silence, and we have seen his face
for the last time in the meekness of death!
“Ah! I was always too hard,” Adam said to himself. “It’s a sore fault
in me as I’m so hot and out o’ patience with people when they do wrong,
and my heart gets shut up against ’em, so as I can’t bring myself to
forgive ’em. I see clear enough there’s more pride nor love in my soul,
for I could sooner make a thousand strokes with th’ hammer for my
father than bring myself to say a kind word to him. And there went
plenty o’ pride and temper to the strokes, as the devil _will_ be
having his finger in what we call our duties as well as our sins.
Mayhap the best thing I ever did in my life was only doing what was
easiest for myself. It’s allays been easier for me to work nor to sit
still, but the real tough job for me ’ud be to master my own will and
temper and go right against my own pride. It seems to me now, if I was
to find Father at home to-night, I should behave different; but there’s
no knowing—perhaps nothing ’ud be a lesson to us if it didn’t come too
late. It’s well we should feel as life’s a reckoning we can’t make
twice over; there’s no real making amends in this world, any more nor
you can mend a wrong subtraction by doing your addition right.”
This was the key-note to which Adam’s thoughts had perpetually returned
since his father’s death, and the solemn wail of the funeral psalm was
only an influence that brought back the old thoughts with stronger
emphasis. So was the sermon, which Mr. Irwine had chosen with reference
to Thias’s funeral. It spoke briefly and simply of the words, “In the
midst of life we are in death”—how the present moment is all we can
call our own for works of mercy, of righteous dealing, and of family
tenderness. All very old truths—but what we thought the oldest truth
becomes the most startling to us in the week when we have looked on the
dead face of one who has made a part of our own lives. For when men
want to impress us with the effect of a new and wonderfully vivid
light, do they not let it fall on the most familiar objects, that we
may measure its intensity by remembering the former dimness?
Then came the moment of the final blessing, when the forever sublime
words, “The peace of God, which passeth all understanding,” seemed to
blend with the calm afternoon sunshine that fell on the bowed heads of
the congregation; and then the quiet rising, the mothers tying on the
bonnets of the little maidens who had slept through the sermon, the
fathers collecting the prayer-books, until all streamed out through the
old archway into the green churchyard and began their neighbourly talk,
their simple civilities, and their invitations to tea; for on a Sunday
every one was ready to receive a guest—it was the day when all must be
in their best clothes and their best humour.
Mr. and Mrs. Poyser paused a minute at the church gate: they were
waiting for Adam to come up, not being contented to go away without
saying a kind word to the widow and her sons.
“Well, Mrs. Bede,” said Mrs. Poyser, as they walked on together, “you
must keep up your heart; husbands and wives must be content when
they’ve lived to rear their children and see one another’s hair grey.”
“Aye, aye,” said Mr. Poyser; “they wonna have long to wait for one
another then, anyhow. And ye’ve got two o’ the strapping’st sons i’ th’
country; and well you may, for I remember poor Thias as fine a
broad-shouldered fellow as need to be; and as for you, Mrs. Bede, why
you’re straighter i’ the back nor half the young women now.”
“Eh,” said Lisbeth, “it’s poor luck for the platter to wear well when
it’s broke i’ two. The sooner I’m laid under the thorn the better. I’m
no good to nobody now.”
Adam never took notice of his mother’s little unjust plaints; but Seth
said, “Nay, Mother, thee mustna say so. Thy sons ’ull never get another
mother.”
“That’s true, lad, that’s true,” said Mr. Poyser; “and it’s wrong on us
to give way to grief, Mrs. Bede; for it’s like the children cryin’ when
the fathers and mothers take things from ’em. There’s One above knows
better nor us.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, “an’ it’s poor work allays settin’ the dead
above the livin’. We shall all on us be dead some time, I reckon—it ’ud
be better if folks ’ud make much on us beforehand, i’stid o’ beginnin’
when we’re gone. It’s but little good you’ll do a-watering the last
year’s crop.”
“Well, Adam,” said Mr. Poyser, feeling that his wife’s words were, as
usual, rather incisive than soothing, and that it would be well to
change the subject, “you’ll come and see us again now, I hope. I hanna
had a talk with you this long while, and the missis here wants you to
see what can be done with her best spinning-wheel, for it’s got broke,
and it’ll be a nice job to mend it—there’ll want a bit o’ turning.
You’ll come as soon as you can now, will you?”
Mr. Poyser paused and looked round while he was speaking, as if to see
where Hetty was; for the children were running on before. Hetty was not
without a companion, and she had, besides, more pink and white about
her than ever, for she held in her hand the wonderful pink-and-white
hot-house plant, with a very long name—a Scotch name, she supposed,
since people said Mr. Craig the gardener was Scotch. Adam took the
opportunity of looking round too; and I am sure you will not require of
him that he should feel any vexation in observing a pouting expression
on Hetty’s face as she listened to the gardener’s small talk. Yet in
her secret heart she was glad to have him by her side, for she would
perhaps learn from him how it was Arthur had not come to church. Not
that she cared to ask him the question, but she hoped the information
would be given spontaneously; for Mr. Craig, like a superior man, was
very fond of giving information.
Mr. Craig was never aware that his conversation and advances were
received coldly, for to shift one’s point of view beyond certain limits
is impossible to the most liberal and expansive mind; we are none of us
aware of the impression we produce on Brazilian monkeys of feeble
understanding—it is possible they see hardly anything in us. Moreover,
Mr. Craig was a man of sober passions, and was already in his tenth
year of hesitation as to the relative advantages of matrimony and
bachelorhood. It is true that, now and then, when he had been a little
heated by an extra glass of grog, he had been heard to say of Hetty
that the “lass was well enough,” and that “a man might do worse”; but
on convivial occasions men are apt to express themselves strongly.
Martin Poyser held Mr. Craig in honour, as a man who “knew his
business” and who had great lights concerning soils and compost; but he
was less of a favourite with Mrs. Poyser, who had more than once said
in confidence to her husband, “You’re mighty fond o’ Craig, but for my
part, I think he’s welly like a cock as thinks the sun’s rose o’
purpose to hear him crow.” For the rest, Mr. Craig was an estimable
gardener, and was not without reasons for having a high opinion of
himself. He had also high shoulders and high cheek-bones and hung his
head forward a little, as he walked along with his hands in his
breeches pockets. I think it was his pedigree only that had the
advantage of being Scotch, and not his “bringing up”; for except that
he had a stronger burr in his accent, his speech differed little from
that of the Loamshire people about him. But a gardener is Scotch, as a
French teacher is Parisian.
“Well, Mr. Poyser,” he said, before the good slow farmer had time to
speak, “ye’ll not be carrying your hay to-morrow, I’m thinking. The
glass sticks at ‘change,’ and ye may rely upo’ my word as we’ll ha’
more downfall afore twenty-four hours is past. Ye see that darkish-blue
cloud there upo’ the ’rizon—ye know what I mean by the ’rizon, where
the land and sky seems to meet?”
“Aye, aye, I see the cloud,” said Mr. Poyser, “’rizon or no ’rizon.
It’s right o’er Mike Holdsworth’s fallow, and a foul fallow it is.”
“Well, you mark my words, as that cloud ’ull spread o’er the sky pretty
nigh as quick as you’d spread a tarpaulin over one o’ your hay-ricks.
It’s a great thing to ha’ studied the look o’ the clouds. Lord bless
you! Th’ met’orological almanecks can learn me nothing, but there’s a
pretty sight o’ things I could let _them_ up to, if they’d just come to
me. And how are _you_, Mrs. Poyser?—thinking o’ getherin’ the red
currants soon, I reckon. You’d a deal better gether ’em afore they’re
o’erripe, wi’ such weather as we’ve got to look forward to. How do ye
do, Mistress Bede?” Mr. Craig continued, without a pause, nodding by
the way to Adam and Seth. “I hope y’ enjoyed them spinach and
gooseberries as I sent Chester with th’ other day. If ye want
vegetables while ye’re in trouble, ye know where to come to. It’s well
known I’m not giving other folks’ things away, for when I’ve supplied
the house, the garden’s my own spekilation, and it isna every man th’
old squire could get as ’ud be equil to the undertaking, let alone
asking whether he’d be willing. I’ve got to run my calkilation fine, I
can tell you, to make sure o’ getting back the money as I pay the
squire. I should like to see some o’ them fellows as make the almanecks
looking as far before their noses as I’ve got to do every year as
comes.”
“They look pretty fur, though,” said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on
one side and speaking in rather a subdued reverential tone. “Why, what
could come truer nor that pictur o’ the cock wi’ the big spurs, as has
got its head knocked down wi’ th’ anchor, an’ th’ firin’, an’ the ships
behind? Why, that pictur was made afore Christmas, and yit it’s come as
true as th’ Bible. Why, th’ cock’s France, an’ th’ anchor’s Nelson—an’
they told us that beforehand.”
“Pee—ee-eh!” said Mr. Craig. “A man doesna want to see fur to know as
th’ English ’ull beat the French. Why, I know upo’ good authority as
it’s a big Frenchman as reaches five foot high, an’ they live upo’
spoon-meat mostly. I knew a man as his father had a particular
knowledge o’ the French. I should like to know what them grasshoppers
are to do against such fine fellows as our young Captain Arthur. Why,
it ’ud astonish a Frenchman only to look at him; his arm’s thicker nor
a Frenchman’s body, I’ll be bound, for they pinch theirsells in wi’
stays; and it’s easy enough, for they’ve got nothing i’ their insides.”
“Where is the captain, as he wasna at church to-day?” said Adam. “I was
talking to him o’ Friday, and he said nothing about his going away.”
“Oh, he’s only gone to Eagledale for a bit o’ fishing; I reckon he’ll
be back again afore many days are o’er, for he’s to be at all th’
arranging and preparing o’ things for the comin’ o’ age o’ the 30th o’
July. But he’s fond o’ getting away for a bit, now and then. Him and
th’ old squire fit one another like frost and flowers.”
Mr. Craig smiled and winked slowly as he made this last observation,