Adam Bede
familiars, had long been the wife of Sandy Jim, and possessed a
handsome set of matronly jewels, of which it is enough to mention the
heavy baby she was rocking in her arms, and the sturdy fellow of five
in knee-breeches, and red legs, who had a rusty milk-can round his neck
by way of drum, and was very carefully avoided by Chad’s small terrier.
This young olive-branch, notorious under the name of Timothy’s Bess’s
Ben, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by any false modesty,
had advanced beyond the group of women and children, and was walking
round the Methodists, looking up in their faces with his mouth wide
open, and beating his stick against the milk-can by way of musical
accompaniment. But one of the elderly women bending down to take him by
the shoulder, with an air of grave remonstrance, Timothy’s Bess’s Ben
first kicked out vigorously, then took to his heels and sought refuge
behind his father’s legs.
“Ye gallows young dog,” said Sandy Jim, with some paternal pride, “if
ye donna keep that stick quiet, I’ll tek it from ye. What dy’e mane by
kickin’ foulks?”
“Here! Gie him here to me, Jim,” said Chad Cranage; “I’ll tie hirs up
an’ shoe him as I do th’ hosses. Well, Mester Casson,” he continued, as
that personage sauntered up towards the group of men, “how are ye t’
naight? Are ye coom t’ help groon? They say folks allays groon when
they’re hearkenin’ to th’ Methodys, as if they war bad i’ th’ inside. I
mane to groon as loud as your cow did th’ other naight, an’ then the
praicher ’ull think I’m i’ th’ raight way.”
“I’d advise you not to be up to no nonsense, Chad,” said Mr. Casson,
with some dignity; “Poyser wouldn’t like to hear as his wife’s niece
was treated any ways disrespectful, for all he mayn’t be fond of her
taking on herself to preach.”
“Aye, an’ she’s a pleasant-looked un too,” said Wiry Ben. “I’ll stick
up for the pretty women preachin’; I know they’d persuade me over a
deal sooner nor th’ ugly men. I shouldna wonder if I turn Methody afore
the night’s out, an’ begin to coort the preacher, like Seth Bede.”
“Why, Seth’s looking rether too high, I should think,” said Mr. Casson.
“This woman’s kin wouldn’t like her to demean herself to a common
carpenter.”
“Tchu!” said Ben, with a long treble intonation, “what’s folks’s kin
got to do wi’t? Not a chip. Poyser’s wife may turn her nose up an’
forget bygones, but this Dinah Morris, they tell me, ’s as poor as iver
she was—works at a mill, an’s much ado to keep hersen. A strappin’
young carpenter as is a ready-made Methody, like Seth, wouldna be a bad
match for her. Why, Poysers make as big a fuss wi’ Adam Bede as if he
war a nevvy o’ their own.”
“Idle talk! idle talk!” said Mr. Joshua Rann. “Adam an’ Seth’s two men;
you wunna fit them two wi’ the same last.”
“Maybe,” said Wiry Ben, contemptuously, “but Seth’s the lad for me,
though he war a Methody twice o’er. I’m fair beat wi’ Seth, for I’ve
been teasin’ him iver sin’ we’ve been workin’ together, an’ he bears me
no more malice nor a lamb. An’ he’s a stout-hearted feller too, for
when we saw the old tree all afire a-comin’ across the fields one
night, an’ we thought as it war a boguy, Seth made no more ado, but he
up to’t as bold as a constable. Why, there he comes out o’ Will
Maskery’s; an’ there’s Will hisself, lookin’ as meek as if he couldna
knock a nail o’ the head for fear o’ hurtin’t. An’ there’s the pretty
preacher woman! My eye, she’s got her bonnet off. I mun go a bit
nearer.”
Several of the men followed Ben’s lead, and the traveller pushed his
horse on to the Green, as Dinah walked rather quickly and in advance of
her companions towards the cart under the maple-tree. While she was
near Seth’s tall figure, she looked short, but when she had mounted the
cart, and was away from all comparison, she seemed above the middle
height of woman, though in reality she did not exceed it—an effect
which was due to the slimness of her figure and the simple line of her
black stuff dress. The stranger was struck with surprise as he saw her
approach and mount the cart—surprise, not so much at the feminine
delicacy of her appearance, as at the total absence of
self-consciousness in her demeanour. He had made up his mind to see her
advance with a measured step and a demure solemnity of countenance; he
had felt sure that her face would be mantled with the smile of
conscious saintship, or else charged with denunciatory bitterness. He
knew but two types of Methodist—the ecstatic and the bilious. But Dinah
walked as simply as if she were going to market, and seemed as
unconscious of her outward appearance as a little boy: there was no
blush, no tremulousness, which said, “I know you think me a pretty
woman, too young to preach”; no casting up or down of the eyelids, no
compression of the lips, no attitude of the arms that said, “But you
must think of me as a saint.” She held no book in her ungloved hands,
but let them hang down lightly crossed before her, as she stood and
turned her grey eyes on the people. There was no keenness in the eyes;
they seemed rather to be shedding love than making observations; they
had the liquid look which tells that the mind is full of what it has to
give out, rather than impressed by external objects. She stood with her
left hand towards the descending sun, and leafy boughs screened her
from its rays; but in this sober light the delicate colouring of her
face seemed to gather a calm vividness, like flowers at evening. It was
a small oval face, of a uniform transparent whiteness, with an egg-like
line of cheek and chin, a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and
a low perpendicular brow, surmounted by a rising arch of parting
between smooth locks of pale reddish hair. The hair was drawn straight
back behind the ears, and covered, except for an inch or two above the
brow, by a net Quaker cap. The eyebrows, of the same colour as the
hair, were perfectly horizontal and firmly pencilled; the eyelashes,
though no darker, were long and abundant—nothing was left blurred or
unfinished. It was one of those faces that make one think of white
flowers with light touches of colour on their pure petals. The eyes had
no peculiar beauty, beyond that of expression; they looked so simple,
so candid, so gravely loving, that no accusing scowl, no light sneer
could help melting away before their glance. Joshua Rann gave a long
cough, as if he were clearing his throat in order to come to a new
understanding with himself; Chad Cranage lifted up his leather
skull-cap and scratched his head; and Wiry Ben wondered how Seth had
the pluck to think of courting her.
“A sweet woman,” the stranger said to himself, “but surely nature never
meant her for a preacher.”
Perhaps he was one of those who think that nature has theatrical
properties and, with the considerate view of facilitating art and
psychology, “makes up,” her characters, so that there may be no mistake
about them. But Dinah began to speak.
“Dear friends,” she said in a clear but not loud voice “let us pray for
a blessing.”
She closed her eyes, and hanging her head down a little continued in
the same moderate tone, as if speaking to some one quite near her:
“Saviour of sinners! When a poor woman laden with sins, went out to the
well to draw water, she found Thee sitting at the well. She knew Thee
not; she had not sought Thee; her mind was dark; her life was unholy.
But Thou didst speak to her, Thou didst teach her, Thou didst show her
that her life lay open before Thee, and yet Thou wast ready to give her
that blessing which she had never sought. Jesus, Thou art in the midst
of us, and Thou knowest all men: if there is any here like that poor
woman—if their minds are dark, their lives unholy—if they have come out
not seeking Thee, not desiring to be taught; deal with them according
to the free mercy which Thou didst show to her. Speak to them, Lord,
open their ears to my message, bring their sins to their minds, and
make them thirst for that salvation which Thou art ready to give.
“Lord, Thou art with Thy people still: they see Thee in the
night-watches, and their hearts burn within them as Thou talkest with
them by the way. And Thou art near to those who have not known Thee:
open their eyes that they may see Thee—see Thee weeping over them, and
saying ‘Ye will not come unto me that ye might have life’—see Thee
hanging on the cross and saying, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know
not what they do’—see Thee as Thou wilt come again in Thy glory to
judge them at the last. Amen.”
Dinah opened her eyes again and paused, looking at the group of
villagers, who were now gathered rather more closely on her right hand.
“Dear friends,” she began, raising her voice a little, “you have all of
you been to church, and I think you must have heard the clergyman read
these words: ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath
anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor.’ Jesus Christ spoke those
words—he said he came _to preach the Gospel to the poor:_ I don’t know
whether you ever thought about those words much, but I will tell you
when I remember first hearing them. It was on just such a sort of
evening as this, when I was a little girl, and my aunt as brought me up
took me to hear a good man preach out of doors, just as we are here. I
remember his face well: he was a very old man, and had very long white
hair; his voice was very soft and beautiful, not like any voice I had
ever heard before. I was a little girl and scarcely knew anything, and
this old man seemed to me such a different sort of a man from anybody I
had ever seen before that I thought he had perhaps come down from the
sky to preach to us, and I said, ‘Aunt, will he go back to the sky
to-night, like the picture in the Bible?’
“That man of God was Mr. Wesley, who spent his life in doing what our
blessed Lord did—preaching the Gospel to the poor—and he entered into
his rest eight years ago. I came to know more about him years after,
but I was a foolish thoughtless child then, and I remembered only one
thing he told us in his sermon. He told us as ‘Gospel’ meant ‘good
news.’ The Gospel, you know, is what the Bible tells us about God.
“Think of that now! Jesus Christ did really come down from heaven, as
I, like a silly child, thought Mr. Wesley did; and what he came down
for was to tell good news about God to the poor. Why, you and me, dear
friends, are poor. We have been brought up in poor cottages and have
been reared on oat-cake, and lived coarse; and we haven’t been to
school much, nor read books, and we don’t know much about anything but
what happens just round us. We are just the sort of people that want to
hear good news. For when anybody’s well off, they don’t much mind about
hearing news from distant parts; but if a poor man or woman’s in
trouble and has hard work to make out a living, they like to have a
letter to tell ’em they’ve got a friend as will help ’em. To be sure,
we can’t help knowing something about God, even if we’ve never heard
the Gospel, the good news that our Saviour brought us. For we know
everything comes from God: don’t you say almost every day, ‘This and
that will happen, please God,’ and ‘We shall begin to cut the grass
soon, please God to send us a little more sunshine’? We know very well
we are altogether in the hands of God. We didn’t bring ourselves into
the world, we can’t keep ourselves alive while we’re sleeping; the
daylight, and the wind, and the corn, and the cows to give us
milk—everything we have comes from God. And he gave us our souls and
put love between parents and children, and husband and wife. But is
that as much as we want to know about God? We see he is great and
mighty, and can do what he will: we are lost, as if we was struggling
in great waters, when we try to think of him.