Adam Bede
or uttered more than an allusion to their family troubles. Adam was by
nature reserved in all matters of feeling, and Seth felt a certain
timidity towards his more practical brother.
“Seth, lad,” Adam said, putting his arm on his brother’s shoulder,
“hast heard anything from Dinah Morris since she went away?”
“Yes,” said Seth. “She told me I might write her word after a while,
how we went on, and how mother bore up under her trouble. So I wrote to
her a fortnight ago, and told her about thee having a new employment,
and how Mother was more contented; and last Wednesday, when I called at
the post at Treddles’on, I found a letter from her. I think thee’dst
perhaps like to read it, but I didna say anything about it because
thee’st seemed so full of other things. It’s quite easy t’ read—she
writes wonderful for a woman.”
Seth had drawn the letter from his pocket and held it out to Adam, who
said, as he took it, “Aye, lad, I’ve got a tough load to carry just
now—thee mustna take it ill if I’m a bit silenter and crustier nor
usual. Trouble doesna make me care the less for thee. I know we shall
stick together to the last.”
“I take nought ill o’ thee, Adam. I know well enough what it means if
thee’t a bit short wi’ me now and then.”
“There’s Mother opening the door to look out for us,” said Adam, as
they mounted the slope. “She’s been sitting i’ the dark as usual. Well,
Gyp, well, art glad to see me?”
Lisbeth went in again quickly and lighted a candle, for she had heard
the welcome rustling of footsteps on the grass, before Gyp’s joyful
bark.
“Eh, my lads! Th’ hours war ne’er so long sin’ I war born as they’n
been this blessed Sunday night. What can ye both ha’ been doin’ till
this time?”
“Thee shouldstna sit i’ the dark, Mother,” said Adam; “that makes the
time seem longer.”
“Eh, what am I to do wi’ burnin’ candle of a Sunday, when there’s on’y
me an’ it’s sin to do a bit o’ knittin’? The daylight’s long enough for
me to stare i’ the booke as I canna read. It ’ud be a fine way o’
shortenin’ the time, to make it waste the good candle. But which on
you’s for ha’in’ supper? Ye mun ayther be clemmed or full, I should
think, seein’ what time o’ night it is.”
“I’m hungry, Mother,” said Seth, seating himself at the little table,
which had been spread ever since it was light.
“I’ve had my supper,” said Adam. “Here, Gyp,” he added, taking some
cold potato from the table and rubbing the rough grey head that looked
up towards him.
“Thee needstna be gi’in’ th’ dog,” said Lisbeth; “I’n fed him well
a’ready. I’m not like to forget him, I reckon, when he’s all o’ thee I
can get sight on.”
“Come, then, Gyp,” said Adam, “we’ll go to bed. Good-night, Mother; I’m
very tired.”
“What ails him, dost know?” Lisbeth said to Seth, when Adam was gone
upstairs. “He’s like as if he was struck for death this day or two—he’s
so cast down. I found him i’ the shop this forenoon, arter thee wast
gone, a-sittin’ an’ doin’ nothin’—not so much as a booke afore him.”
“He’s a deal o’ work upon him just now, Mother,” said Seth, “and I
think he’s a bit troubled in his mind. Don’t you take notice of it,
because it hurts him when you do. Be as kind to him as you can, Mother,
and don’t say anything to vex him.”
“Eh, what dost talk o’ my vexin’ him? An’ what am I like to be but
kind? I’ll ma’ him a kettle-cake for breakfast i’ the mornin’.”
Adam, meanwhile, was reading Dinah’s letter by the light of his dip
candle.
DEAR BROTHER SETH—Your letter lay three days beyond my knowing of it at
the post, for I had not money enough by me to pay the carriage, this
being a time of great need and sickness here, with the rains that have
fallen, as if the windows of heaven were opened again; and to lay by
money, from day to day, in such a time, when there are so many in
present need of all things, would be a want of trust like the laying up
of the manna. I speak of this, because I would not have you think me
slow to answer, or that I had small joy in your rejoicing at the
worldly good that has befallen your brother Adam. The honour and love
you bear him is nothing but meet, for God has given him great gifts,
and he uses them as the patriarch Joseph did, who, when he was exalted
to a place of power and trust, yet yearned with tenderness towards his
parent and his younger brother.
“My heart is knit to your aged mother since it was granted me to be
near her in the day of trouble. Speak to her of me, and tell her I
often bear her in my thoughts at evening time, when I am sitting in the
dim light as I did with her, and we held one another’s hands, and I
spoke the words of comfort that were given to me. Ah, that is a blessed
time, isn’t it, Seth, when the outward light is fading, and the body is
a little wearied with its work and its labour. Then the inward light
shines the brighter, and we have a deeper sense of resting on the
Divine strength. I sit on my chair in the dark room and close my eyes,
and it is as if I was out of the body and could feel no want for
evermore. For then, the very hardship, and the sorrow, and the
blindness, and the sin I have beheld and been ready to weep over—yea,
all the anguish of the children of men, which sometimes wraps me round
like sudden darkness—I can bear with a willing pain, as if I was
sharing the Redeemer’s cross. For I feel it, I feel it—infinite love is
suffering too—yea, in the fulness of knowledge it suffers, it yearns,
it mourns; and that is a blind self-seeking which wants to be freed
from the sorrow wherewith the whole creation groaneth and travaileth.
Surely it is not true blessedness to be free from sorrow, while there
is sorrow and sin in the world: sorrow is then a part of love, and love
does not seek to throw it off. It is not the spirit only that tells me
this—I see it in the whole work and word of the Gospel. Is there not
pleading in heaven? Is not the Man of Sorrows there in that crucified
body wherewith he ascended? And is He not one with the Infinite Love
itself—as our love is one with our sorrow?
“These thoughts have been much borne in on me of late, and I have seen
with new clearness the meaning of those words, ‘If any man love me, let
him take up my cross.’ I have heard this enlarged on as if it meant the
troubles and persecutions we bring on ourselves by confessing Jesus.
But surely that is a narrow thought. The true cross of the Redeemer was
the sin and sorrow of this world—_that_ was what lay heavy on his
heart—and that is the cross we shall share with him, that is the cup we
must drink of with him, if we would have any part in that Divine Love
which is one with his sorrow.
“In my outward lot, which you ask about, I have all things and abound.
I have had constant work in the mill, though some of the other hands
have been turned off for a time, and my body is greatly strengthened,
so that I feel little weariness after long walking and speaking. What
you say about staying in your own country with your mother and brother
shows me that you have a true guidance; your lot is appointed there by
a clear showing, and to seek a greater blessing elsewhere would be like
laying a false offering on the altar and expecting the fire from heaven
to kindle it. My work and my joy are here among the hills, and I
sometimes think I cling too much to my life among the people here, and
should be rebellious if I was called away.
“I was thankful for your tidings about the dear friends at the Hall
Farm, for though I sent them a letter, by my aunt’s desire, after I
came back from my sojourn among them, I have had no word from them. My
aunt has not the pen of a ready writer, and the work of the house is
sufficient for the day, for she is weak in body. My heart cleaves to
her and her children as the nearest of all to me in the flesh—yea, and
to all in that house. I am carried away to them continually in my
sleep, and often in the midst of work, and even of speech, the thought
of them is borne in on me as if they were in need and trouble, which
yet is dark to me. There may be some leading here; but I wait to be
taught. You say they are all well.
“We shall see each other again in the body, I trust, though, it may be,
not for a long while; for the brethren and sisters at Leeds are
desirous to have me for a short space among them, when I have a door
opened me again to leave Snowfield.
“Farewell, dear brother—and yet not farewell. For those children of God
whom it has been granted to see each other face to face, and to hold
communion together, and to feel the same spirit working in both can
never more be sundered though the hills may lie between. For their
souls are enlarged for evermore by that union, and they bear one
another about in their thoughts continually as it were a new
strength.—Your faithful Sister and fellow-worker in Christ,
“DINAH MORRIS.”
“I have not skill to write the words so small as you do and my pen
moves slow. And so I am straitened, and say but little of what is in my
mind. Greet your mother for me with a kiss. She asked me to kiss her
twice when we parted.”
Adam had refolded the letter, and was sitting meditatively with his
head resting on his arm at the head of the bed, when Seth came
upstairs.
“Hast read the letter?” said Seth.
“Yes,” said Adam. “I don’t know what I should ha’ thought of her and
her letter if I’d never seen her: I daresay I should ha’ thought a
preaching woman hateful. But she’s one as makes everything seem right
she says and does, and I seemed to see her and hear her speaking when I
read the letter. It’s wonderful how I remember her looks and her voice.
She’d make thee rare and happy, Seth; she’s just the woman for thee.”
“It’s no use thinking o’ that,” said Seth, despondingly. “She spoke so
firm, and she’s not the woman to say one thing and mean another.”
“Nay, but her feelings may grow different. A woman may get to love by
degrees—the best fire dosna flare up the soonest. I’d have thee go and
see her by and by: I’d make it convenient for thee to be away three or
four days, and it ’ud be no walk for thee—only between twenty and
thirty mile.”
“I should like to see her again, whether or no, if she wouldna be
displeased with me for going,” said Seth.
“She’ll be none displeased,” said Adam emphatically, getting up and
throwing off his coat. “It might be a great happiness to us all if
she’d have thee, for mother took to her so wonderful and seemed so
contented to be with her.”
“Aye,” said Seth, rather timidly, “and Dinah’s fond o’ Hetty too; she
thinks a deal about her.”
Adam made no reply to that, and no other word but “good-night” passed
between them.
Chapter XXXI
In Hetty’s Bed-Chamber
It was no longer light enough to go to bed without a candle, even in
Mrs. Poyser’s early household, and Hetty carried one with her as she
went up at last to her bedroom soon after Adam was gone, and bolted the
door behind her.
_Now_ she would read her letter. It must—it must have comfort in it.
How was Adam to know the truth? It was always likely he should say what
he did say.
She set down the candle and took out the letter. It had a faint scent
of roses, which made her feel as if Arthur were close to her. She put
it to her lips, and a rush of remembered sensations for a moment or two
swept away all fear. But her heart began to flutter strangely, and her
hands to tremble as she broke the seal. She read slowly; it was not
easy for her to read a gentleman’s handwriting, though Arthur had taken
pains to write plainly.
“DEAREST HETTY—I have spoken truly when I have said that I loved you,
and I shall never forget our love. I shall be your true friend as long
as life lasts, and I hope to prove this to you in many ways. If I say
anything to pain you in this letter, do not believe it is for want of