Adam Bede
thee afore he took to th’ drink. He’s a clever workman, an’ taught thee
thy trade, remember, an’s niver gen me a blow nor so much as an ill
word—no, not even in ’s drink. Thee wouldstna ha’ ’m go to the
workhus—thy own feyther—an’ him as was a fine-growed man an’ handy at
everythin’ amost as thee art thysen, five-an’-twenty ’ear ago, when
thee wast a baby at the breast.”
Lisbeth’s voice became louder, and choked with sobs—a sort of wail, the
most irritating of all sounds where real sorrows are to be borne and
real work to be done. Adam broke in impatiently.
“Now, Mother, don’t cry and talk so. Haven’t I got enough to vex me
without that? What’s th’ use o’ telling me things as I only think too
much on every day? If I didna think on ’em, why should I do as I do,
for the sake o’ keeping things together here? But I hate to be talking
where it’s no use: I like to keep my breath for doing i’stead o’
talking.”
“I know thee dost things as nobody else ’ud do, my lad. But thee’t
allays so hard upo’ thy feyther, Adam. Thee think’st nothing too much
to do for Seth: thee snapp’st me up if iver I find faut wi’ th’ lad.
But thee’t so angered wi’ thy feyther, more nor wi’ anybody else.”
“That’s better than speaking soft and letting things go the wrong way,
I reckon, isn’t it? If I wasn’t sharp with him he’d sell every bit o’
stuff i’ th’ yard and spend it on drink. I know there’s a duty to be
done by my father, but it isn’t my duty to encourage him in running
headlong to ruin. And what has Seth got to do with it? The lad does no
harm as I know of. But leave me alone, Mother, and let me get on with
the work.”
Lisbeth dared not say any more; but she got up and called Gyp, thinking
to console herself somewhat for Adam’s refusal of the supper she had
spread out in the loving expectation of looking at him while he ate it,
by feeding Adam’s dog with extra liberality. But Gyp was watching his
master with wrinkled brow and ears erect, puzzled at this unusual
course of things; and though he glanced at Lisbeth when she called him,
and moved his fore-paws uneasily, well knowing that she was inviting
him to supper, he was in a divided state of mind, and remained seated
on his haunches, again fixing his eyes anxiously on his master. Adam
noticed Gyp’s mental conflict, and though his anger had made him less
tender than usual to his mother, it did not prevent him from caring as
much as usual for his dog. We are apt to be kinder to the brutes that
love us than to the women that love us. Is it because the brutes are
dumb?
“Go, Gyp; go, lad!” Adam said, in a tone of encouraging command; and
Gyp, apparently satisfied that duty and pleasure were one, followed
Lisbeth into the house-place.
But no sooner had he licked up his supper than he went back to his
master, while Lisbeth sat down alone to cry over her knitting. Women
who are never bitter and resentful are often the most querulous; and if
Solomon was as wise as he is reputed to be, I feel sure that when he
compared a contentious woman to a continual dropping on a very rainy
day, he had not a vixen in his eye—a fury with long nails, acrid and
selfish. Depend upon it, he meant a good creature, who had no joy but
in the happiness of the loved ones whom she contributed to make
uncomfortable, putting by all the tid-bits for them and spending
nothing on herself. Such a woman as Lisbeth, for example—at once
patient and complaining, self-renouncing and exacting, brooding the
livelong day over what happened yesterday and what is likely to happen
to-morrow, and crying very readily both at the good and the evil. But a
certain awe mingled itself with her idolatrous love of Adam, and when
he said, “Leave me alone,” she was always silenced.
So the hours passed, to the loud ticking of the old day-clock and the
sound of Adam’s tools. At last he called for a light and a draught of
water (beer was a thing only to be drunk on holidays), and Lisbeth
ventured to say as she took it in, “Thy supper stan’s ready for thee,
when thee lik’st.”
“Donna thee sit up, mother,” said Adam, in a gentle tone. He had worked
off his anger now, and whenever he wished to be especially kind to his
mother, he fell into his strongest native accent and dialect, with
which at other times his speech was less deeply tinged. “I’ll see to
Father when he comes home; maybe he wonna come at all to-night. I shall
be easier if thee’t i’ bed.”
“Nay, I’ll bide till Seth comes. He wonna be long now, I reckon.”
It was then past nine by the clock, which was always in advance of the
days, and before it had struck ten the latch was lifted and Seth
entered. He had heard the sound of the tools as he was approaching.
“Why, Mother,” he said, “how is it as Father’s working so late?”
“It’s none o’ thy feyther as is a-workin’—thee might know that well
anoof if thy head warna full o’ chapellin’—it’s thy brother as does
iverything, for there’s niver nobody else i’ th’ way to do nothin’.”
Lisbeth was going on, for she was not at all afraid of Seth, and
usually poured into his ears all the querulousness which was repressed
by her awe of Adam. Seth had never in his life spoken a harsh word to
his mother, and timid people always wreak their peevishness on the
gentle. But Seth, with an anxious look, had passed into the workshop
and said, “Addy, how’s this? What! Father’s forgot the coffin?”
“Aye, lad, th’ old tale; but I shall get it done,” said Adam, looking
up and casting one of his bright keen glances at his brother. “Why,
what’s the matter with thee? Thee’t in trouble.”
Seth’s eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depression on his
mild face.
“Yes, Addy, but it’s what must be borne, and can’t be helped. Why,
thee’st never been to the school, then?”
“School? No, that screw can wait,” said Adam, hammering away again.
“Let me take my turn now, and do thee go to bed,” said Seth.
“No, lad, I’d rather go on, now I’m in harness. Thee’t help me to carry
it to Brox’on when it’s done. I’ll call thee up at sunrise. Go and eat
thy supper, and shut the door so as I mayn’t hear Mother’s talk.”
Seth knew that Adam always meant what he said, and was not to be
persuaded into meaning anything else. So he turned, with rather a heavy
heart, into the house-place.
“Adam’s niver touched a bit o’ victual sin’ home he’s come,” said
Lisbeth. “I reckon thee’st hed thy supper at some o’ thy Methody
folks.”
“Nay, Mother,” said Seth, “I’ve had no supper yet.”
“Come, then,” said Lisbeth, “but donna thee ate the taters, for Adam
’ull happen ate ’em if I leave ’em stannin’. He loves a bit o’ taters
an’ gravy. But he’s been so sore an’ angered, he wouldn’t ate ’em, for
all I’d putten ’em by o’ purpose for him. An’ he’s been a-threatenin’
to go away again,” she went on, whimpering, “an’ I’m fast sure he’ll go
some dawnin’ afore I’m up, an’ niver let me know aforehand, an’ he’ll
niver come back again when once he’s gone. An’ I’d better niver ha’ had
a son, as is like no other body’s son for the deftness an’ th’
handiness, an’ so looked on by th’ grit folks, an’ tall an’ upright
like a poplar-tree, an’ me to be parted from him an’ niver see ’m no
more.”
“Come, Mother, donna grieve thyself in vain,” said Seth, in a soothing
voice. “Thee’st not half so good reason to think as Adam ’ull go away
as to think he’ll stay with thee. He may say such a thing when he’s in
wrath—and he’s got excuse for being wrathful sometimes—but his heart
’ud never let him go. Think how he’s stood by us all when it’s been
none so easy—paying his savings to free me from going for a soldier,
an’ turnin’ his earnin’s into wood for father, when he’s got plenty o’
uses for his money, and many a young man like him ’ud ha’ been married
and settled before now. He’ll never turn round and knock down his own
work, and forsake them as it’s been the labour of his life to stand
by.”
“Donna talk to me about’s marr’in’,” said Lisbeth, crying afresh. “He’s
set’s heart on that Hetty Sorrel, as ’ull niver save a penny, an’ ’ull
toss up her head at’s old mother. An’ to think as he might ha’ Mary
Burge, an’ be took partners, an’ be a big man wi’ workmen under him,
like Mester Burge—Dolly’s told me so o’er and o’er again—if it warna as
he’s set’s heart on that bit of a wench, as is o’ no more use nor the
gillyflower on the wall. An’ he so wise at bookin’ an’ figurin’, an’
not to know no better nor that!”
“But, Mother, thee know’st we canna love just where other folks ’ud
have us. There’s nobody but God can control the heart of man. I could
ha’ wished myself as Adam could ha’ made another choice, but I wouldn’t
reproach him for what he can’t help. And I’m not sure but what he tries
to o’ercome it. But it’s a matter as he doesn’t like to be spoke to
about, and I can only pray to the Lord to bless and direct him.”
“Aye, thee’t allays ready enough at prayin’, but I donna see as thee
gets much wi’ thy prayin’. Thee wotna get double earnin’s o’ this side
Yule. Th’ Methodies ’ll niver make thee half the man thy brother is,
for all they’re a-makin’ a preacher on thee.”
“It’s partly truth thee speak’st there, Mother,” said Seth, mildly;
“Adam’s far before me, an’s done more for me than I can ever do for
him. God distributes talents to every man according as He sees good.
But thee mustna undervally prayer. Prayer mayna bring money, but it
brings us what no money can buy—a power to keep from sin and be content
with God’s will, whatever He may please to send. If thee wouldst pray
to God to help thee, and trust in His goodness, thee wouldstna be so
uneasy about things.”
“Unaisy? I’m i’ th’ right on’t to be unaisy. It’s well seen on _thee_
what it is niver to be unaisy. Thee’t gi’ away all thy earnin’s, an’
niver be unaisy as thee’st nothin’ laid up again’ a rainy day. If Adam
had been as aisy as thee, he’d niver ha’ had no money to pay for thee.
Take no thought for the morrow—take no thought—that’s what thee’t
allays sayin’; an’ what comes on’t? Why, as Adam has to take thought
for thee.”
“Those are the words o’ the Bible, Mother,” said Seth. “They don’t mean
as we should be idle. They mean we shouldn’t be overanxious and
worreting ourselves about what’ll happen to-morrow, but do our duty and
leave the rest to God’s will.”
“Aye, aye, that’s the way wi’ thee: thee allays makes a peck o’ thy own
words out o’ a pint o’ the Bible’s. I donna see how thee’t to know as
‘take no thought for the morrow’ means all that. An’ when the Bible’s
such a big book, an’ thee canst read all thro’t, an’ ha’ the pick o’
the texes, I canna think why thee dostna pick better words as donna
mean so much more nor they say. Adam doesna pick a that’n; I can
understan’ the tex as he’s allays a-sayin’, ‘God helps them as helps
theirsens.’”
“Nay, Mother,” said Seth, “that’s no text o’ the Bible. It comes out of
a book as Adam picked up at the stall at Treddles’on. It was wrote by a
knowing man, but overworldly, I doubt. However, that saying’s partly
true; for the Bible tells us we must be workers together with God.”
“Well, how’m I to know? It sounds like a tex. But what’s th’ matter wi’
th’ lad? Thee’t hardly atin’ a bit o’ supper. Dostna mean to ha’ no
more nor that bit o’ oat-cake? An’ thee lookst as white as a flick o’
new bacon. What’s th’ matter wi’ thee?”
“Nothing to mind about, Mother; I’m not hungry. I’ll just look in at
Adam again, and see if he’ll let me go on with the coffin.”
“Ha’ a drop o’ warm broth?” said Lisbeth, whose motherly feeling now
got the better of her “nattering” habit. “I’ll set two-three sticks
a-light in a minute.”
“Nay, Mother, thank thee; thee’t very good,” said Seth, gratefully; and
encouraged by this touch of tenderness, he went on: “Let me pray a bit
with thee for Father, and Adam, and all of us—it’ll comfort thee,
happen, more than thee thinkst.”