Adam Bede
save me from it. And I _did_ struggle: I never meant to injure her. I
deceived you afterwards—and that led on to worse; but I thought it was
forced upon me, I thought it was the best thing I could do. And in that
letter I told her to let me know if she were in any trouble: don’t
think I would not have done everything I could. But I was all wrong
from the very first, and horrible wrong has come of it. God knows, I’d
give my life if I could undo it.”
They sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said, tremulously,
“How did she seem when you left her, sir?”
“Don’t ask me, Adam,” Arthur said; “I feel sometimes as if I should go
mad with thinking of her looks and what she said to me, and then, that
I couldn’t get a full pardon—that I couldn’t save her from that
wretched fate of being transported—that I can do nothing for her all
those years; and she may die under it, and never know comfort any
more.”
“Ah, sir,” said Adam, for the first time feeling his own pain merged in
sympathy for Arthur, “you and me’ll often be thinking o’ the same
thing, when we’re a long way off one another. I’ll pray God to help
you, as I pray him to help me.”
“But there’s that sweet woman—that Dinah Morris,” Arthur said, pursuing
his own thoughts and not knowing what had been the sense of Adam’s
words, “she says she shall stay with her to the very last moment—till
she goes; and the poor thing clings to her as if she found some comfort
in her. I could worship that woman; I don’t know what I should do if
she were not there. Adam, you will see her when she comes back. I could
say nothing to her yesterday—nothing of what I felt towards her. Tell
her,” Arthur went on hurriedly, as if he wanted to hide the emotion
with which he spoke, while he took off his chain and watch, “tell her I
asked you to give her this in remembrance of me—of the man to whom she
is the one source of comfort, when he thinks of... I know she doesn’t
care about such things—or anything else I can give her for its own
sake. But she will use the watch—I shall like to think of her using
it.”
“I’ll give it to her, sir,” Adam said, “and tell her your words. She
told me she should come back to the people at the Hall Farm.”
“And you _will_ persuade the Poysers to stay, Adam?” said Arthur,
reminded of the subject which both of them had forgotten in the first
interchange of revived friendship. “You _will_ stay yourself, and help
Mr. Irwine to carry out the repairs and improvements on the estate?”
“There’s one thing, sir, that perhaps you don’t take account of,” said
Adam, with hesitating gentleness, “and that was what made me hang back
longer. You see, it’s the same with both me and the Poysers: if we
stay, it’s for our own worldly interest, and it looks as if we’d put up
with anything for the sake o’ that. I know that’s what they’ll feel,
and I can’t help feeling a little of it myself. When folks have got an
honourable independent spirit, they don’t like to do anything that
might make ’em seem base-minded.”
“But no one who knows you will think that, Adam. That is not a reason
strong enough against a course that is really more generous, more
unselfish than the other. And it will be known—it shall be made known,
that both you and the Poysers stayed at my entreaty. Adam, don’t try to
make things worse for me; I’m punished enough without that.”
“No, sir, no,” Adam said, looking at Arthur with mournful affection.
“God forbid I should make things worse for you. I used to wish I could
do it, in my passion—but that was when I thought you didn’t feel
enough. I’ll stay, sir, I’ll do the best I can. It’s all I’ve got to
think of now—to do my work well and make the world a bit better place
for them as can enjoy it.”
“Then we’ll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine to-morrow, and
consult with him about everything.”
“Are you going soon, sir?” said Adam.
“As soon as possible—after I’ve made the necessary arrangements.
Good-bye, Adam. I shall think of you going about the old place.”
“Good-bye, sir. God bless you.”
The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the Hermitage, feeling
that sorrow was more bearable now hatred was gone.
As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went to the
waste-paper basket and took out the little pink silk handkerchief.
Book Sixth
Chapter XLIX
At the Hall Farm
The first autumnal afternoon sunshine of 1801—more than eighteen months
after that parting of Adam and Arthur in the Hermitage—was on the yard
at the Hall Farm; and the bull-dog was in one of his most excited
moments, for it was that hour of the day when the cows were being
driven into the yard for their afternoon milking. No wonder the patient
beasts ran confusedly into the wrong places, for the alarming din of
the bull-dog was mingled with more distant sounds which the timid
feminine creatures, with pardonable superstition, imagined also to have
some relation to their own movements—with the tremendous crack of the
waggoner’s whip, the roar of his voice, and the booming thunder of the
waggon, as it left the rick-yard empty of its golden load.
The milking of the cows was a sight Mrs. Poyser loved, and at this hour
on mild days she was usually standing at the house door, with her
knitting in her hands, in quiet contemplation, only heightened to a
keener interest when the vicious yellow cow, who had once kicked over a
pailful of precious milk, was about to undergo the preventive
punishment of having her hinder-legs strapped.
To-day, however, Mrs. Poyser gave but a divided attention to the
arrival of the cows, for she was in eager discussion with Dinah, who
was stitching Mr. Poyser’s shirt-collars, and had borne patiently to
have her thread broken three times by Totty pulling at her arm with a
sudden insistence that she should look at “Baby,” that is, at a large
wooden doll with no legs and a long skirt, whose bald head Totty,
seated in her small chair at Dinah’s side, was caressing and pressing
to her fat cheek with much fervour. Totty is larger by more than two
years’ growth than when you first saw her, and she has on a black frock
under her pinafore. Mrs. Poyser too has on a black gown, which seems to
heighten the family likeness between her and Dinah. In other respects
there is little outward change now discernible in our old friends, or
in the pleasant house-place, bright with polished oak and pewter.
“I never saw the like to you, Dinah,” Mrs. Poyser was saying, “when
you’ve once took anything into your head: there’s no more moving you
than the rooted tree. You may say what you like, but I don’t believe
_that’s_ religion; for what’s the Sermon on the Mount about, as you’re
so fond o’ reading to the boys, but doing what other folks ’ud have you
do? But if it was anything unreasonable they wanted you to do, like
taking your cloak off and giving it to ’em, or letting ’em slap you i’
the face, I daresay you’d be ready enough. It’s only when one ’ud have
you do what’s plain common sense and good for yourself, as you’re
obstinate th’ other way.”
“Nay, dear Aunt,” said Dinah, smiling slightly as she went on with her
work, “I’m sure your wish ’ud be a reason for me to do anything that I
didn’t feel it was wrong to do.”
“Wrong! You drive me past bearing. What is there wrong, I should like
to know, i’ staying along wi’ your own friends, as are th’ happier for
having you with ’em an’ are willing to provide for you, even if your
work didn’t more nor pay ’em for the bit o’ sparrow’s victual y’ eat
and the bit o’ rag you put on? An’ who is it, I should like to know, as
you’re bound t’ help and comfort i’ the world more nor your own flesh
and blood—an’ me th’ only aunt you’ve got above-ground, an’ am brought
to the brink o’ the grave welly every winter as comes, an’ there’s the
child as sits beside you ’ull break her little heart when you go, an’
the grandfather not been dead a twelvemonth, an’ your uncle ’ull miss
you so as never was—a-lighting his pipe an’ waiting on him, an’ now I
can trust you wi’ the butter, an’ have had all the trouble o’ teaching
you, and there’s all the sewing to be done, an’ I must have a strange
gell out o’ Treddles’on to do it—an’ all because you must go back to
that bare heap o’ stones as the very crows fly over an’ won’t stop at.”
“Dear Aunt Rachel,” said Dinah, looking up in Mrs. Poyser’s face, “it’s
your kindness makes you say I’m useful to you. You don’t really want me
now, for Nancy and Molly are clever at their work, and you’re in good
health now, by the blessing of God, and my uncle is of a cheerful
countenance again, and you have neighbours and friends not a few—some
of them come to sit with my uncle almost daily. Indeed, you will not
miss me; and at Snowfield there are brethren and sisters in great need,
who have none of those comforts you have around you. I feel that I am
called back to those amongst whom my lot was first cast. I feel drawn
again towards the hills where I used to be blessed in carrying the word
of life to the sinful and desolate.”
“You feel! Yes,” said Mrs. Poyser, returning from a parenthetic glance
at the cows, “that’s allays the reason I’m to sit down wi’, when you’ve
a mind to do anything contrairy. What do you want to be preaching for
more than you’re preaching now? Don’t you go off, the Lord knows where,
every Sunday a-preaching and praying? An’ haven’t you got Methodists
enow at Treddles’on to go and look at, if church-folks’s faces are too
handsome to please you? An’ isn’t there them i’ this parish as you’ve
got under hand, and they’re like enough to make friends wi’ Old Harry
again as soon as your back’s turned? There’s that Bessy Cranage—she’ll
be flaunting i’ new finery three weeks after you’re gone, I’ll be
bound. She’ll no more go on in her new ways without you than a dog ’ull
stand on its hind-legs when there’s nobody looking. But I suppose it
doesna matter so much about folks’s souls i’ this country, else you’d
be for staying with your own aunt, for she’s none so good but what you
might help her to be better.”
There was a certain something in Mrs. Poyser’s voice just then, which
she did not wish to be noticed, so she turned round hastily to look at
the clock, and said: “See there! It’s tea-time; an’ if Martin’s i’ the
rick-yard, he’ll like a cup. Here, Totty, my chicken, let mother put
your bonnet on, and then you go out into the rick-yard and see if
Father’s there, and tell him he mustn’t go away again without coming t’
have a cup o’ tea; and tell your brothers to come in too.”
Totty trotted off in her flapping bonnet, while Mrs. Poyser set out the
bright oak table and reached down the tea-cups.
“You talk o’ them gells Nancy and Molly being clever i’ their work,”
she began again; “it’s fine talking. They’re all the same, clever or
stupid—one can’t trust ’em out o’ one’s sight a minute. They want
somebody’s eye on ’em constant if they’re to be kept to their work. An’
suppose I’m ill again this winter, as I was the winter before last?
Who’s to look after ’em then, if you’re gone? An’ there’s that blessed
child—something’s sure t’ happen to her—they’ll let her tumble into the
fire, or get at the kettle wi’ the boiling lard in’t, or some mischief
as ’ull lame her for life; an’ it’ll be all your fault, Dinah.”
“Aunt,” said Dinah, “I promise to come back to you in the winter if
you’re ill. Don’t think I will ever stay away from you if you’re in
real want of me. But, indeed, it is needful for my own soul that I
should go away from this life of ease and luxury in which I have all
things too richly to enjoy—at least that I should go away for a short
space. No one can know but myself what are my inward needs, and the
besetments I am most in danger from. Your wish for me to stay is not a
call of duty which I refuse to hearken to because it is against my own