Adam Bede
“Well, lad, I’ll bid you good-bye now, for I’m off to the rick-yard
again.”
Adam rose too, for he saw Dinah entering, with her bonnet on and a
little basket in her hand, preceded by Totty.
“You’re ready, I see, Dinah,” Adam said; “so we’ll set off, for the
sooner I’m at home the better.”
“Mother,” said Totty, with her treble pipe, “Dinah was saying her
prayers and crying ever so.”
“Hush, hush,” said the mother, “little gells mustn’t chatter.”
Whereupon the father, shaking with silent laughter, set Totty on the
white deal table and desired her to kiss him. Mr. and Mrs. Poyser, you
perceive, had no correct principles of education.
“Come back to-morrow if Mrs. Bede doesn’t want you, Dinah,” said Mrs.
Poyser: “but you can stay, you know, if she’s ill.”
So, when the good-byes had been said, Dinah and Adam left the Hall Farm
together.
Chapter L
In the Cottage
Adam did not ask Dinah to take his arm when they got out into the lane.
He had never yet done so, often as they had walked together, for he had
observed that she never walked arm-in-arm with Seth, and he thought,
perhaps, that kind of support was not agreeable to her. So they walked
apart, though side by side, and the close poke of her little black
bonnet hid her face from him.
“You can’t be happy, then, to make the Hall Farm your home, Dinah?”
Adam said, with the quiet interest of a brother, who has no anxiety for
himself in the matter. “It’s a pity, seeing they’re so fond of you.”
“You know, Adam, my heart is as their heart, so far as love for them
and care for their welfare goes, but they are in no present need. Their
sorrows are healed, and I feel that I am called back to my old work, in
which I found a blessing that I have missed of late in the midst of too
abundant worldly good. I know it is a vain thought to flee from the
work that God appoints us, for the sake of finding a greater blessing
to our own souls, as if we could choose for ourselves where we shall
find the fulness of the Divine Presence, instead of seeking it where
alone it is to be found, in loving obedience. But now, I believe, I
have a clear showing that my work lies elsewhere—at least for a time.
In the years to come, if my aunt’s health should fail, or she should
otherwise need me, I shall return.”
“You know best, Dinah,” said Adam. “I don’t believe you’d go against
the wishes of them that love you, and are akin to you, without a good
and sufficient reason in your own conscience. I’ve no right to say
anything about my being sorry: you know well enough what cause I have
to put you above every other friend I’ve got; and if it had been
ordered so that you could ha’ been my sister, and lived with us all our
lives, I should ha’ counted it the greatest blessing as could happen to
us now. But Seth tells me there’s no hope o’ that: your feelings are
different, and perhaps I’m taking too much upon me to speak about it.”
Dinah made no answer, and they walked on in silence for some yards,
till they came to the stone stile, where, as Adam had passed through
first and turned round to give her his hand while she mounted the
unusually high step, she could not prevent him from seeing her face. It
struck him with surprise, for the grey eyes, usually so mild and grave,
had the bright uneasy glance which accompanies suppressed agitation,
and the slight flush in her cheeks, with which she had come downstairs,
was heightened to a deep rose-colour. She looked as if she were only
sister to Dinah. Adam was silent with surprise and conjecture for some
moments, and then he said, “I hope I’ve not hurt or displeased you by
what I’ve said, Dinah. Perhaps I was making too free. I’ve no wish
different from what you see to be best, and I’m satisfied for you to
live thirty mile off, if you think it right. I shall think of you just
as much as I do now, for you’re bound up with what I can no more help
remembering than I can help my heart beating.”
Poor Adam! Thus do men blunder. Dinah made no answer, but she presently
said, “Have you heard any news from that poor young man, since we last
spoke of him?”
Dinah always called Arthur so; she had never lost the image of him as
she had seen him in the prison.
“Yes,” said Adam. “Mr. Irwine read me part of a letter from him
yesterday. It’s pretty certain, they say, that there’ll be a peace
soon, though nobody believes it’ll last long; but he says he doesn’t
mean to come home. He’s no heart for it yet, and it’s better for others
that he should keep away. Mr. Irwine thinks he’s in the right not to
come. It’s a sorrowful letter. He asks about you and the Poysers, as he
always does. There’s one thing in the letter cut me a good deal: ‘You
can’t think what an old fellow I feel,’ he says; ‘I make no schemes
now. I’m the best when I’ve a good day’s march or fighting before me.’”
“He’s of a rash, warm-hearted nature, like Esau, for whom I have always
felt great pity,” said Dinah. “That meeting between the brothers, where
Esau is so loving and generous, and Jacob so timid and distrustful,
notwithstanding his sense of the Divine favour, has always touched me
greatly. Truly, I have been tempted sometimes to say that Jacob was of
a mean spirit. But that is our trial: we must learn to see the good in
the midst of much that is unlovely.”
“Ah,” said Adam, “I like to read about Moses best, in th’ Old
Testament. He carried a hard business well through, and died when other
folks were going to reap the fruits. A man must have courage to look at
his life so, and think what’ll come of it after he’s dead and gone. A
good solid bit o’ work lasts: if it’s only laying a floor down,
somebody’s the better for it being done well, besides the man as does
it.”
They were both glad to talk of subjects that were not personal, and in
this way they went on till they passed the bridge across the Willow
Brook, when Adam turned round and said, “Ah, here’s Seth. I thought
he’d be home soon. Does he know of you’re going, Dinah?”
“Yes, I told him last Sabbath.”
Adam remembered now that Seth had come home much depressed on Sunday
evening, a circumstance which had been very unusual with him of late,
for the happiness he had in seeing Dinah every week seemed long to have
outweighed the pain of knowing she would never marry him. This evening
he had his habitual air of dreamy benignant contentment, until he came
quite close to Dinah and saw the traces of tears on her delicate
eyelids and eyelashes. He gave one rapid glance at his brother, but
Adam was evidently quite outside the current of emotion that had shaken
Dinah: he wore his everyday look of unexpectant calm. Seth tried not to
let Dinah see that he had noticed her face, and only said, “I’m
thankful you’re come, Dinah, for Mother’s been hungering after the
sight of you all day. She began to talk of you the first thing in the
morning.”
When they entered the cottage, Lisbeth was seated in her arm-chair, too
tired with setting out the evening meal, a task she always performed a
long time beforehand, to go and meet them at the door as usual, when
she heard the approaching footsteps.
“Coom, child, thee’t coom at last,” she said, when Dinah went towards
her. “What dost mane by lavin’ me a week an’ ne’er coomin’ a-nigh me?”
“Dear friend,” said Dinah, taking her hand, “you’re not well. If I’d
known it sooner, I’d have come.”
“An’ how’s thee t’ know if thee dostna coom? Th’ lads on’y know what I
tell ’em. As long as ye can stir hand and foot the men think ye’re
hearty. But I’m none so bad, on’y a bit of a cold sets me achin’. An’
th’ lads tease me so t’ ha’ somebody wi’ me t’ do the work—they make me
ache worse wi’ talkin’. If thee’dst come and stay wi’ me, they’d let me
alone. The Poysers canna want thee so bad as I do. But take thy bonnet
off, an’ let me look at thee.”
Dinah was moving away, but Lisbeth held her fast, while she was taking
off her bonnet, and looked at her face as one looks into a newly
gathered snowdrop, to renew the old impressions of purity and
gentleness.
“What’s the matter wi’ thee?” said Lisbeth, in astonishment; “thee’st
been a-cryin’.”
“It’s only a grief that’ll pass away,” said Dinah, who did not wish
just now to call forth Lisbeth’s remonstrances by disclosing her
intention to leave Hayslope. “You shall know about it shortly—we’ll
talk of it to-night. I shall stay with you to-night.”
Lisbeth was pacified by this prospect. And she had the whole evening to
talk with Dinah alone; for there was a new room in the cottage, you
remember, built nearly two years ago, in the expectation of a new
inmate; and here Adam always sat when he had writing to do or plans to
make. Seth sat there too this evening, for he knew his mother would
like to have Dinah all to herself.
There were two pretty pictures on the two sides of the wall in the
cottage. On one side there was the broad-shouldered, large-featured,
hardy old woman, in her blue jacket and buff kerchief, with her
dim-eyed anxious looks turned continually on the lily face and the
slight form in the black dress that were either moving lightly about in
helpful activity, or seated close by the old woman’s arm-chair, holding
her withered hand, with eyes lifted up towards her to speak a language
which Lisbeth understood far better than the Bible or the hymn-book.
She would scarcely listen to reading at all to-night. “Nay, nay, shut
the book,” she said. “We mun talk. I want t’ know what thee was cryin’
about. Hast got troubles o’ thy own, like other folks?”
On the other side of the wall there were the two brothers so like each
other in the midst of their unlikeness: Adam with knit brows, shaggy
hair, and dark vigorous colour, absorbed in his “figuring”; Seth, with
large rugged features, the close copy of his brother’s, but with thin,
wavy, brown hair and blue dreamy eyes, as often as not looking vaguely
out of the window instead of at his book, although it was a newly
bought book—Wesley’s abridgment of Madame Guyon’s life, which was full
of wonder and interest for him. Seth had said to Adam, “Can I help thee
with anything in here to-night? I don’t want to make a noise in the
shop.”
“No, lad,” Adam answered, “there’s nothing but what I must do myself.
Thee’st got thy new book to read.”
And often, when Seth was quite unconscious, Adam, as he paused after
drawing a line with his ruler, looked at his brother with a kind smile
dawning in his eyes. He knew “th’ lad liked to sit full o’ thoughts he
could give no account of; they’d never come t’ anything, but they made
him happy,” and in the last year or so, Adam had been getting more and
more indulgent to Seth. It was part of that growing tenderness which
came from the sorrow at work within him.
For Adam, though you see him quite master of himself, working hard and
delighting in his work after his inborn inalienable nature, had not
outlived his sorrow—had not felt it slip from him as a temporary
burden, and leave him the same man again. Do any of us? God forbid. It
would be a poor result of all our anguish and our wrestling if we won
nothing but our old selves at the end of it—if we could return to the
same blind loves, the same self-confident blame, the same light
thoughts of human suffering, the same frivolous gossip over blighted
human lives, the same feeble sense of that Unknown towards which we
have sent forth irrepressible cries in our loneliness. Let us rather be
thankful that our sorrow lives in us as an indestructible force, only
changing its form, as forces do, and passing from pain into
sympathy—the one poor word which includes all our best insight and our
best love. Not that this transformation of pain into sympathy had
completely taken place in Adam yet. There was still a great remnant of
pain, and this he felt would subsist as long as _her_ pain was not a