Adam Bede
have been in love—perhaps, even, more than once, though you may not
choose to say so to all your feminine friends. If so, you will no more
think the slight words, the timid looks, the tremulous touches, by
which two human souls approach each other gradually, like two little
quivering rain-streams, before they mingle into one—you will no more
think these things trivial than you will think the first-detected signs
of coming spring trivial, though they be but a faint indescribable
something in the air and in the song of the birds, and the tiniest
perceptible budding on the hedge-row branches. Those slight words and
looks and touches are part of the soul’s language; and the finest
language, I believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as
“light,” “sound,” “stars,” “music”—words really not worth looking at,
or hearing, in themselves, any more than “chips” or “sawdust.” It is
only that they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably great
and beautiful. I am of opinion that love is a great and beautiful thing
too, and if you agree with me, the smallest signs of it will not be
chips and sawdust to you: they will rather be like those little words,
“light” and “music,” stirring the long-winding fibres of your memory
and enriching your present with your most precious past.
Chapter LI
Sunday Morning
Lisbeth’s touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear serious
enough to detain Dinah another night from the Hall Farm, now she had
made up her mind to leave her aunt so soon, and at evening the friends
must part. “For a long while,” Dinah had said, for she had told Lisbeth
of her resolve.
“Then it’ll be for all my life, an’ I shall ne’er see thee again,” said
Lisbeth. “Long while! I’n got no long while t’ live. An’ I shall be
took bad an’ die, an’ thee canst ne’er come a-nigh me, an’ I shall die
a-longing for thee.”
That had been the key-note of her wailing talk all day; for Adam was
not in the house, and so she put no restraint on her complaining. She
had tried poor Dinah by returning again and again to the question, why
she must go away; and refusing to accept reasons, which seemed to her
nothing but whim and “contrairiness”; and still more, by regretting
that she “couldna’ ha’ one o’ the lads” and be her daughter.
“Thee couldstna put up wi’ Seth,” she said. “He isna cliver enough for
thee, happen, but he’d ha’ been very good t’ thee—he’s as handy as can
be at doin’ things for me when I’m bad, an’ he’s as fond o’ the Bible
an’ chappellin’ as thee art thysen. But happen, thee’dst like a husband
better as isna just the cut o’ thysen: the runnin’ brook isna athirst
for th’ rain. Adam ’ud ha’ done for thee—I know he would—an’ he might
come t’ like thee well enough, if thee’dst stop. But he’s as stubborn
as th’ iron bar—there’s no bending him no way but’s own. But he’d be a
fine husband for anybody, be they who they will, so looked-on an’ so
cliver as he is. And he’d be rare an’ lovin’: it does me good on’y a
look o’ the lad’s eye when he means kind tow’rt me.”
Dinah tried to escape from Lisbeth’s closest looks and questions by
finding little tasks of housework that kept her moving about, and as
soon as Seth came home in the evening she put on her bonnet to go. It
touched Dinah keenly to say the last good-bye, and still more to look
round on her way across the fields and see the old woman still standing
at the door, gazing after her till she must have been the faintest
speck in the dim aged eyes. “The God of love and peace be with them,”
Dinah prayed, as she looked back from the last stile. “Make them glad
according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted them, and the years
wherein they have seen evil. It is thy will that I should part from
them; let me have no will but thine.”
Lisbeth turned into the house at last and sat down in the workshop near
Seth, who was busying himself there with fitting some bits of turned
wood he had brought from the village into a small work-box, which he
meant to give to Dinah before she went away.
“Thee’t see her again o’ Sunday afore she goes,” were her first words.
“If thee wast good for anything, thee’dst make her come in again o’
Sunday night wi’ thee, and see me once more.”
“Nay, Mother,” said Seth. “Dinah ’ud be sure to come again if she saw
right to come. I should have no need to persuade her. She only thinks
it ’ud be troubling thee for nought, just to come in to say good-bye
over again.”
“She’d ne’er go away, I know, if Adam ’ud be fond on her an’ marry her,
but everything’s so contrairy,” said Lisbeth, with a burst of vexation.
Seth paused a moment and looked up, with a slight blush, at his
mother’s face. “What! Has she said anything o’ that sort to thee,
Mother?” he said, in a lower tone.
“Said? Nay, she’ll say nothin’. It’s on’y the men as have to wait till
folks say things afore they find ’em out.”
“Well, but what makes thee think so, Mother? What’s put it into thy
head?”
“It’s no matter what’s put it into my head. My head’s none so hollow as
it must get in, an’ nought to put it there. I know she’s fond on him,
as I know th’ wind’s comin’ in at the door, an’ that’s anoof. An’ he
might be willin’ to marry her if he know’d she’s fond on him, but he’ll
ne’er think on’t if somebody doesna put it into’s head.”
His mother’s suggestion about Dinah’s feeling towards Adam was not
quite a new thought to Seth, but her last words alarmed him, lest she
should herself undertake to open Adam’s eyes. He was not sure about
Dinah’s feeling, and he thought he _was_ sure about Adam’s.
“Nay, Mother, nay,” he said, earnestly, “thee mustna think o’ speaking
o’ such things to Adam. Thee’st no right to say what Dinah’s feelings
are if she hasna told thee, and it ’ud do nothing but mischief to say
such things to Adam. He feels very grateful and affectionate toward
Dinah, but he’s no thoughts towards her that ’ud incline him to make
her his wife, and I don’t believe Dinah ’ud marry him either. I don’t
think she’ll marry at all.”
“Eh,” said Lisbeth, impatiently. “Thee think’st so ’cause she wouldna
ha’ thee. She’ll ne’er marry thee; thee mightst as well like her t’ ha’
thy brother.”
Seth was hurt. “Mother,” he said, in a remonstrating tone, “don’t think
that of me. I should be as thankful t’ have her for a sister as thee
wouldst t’ have her for a daughter. I’ve no more thoughts about myself
in that thing, and I shall take it hard if ever thee say’st it again.”
“Well, well, then thee shouldstna cross me wi’ sayin’ things arena as I
say they are.”
“But, Mother,” said Seth, “thee’dst be doing Dinah a wrong by telling
Adam what thee think’st about her. It ’ud do nothing but mischief, for
it ’ud make Adam uneasy if he doesna feel the same to her. And I’m
pretty sure he feels nothing o’ the sort.”
“Eh, donna tell me what thee’t sure on; thee know’st nought about it.
What’s he allays goin’ to the Poysers’ for, if he didna want t’ see
her? He goes twice where he used t’ go once. Happen he knowsna as he
wants t’ see her; he knowsna as I put salt in’s broth, but he’d miss it
pretty quick if it warna there. He’ll ne’er think o’ marrying if it
isna put into’s head, an’ if thee’dst any love for thy mother, thee’dst
put him up to’t an’ not let her go away out o’ my sight, when I might
ha’ her to make a bit o’ comfort for me afore I go to bed to my old man
under the white thorn.”
“Nay, Mother,” said Seth, “thee mustna think me unkind, but I should be
going against my conscience if I took upon me to say what Dinah’s
feelings are. And besides that, I think I should give offence to Adam
by speaking to him at all about marrying; and I counsel thee not to
do’t. Thee may’st be quite deceived about Dinah. Nay, I’m pretty sure,
by words she said to me last Sabbath, as she’s no mind to marry.”
“Eh, thee’t as contrairy as the rest on ’em. If it war summat I didna
want, it ’ud be done fast enough.”
Lisbeth rose from the bench at this, and went out of the workshop,
leaving Seth in much anxiety lest she should disturb Adam’s mind about
Dinah. He consoled himself after a time with reflecting that, since
Adam’s trouble, Lisbeth had been very timid about speaking to him on
matters of feeling, and that she would hardly dare to approach this
tenderest of all subjects. Even if she did, he hoped Adam would not
take much notice of what she said.
Seth was right in believing that Lisbeth would be held in restraint by
timidity, and during the next three days, the intervals in which she
had an opportunity of speaking to Adam were too rare and short to cause
her any strong temptation. But in her long solitary hours she brooded
over her regretful thoughts about Dinah, till they had grown very near
that point of unmanageable strength when thoughts are apt to take wing
out of their secret nest in a startling manner. And on Sunday morning,
when Seth went away to chapel at Treddleston, the dangerous opportunity
came.
Sunday morning was the happiest time in all the week to Lisbeth, for as
there was no service at Hayslope church till the afternoon, Adam was
always at home, doing nothing but reading, an occupation in which she
could venture to interrupt him. Moreover, she had always a better
dinner than usual to prepare for her sons—very frequently for Adam and
herself alone, Seth being often away the entire day—and the smell of
the roast meat before the clear fire in the clean kitchen, the clock
ticking in a peaceful Sunday manner, her darling Adam seated near her
in his best clothes, doing nothing very important, so that she could go
and stroke her hand across his hair if she liked, and see him look up
at her and smile, while Gyp, rather jealous, poked his muzzle up
between them—all these things made poor Lisbeth’s earthly paradise.
The book Adam most often read on a Sunday morning was his large
pictured Bible, and this morning it lay open before him on the round
white deal table in the kitchen; for he sat there in spite of the fire,
because he knew his mother liked to have him with her, and it was the
only day in the week when he could indulge her in that way. You would
have liked to see Adam reading his Bible. He never opened it on a
weekday, and so he came to it as a holiday book, serving him for
history, biography, and poetry. He held one hand thrust between his
waistcoat buttons, and the other ready to turn the pages, and in the
course of the morning you would have seen many changes in his face.
Sometimes his lips moved in semi-articulation—it was when he came to a
speech that he could fancy himself uttering, such as Samuel’s dying
speech to the people; then his eyebrows would be raised, and the
corners of his mouth would quiver a little with sad sympathy—something,
perhaps old Isaac’s meeting with his son, touched him closely; at other
times, over the New Testament, a very solemn look would come upon his
face, and he would every now and then shake his head in serious assent,
or just lift up his hand and let it fall again. And on some mornings,
when he read in the Apocrypha, of which he was very fond, the son of
Sirach’s keen-edged words would bring a delighted smile, though he also
enjoyed the freedom of occasionally differing from an Apocryphal
writer. For Adam knew the Articles quite well, as became a good
churchman.
Lisbeth, in the pauses of attending to her dinner, always sat opposite
to him and watched him, till she could rest no longer without going up
to him and giving him a caress, to call his attention to her. This
morning he was reading the Gospel according to St. Matthew, and Lisbeth
had been standing close by him for some minutes, stroking his hair,
which was smoother than usual this morning, and looking down at the
large page with silent wonderment at the mystery of letters. She was