Adam Bede
encouraged to continue this caress, because when she first went up to
him, he had thrown himself back in his chair to look at her
affectionately and say, “Why, Mother, thee look’st rare and hearty this
morning. Eh, Gyp wants me t’ look at him. He can’t abide to think I
love thee the best.” Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say so
many things. And now there was a new leaf to be turned over, and it was
a picture—that of the angel seated on the great stone that has been
rolled away from the sepulchre. This picture had one strong association
in Lisbeth’s memory, for she had been reminded of it when she first saw
Dinah, and Adam had no sooner turned the page, and lifted the book
sideways that they might look at the angel, than she said, “That’s
her—that’s Dinah.”
Adam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel’s face, said,
“It _is_ a bit like her; but Dinah’s prettier, I think.”
“Well, then, if thee think’st her so pretty, why arn’t fond on her?”
Adam looked up in surprise. “Why, Mother, dost think I don’t set store
by Dinah?”
“Nay,” said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet feeling that
she had broken the ice, and the waters must flow, whatever mischief
they might do. “What’s th’ use o’ settin’ store by things as are thirty
mile off? If thee wast fond enough on her, thee wouldstna let her go
away.”
“But I’ve no right t’ hinder her, if she thinks well,” said Adam,
looking at his book as if he wanted to go on reading. He foresaw a
series of complaints tending to nothing. Lisbeth sat down again in the
chair opposite to him, as she said:
“But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy.” Lisbeth dared
not venture beyond a vague phrase yet.
“Contrairy, mother?” Adam said, looking up again in some anxiety. “What
have I done? What dost mean?”
“Why, thee’t never look at nothin’, nor think o’ nothin’, but thy
figurin, an’ thy work,” said Lisbeth, half-crying. “An’ dost think thee
canst go on so all thy life, as if thee wast a man cut out o’ timber?
An’ what wut do when thy mother’s gone, an’ nobody to take care on thee
as thee gett’st a bit o’ victual comfortable i’ the mornin’?”
“What hast got i’ thy mind, Mother?” said Adam, vexed at this
whimpering. “I canna see what thee’t driving at. Is there anything I
could do for thee as I don’t do?”
“Aye, an’ that there is. Thee might’st do as I should ha’ somebody wi’
me to comfort me a bit, an’ wait on me when I’m bad, an’ be good to
me.”
“Well, Mother, whose fault is it there isna some tidy body i’ th’ house
t’ help thee? It isna by my wish as thee hast a stroke o’ work to do.
We can afford it—I’ve told thee often enough. It ’ud be a deal better
for us.”
“Eh, what’s the use o’ talking o’ tidy bodies, when thee mean’st one o’
th’ wenches out o’ th’ village, or somebody from Treddles’on as I ne’er
set eyes on i’ my life? I’d sooner make a shift an’ get into my own
coffin afore I die, nor ha’ them folks to put me in.”
Adam was silent, and tried to go on reading. That was the utmost
severity he could show towards his mother on a Sunday morning. But
Lisbeth had gone too far now to check herself, and after scarcely a
minute’s quietness she began again.
“Thee mightst know well enough who ’tis I’d like t’ ha’ wi’ me. It isna
many folks I send for t’ come an’ see me, I reckon. An’ thee’st had the
fetchin’ on her times enow.”
“Thee mean’st Dinah, Mother, I know,” said Adam. “But it’s no use
setting thy mind on what can’t be. If Dinah ’ud be willing to stay at
Hayslope, it isn’t likely she can come away from her aunt’s house,
where they hold her like a daughter, and where she’s more bound than
she is to us. If it had been so that she could ha’ married Seth, that
’ud ha’ been a great blessing to us, but we can’t have things just as
we like in this life. Thee must try and make up thy mind to do without
her.”
“Nay, but I canna ma’ up my mind, when she’s just cut out for thee; an’
nought shall ma’ me believe as God didna make her an’ send her there o’
purpose for thee. What’s it sinnify about her bein’ a Methody! It ’ud
happen wear out on her wi’ marryin’.”
Adam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his mother. He
understood now what she had been aiming at from the beginning of the
conversation. It was as unreasonable, impracticable a wish as she had
ever urged, but he could not help being moved by so entirely new an
idea. The chief point, however, was to chase away the notion from his
mother’s mind as quickly as possible.
“Mother,” he said, gravely, “thee’t talking wild. Don’t let me hear
thee say such things again. It’s no good talking o’ what can never be.
Dinah’s not for marrying; she’s fixed her heart on a different sort o’
life.”
“Very like,” said Lisbeth, impatiently, “very like she’s none for
marr’ing, when them as she’d be willin’ t’ marry wonna ax her. I
shouldna ha’ been for marr’ing thy feyther if he’d ne’er axed me; an’
she’s as fond o’ thee as e’er I war o’ Thias, poor fellow.”
The blood rushed to Adam’s face, and for a few moments he was not quite
conscious where he was. His mother and the kitchen had vanished for
him, and he saw nothing but Dinah’s face turned up towards his. It
seemed as if there were a resurrection of his dead joy. But he woke up
very speedily from that dream (the waking was chill and sad), for it
would have been very foolish in him to believe his mother’s words—she
could have no ground for them. He was prompted to express his disbelief
very strongly—perhaps that he might call forth the proofs, if there
were any to be offered.
“What dost say such things for, Mother, when thee’st got no foundation
for ’em? Thee know’st nothing as gives thee a right to say that.”
“Then I knowna nought as gi’es me a right to say as the year’s turned,
for all I feel it fust thing when I get up i’ th’ morning. She isna
fond o’ Seth, I reckon, is she? She doesna want to marry _him?_ But I
can see as she doesna behave tow’rt thee as she daes tow’rt Seth. She
makes no more o’ Seth’s coming a-nigh her nor if he war Gyp, but she’s
all of a tremble when thee’t a-sittin’ down by her at breakfast an’
a-looking at her. Thee think’st thy mother knows nought, but she war
alive afore thee wast born.”
“But thee canstna be sure as the trembling means love?” said Adam
anxiously.
“Eh, what else should it mane? It isna hate, I reckon. An’ what should
she do but love thee? Thee’t made to be loved—for where’s there a
straighter cliverer man? An’ what’s it sinnify her bein’ a Methody?
It’s on’y the marigold i’ th’ parridge.”
Adam had thrust his hands in his pockets, and was looking down at the
book on the table, without seeing any of the letters. He was trembling
like a gold-seeker who sees the strong promise of gold but sees in the
same moment a sickening vision of disappointment. He could not trust
his mother’s insight; she had seen what she wished to see. And yet—and
yet, now the suggestion had been made to him, he remembered so many
things, very slight things, like the stirring of the water by an
imperceptible breeze, which seemed to him some confirmation of his
mother’s words.
Lisbeth noticed that he was moved. She went on, “An’ thee’t find out as
thee’t poorly aff when she’s gone. Thee’t fonder on her nor thee
know’st. Thy eyes follow her about, welly as Gyp’s follow thee.”
Adam could sit still no longer. He rose, took down his hat, and went
out into the fields.
The sunshine was on them: that early autumn sunshine which we should
know was not summer’s, even if there were not the touches of yellow on
the lime and chestnut; the Sunday sunshine too, which has more than
autumnal calmness for the working man; the morning sunshine, which
still leaves the dew-crystals on the fine gossamer webs in the shadow
of the bushy hedgerows.
Adam needed the calm influence; he was amazed at the way in which this
new thought of Dinah’s love had taken possession of him, with an
overmastering power that made all other feelings give way before the
impetuous desire to know that the thought was true. Strange, that till
that moment the possibility of their ever being lovers had never
crossed his mind, and yet now, all his longing suddenly went out
towards that possibility. He had no more doubt or hesitation as to his
own wishes than the bird that flies towards the opening through which
the daylight gleams and the breath of heaven enters.
The autumnal Sunday sunshine soothed him, but not by preparing him with
resignation to the disappointment if his mother—if he himself—proved to
be mistaken about Dinah. It soothed him by gentle encouragement of his
hopes. Her love was so like that calm sunshine that they seemed to make
one presence to him, and he believed in them both alike. And Dinah was
so bound up with the sad memories of his first passion that he was not
forsaking them, but rather giving them a new sacredness by loving her.
Nay, his love for her had grown out of that past: it was the noon of
that morning.
But Seth? Would the lad be hurt? Hardly; for he had seemed quite
contented of late, and there was no selfish jealousy in him; he had
never been jealous of his mother’s fondness for Adam. But had _he_ seen
anything of what their mother talked about? Adam longed to know this,
for he thought he could trust Seth’s observation better than his
mother’s. He must talk to Seth before he went to see Dinah, and, with
this intention in his mind, he walked back to the cottage and said to
his mother, “Did Seth say anything to thee about when he was coming
home? Will he be back to dinner?”
“Aye, lad, he’ll be back for a wonder. He isna gone to Treddles’on.
He’s gone somewhere else a-preachin’ and a-prayin’.”
“Hast any notion which way he’s gone?” said Adam.
“Nay, but he aften goes to th’ Common. Thee know’st more o’s goings nor
I do.”
Adam wanted to go and meet Seth, but he must content himself with
walking about the near fields and getting sight of him as soon as
possible. That would not be for more than an hour to come, for Seth
would scarcely be at home much before their dinner-time, which was
twelve o’clock. But Adam could not sit down to his reading again, and
he sauntered along by the brook and stood leaning against the stiles,
with eager intense eyes, which looked as if they saw something very
vividly; but it was not the brook or the willows, not the fields or the
sky. Again and again his vision was interrupted by wonder at the
strength of his own feeling, at the strength and sweetness of this new
love—almost like the wonder a man feels at the added power he finds in
himself for an art which he had laid aside for a space. How is it that
the poets have said so many fine things about our first love, so few
about our later love? Are their first poems their best? Or are not
those the best which come from their fuller thought, their larger
experience, their deeper-rooted affections? The boy’s flutelike voice
has its own spring charm; but the man should yield a richer deeper
music.
At last, there was Seth, visible at the farthest stile, and Adam
hastened to meet him. Seth was surprised, and thought something unusual
must have happened, but when Adam came up, his face said plainly enough
that it was nothing alarming.
“Where hast been?” said Adam, when they were side by side.
“I’ve been to the Common,” said Seth. “Dinah’s been speaking the Word
to a little company of hearers at Brimstone’s, as they call him.
They’re folks as never go to church hardly—them on the Common—but
they’ll go and hear Dinah a bit. She’s been speaking with power this
forenoon from the words, ‘I came not to call the righteous, but sinners
to repentance.’ And there was a little thing happened as was pretty to
see. The women mostly bring their children with ’em, but to-day there