Adam Bede
doctors say he’ll soon be set right in his own country air. He’s all
sound in th’ inside; it’s only the fever shattered him so. But he
speaks just the same, and smiles at me just as he did when he was a
lad. It’s wonderful how he’s always had just the same sort o’ look when
he smiles.”
“I’ve never seen him smile, poor young man,” said Dinah.
“But thee _wilt_ see him smile, to-morrow,” said Adam. “He asked after
thee the first thing when he began to come round, and we could talk to
one another. ‘I hope she isn’t altered,’ he said, ‘I remember her face
so well.’ I told him ‘no,’” Adam continued, looking fondly at the eyes
that were turned towards his, “only a bit plumper, as thee’dst a right
to be after seven year. ‘I may come and see her to-morrow, mayn’t I?’
he said; ‘I long to tell her how I’ve thought of her all these years.’”
“Didst tell him I’d always used the watch?” said Dinah.
“Aye; and we talked a deal about thee, for he says he never saw a woman
a bit like thee. ‘I shall turn Methodist some day,’ he said, ‘when she
preaches out of doors, and go to hear her.’ And I said, ‘Nay, sir, you
can’t do that, for Conference has forbid the women preaching, and she’s
given it up, all but talking to the people a bit in their houses.’”
“Ah,” said Seth, who could not repress a comment on this point, “and a
sore pity it was o’ Conference; and if Dinah had seen as I did, we’d
ha’ left the Wesleyans and joined a body that ’ud put no bonds on
Christian liberty.”
“Nay, lad, nay,” said Adam, “she was right and thee wast wrong. There’s
no rules so wise but what it’s a pity for somebody or other. Most o’
the women do more harm nor good with their preaching—they’ve not got
Dinah’s gift nor her sperrit—and she’s seen that, and she thought it
right to set th’ example o’ submitting, for she’s not held from other
sorts o’ teaching. And I agree with her, and approve o’ what she did.”
Seth was silent. This was a standing subject of difference rarely
alluded to, and Dinah, wishing to quit it at once, said, “Didst
remember, Adam, to speak to Colonel Donnithorne the words my uncle and
aunt entrusted to thee?”
“Yes, and he’s going to the Hall Farm with Mr. Irwine the day after
to-morrow. Mr. Irwine came in while we were talking about it, and he
would have it as the Colonel must see nobody but thee to-morrow. He
said—and he’s in the right of it—as it’ll be bad for him t’ have his
feelings stirred with seeing many people one after another. ‘We must
get you strong and hearty,’ he said, ‘that’s the first thing to be done
Arthur, and then you shall have your own way. But I shall keep you
under your old tutor’s thumb till then.’ Mr. Irwine’s fine and joyful
at having him home again.”
Adam was silent a little while, and then said, “It was very cutting
when we first saw one another. He’d never heard about poor Hetty till
Mr. Irwine met him in London, for the letters missed him on his
journey. The first thing he said to me, when we’d got hold o’ one
another’s hands was, ‘I could never do anything for her, Adam—she lived
long enough for all the suffering—and I’d thought so of the time when I
might do something for her. But you told me the truth when you said to
me once, “There’s a sort of wrong that can never be made up for.”’”
“Why, there’s Mr. and Mrs. Poyser coming in at the yard gate,” said
Seth.
“So there is,” said Dinah. “Run, Lisbeth, run to meet Aunt Poyser. Come
in, Adam, and rest; it has been a hard day for thee.”