by George Eliot
Chapter VIII
A Vocation
DINAH, who had risen when the gentlemen came in, but still kept hold ofthe sheet she was mending, curtsied respectfully when she saw Mr. Irwinelooking at her and advancing towards her. He had never yet spoken toher, or stood face to face with her, and her first thought, as her eyesmet his, was, "What a well-favoured countenance! Oh that the good seedmight fall on that soil, for it would surely flourish." The agreeableimpression must have been mutual, for Mr. Irwine bowed to her with abenignant deference, which would have been equally in place if she hadbeen the most dignified lady of his acquaintance.
"You are only a visitor in this neighbourhood, I think?" were his firstwords, as he seated himself opposite to her.
"No, sir, I come from Snowfield, in Stonyshire. But my aunt was verykind, wanting me to have rest from my work there, because I'd been ill,and she invited me to come and stay with her for a while."
"Ah, I remember Snowfield very well; I once had occasion to go there.It's a dreary bleak place. They were building a cotton-mill there; butthat's many years ago now. I suppose the place is a good deal changed bythe employment that mill must have brought."
"It IS changed so far as the mill has brought people there, who get alivelihood for themselves by working in it, and make it better for thetradesfolks. I work in it myself, and have reason to be grateful, forthereby I have enough and to spare. But it's still a bleak place, as yousay, sir--very different from this country."
"You have relations living there, probably, so that you are attached tothe place as your home?"
"I had an aunt there once; she brought me up, for I was an orphan. Butshe was taken away seven years ago, and I have no other kindred that Iknow of, besides my Aunt Poyser, who is very good to me, and wouldhave me come and live in this country, which to be sure is a good land,wherein they eat bread without scarceness. But I'm not free to leaveSnowfield, where I was first planted, and have grown deep into it, likethe small grass on the hill-top."
"Ah, I daresay you have many religious friends and companions there; youare a Methodist--a Wesleyan, I think?"
"Yes, my aunt at Snowfield belonged to the Society, and I have causeto be thankful for the privileges I have had thereby from my earliestchildhood."
"And have you been long in the habit of preaching? For I understand youpreached at Hayslope last night."
"I first took to the work four years since, when I was twenty-one."
"Your Society sanctions women's preaching, then?"
"It doesn't forbid them, sir, when they've a clear call to the work,and when their ministry is owned by the conversion of sinners and thestrengthening of God's people. Mrs. Fletcher, as you may have heardabout, was the first woman to preach in the Society, I believe, beforeshe was married, when she was Miss Bosanquet; and Mr. Wesley approvedof her undertaking the work. She had a great gift, and there are manyothers now living who are precious fellow-helpers in the work of theministry. I understand there's been voices raised against it in theSociety of late, but I cannot but think their counsel will come tonought. It isn't for men to make channels for God's Spirit, as theymake channels for the watercourses, and say, 'Flow here, but flow notthere.'"
"But don't you find some danger among your people--I don't mean to saythat it is so with you, far from it--but don't you find sometimes thatboth men and women fancy themselves channels for God's Spirit, and arequite mistaken, so that they set about a work for which they are unfitand bring holy things into contempt?"
"Doubtless it is so sometimes; for there have been evil-doers among uswho have sought to deceive the brethren, and some there are who deceivetheir own selves. But we are not without discipline and correction toput a check upon these things. There's a very strict order kept amongus, and the brethren and sisters watch for each other's souls as theythat must give account. They don't go every one his own way and say, 'AmI my brother's keeper?'"
"But tell me--if I may ask, and I am really interested in knowingit--how you first came to think of preaching?"
"Indeed, sir, I didn't think of it at all--I'd been used from the timeI was sixteen to talk to the little children, and teach them, andsometimes I had had my heart enlarged to speak in class, and was muchdrawn out in prayer with the sick. But I had felt no call to preach, forwhen I'm not greatly wrought upon, I'm too much given to sit still andkeep by myself. It seems as if I could sit silent all day long with thethought of God overflowing my soul--as the pebbles lie bathed in theWillow Brook. For thoughts are so great--aren't they, sir? They seem tolie upon us like a deep flood; and it's my besetment to forget whereI am and everything about me, and lose myself in thoughts that I couldgive no account of, for I could neither make a beginning nor ending ofthem in words. That was my way as long as I can remember; but sometimesit seemed as if speech came to me without any will of my own, and wordswere given to me that came out as the tears come, because our heartsare full and we can't help it. And those were always times of greatblessing, though I had never thought it could be so with me beforea congregation of people. But, sir, we are led on, like the littlechildren, by a way that we know not. I was called to preach quitesuddenly, and since then I have never been left in doubt about the workthat was laid upon me."
"But tell me the circumstances--just how it was, the very day you beganto preach."
"It was one Sunday I walked with brother Marlowe, who was an agedman, one of the local preachers, all the way to Hetton-Deeps--that's avillage where the people get their living by working in the lead-mines,and where there's no church nor preacher, but they live like sheepwithout a shepherd. It's better than twelve miles from Snowfield, sowe set out early in the morning, for it was summertime; and I had awonderful sense of the Divine love as we walked over the hills, wherethere's no trees, you know, sir, as there is here, to make the sky looksmaller, but you see the heavens stretched out like a tent, and you feelthe everlasting arms around you. But before we got to Hetton, brotherMarlowe was seized with a dizziness that made him afraid of falling, forhe overworked himself sadly, at his years, in watching and praying,and walking so many miles to speak the Word, as well as carrying on histrade of linen-weaving. And when we got to the village, the people wereexpecting him, for he'd appointed the time and the place when he wasthere before, and such of them as cared to hear the Word of Life wereassembled on a spot where the cottages was thickest, so as others mightbe drawn to come. But he felt as he couldn't stand up to preach, andhe was forced to lie down in the first of the cottages we came to. So Iwent to tell the people, thinking we'd go into one of the houses, and Iwould read and pray with them. But as I passed along by the cottages andsaw the aged and trembling women at the doors, and the hard looks of themen, who seemed to have their eyes no more filled with the sight of theSabbath morning than if they had been dumb oxen that never looked up tothe sky, I felt a great movement in my soul, and I trembled as if Iwas shaken by a strong spirit entering into my weak body. And I went towhere the little flock of people was gathered together, and stepped onthe low wall that was built against the green hillside, and I spoke thewords that were given to me abundantly. And they all came round me outof all the cottages, and many wept over their sins, and have since beenjoined to the Lord. That was the beginning of my preaching, sir, andI've preached ever since."
Dinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she uttered inher usual simple way, but with that sincere articulate, thrilling trebleby which she always mastered her audience. She stooped now to gather upher sewing, and then went on with it as before. Mr. Irwine was deeplyinterested. He said to himself, "He must be a miserable prig who wouldact the pedagogue here: one might as well go and lecture the trees forgrowing in their own shape."
"And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of your youth--thatyou are a lovely young woman on whom men's eyes are fixed?" he saidaloud.
"No, I've no room for such feelings, and I don't believe the people evertake notice about that. I think, sir, when God makes His presence feltthrough u
s, we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any heedwhat sort of bush it was--he only saw the brightness of the Lord. I'vepreached to as rough ignorant people as can be in the villages aboutSnowfield--men that looked very hard and wild--but they never said anuncivil word to me, and often thanked me kindly as they made way for meto pass through the midst of them."
"THAT I can believe--that I can well believe," said Mr. Irwine,emphatically. "And what did you think of your hearers last night, now?Did you find them quiet and attentive?"
"Very quiet, sir, but I saw no signs of any great work upon them, exceptin a young girl named Bessy Cranage, towards whom my heart yearnedgreatly, when my eyes first fell on her blooming youth, given upto folly and vanity. I had some private talk and prayer with herafterwards, and I trust her heart is touched. But I've noticed thatin these villages where the people lead a quiet life among the greenpastures and the still waters, tilling the ground and tending thecattle, there's a strange deadness to the Word, as different as canbe from the great towns, like Leeds, where I once went to visit a holywoman who preaches there. It's wonderful how rich is the harvest ofsouls up those high-walled streets, where you seemed to walk as in aprison-yard, and the ear is deafened with the sounds of worldly toil.I think maybe it is because the promise is sweeter when this life is sodark and weary, and the soul gets more hungry when the body is ill atease."
"Why, yes, our farm-labourers are not easily roused. They take lifealmost as slowly as the sheep and cows. But we have some intelligentworkmen about here. I daresay you know the Bedes; Seth Bede, by the by,is a Methodist."
"Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. Seth is agracious young man--sincere and without offence; and Adam is like thepatriarch Joseph, for his great skill and knowledge and the kindness heshows to his brother and his parents."
"Perhaps you don't know the trouble that has just happened to them?Their father, Matthias Bede, was drowned in the Willow Brook last night,not far from his own door. I'm going now to see Adam."
"Ah, their poor aged mother!" said Dinah, dropping her hands and lookingbefore her with pitying eyes, as if she saw the object of her sympathy."She will mourn heavily, for Seth has told me she's of an anxious,troubled heart. I must go and see if I can give her any help."
As she rose and was beginning to fold up her work, Captain Donnithorne,having exhausted all plausible pretexts for remaining among themilk-pans, came out of the dairy, followed by Mrs. Poyser. Mr. Irwinenow rose also, and, advancing towards Dinah, held out his hand, andsaid, "Good-bye. I hear you are going away soon but this will not bethe last visit you will pay your aunt--so we shall meet again, I hope."
His cordiality towards Dinah set all Mrs. Poyser's anxieties at rest,and her face was brighter than usual, as she said, "I've never askedafter Mrs. Irwine and the Miss Irwines, sir; I hope they're as well asusual."
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poyser, except that Miss Anne has one of her badheadaches to-day. By the by, we all liked that nice cream-cheese yousent us--my mother especially."
"I'm very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, but Iremembered Mrs. Irwine was fond of 'em. Please to give my duty to her,and to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. They've never been to look at my poultrythis long while, and I've got some beautiful speckled chickens, blackand white, as Miss Kate might like to have some of amongst hers."
"Well, I'll tell her; she must come and see them. Good-bye," said therector, mounting his horse.
"Just ride slowly on, Irwine," said Captain Donnithorne, mounting also."I'll overtake you in three minutes. I'm only going to speak to theshepherd about the whelps. Good-bye, Mrs. Poyser; tell your husband Ishall come and have a long talk with him soon."
Mrs. Poyser curtsied duly, and watched the two horses until they haddisappeared from the yard, amidst great excitement on the part of thepigs and the poultry, and under the furious indignation of the bull-dog,who performed a Pyrrhic dance, that every moment seemed to threaten thebreaking of his chain. Mrs. Poyser delighted in this noisy exit; it wasa fresh assurance to her that the farm-yard was well guarded, and thatno loiterers could enter unobserved; and it was not until the gate hadclosed behind the captain that she turned into the kitchen again, whereDinah stood with her bonnet in her hand, waiting to speak to her aunt,before she set out for Lisbeth Bede's cottage.
Mrs. Poyser, however, though she noticed the bonnet, deferred remarkingon it until she had disburdened herself of her surprise at Mr. Irwine'sbehaviour.
"Why, Mr. Irwine wasn't angry, then? What did he say to you, Dinah?Didn't he scold you for preaching?"
"No, he was not at all angry; he was very friendly to me. I was quitedrawn out to speak to him; I hardly know how, for I had always thoughtof him as a worldly Sadducee. But his countenance is as pleasant as themorning sunshine."
"Pleasant! And what else did y' expect to find him but pleasant?" saidMrs. Poyser impatiently, resuming her knitting. "I should think hiscountenance is pleasant indeed! And him a gentleman born, and's got amother like a picter. You may go the country round and not find suchanother woman turned sixty-six. It's summat-like to see such a man asthat i' the desk of a Sunday! As I say to Poyser, it's like looking ata full crop o' wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy o' cows in it; itmakes you think the world's comfortable-like. But as for such creatursas you Methodisses run after, I'd as soon go to look at a lot o'bare-ribbed runts on a common. Fine folks they are to tell you what'sright, as look as if they'd never tasted nothing better than bacon-swordand sour-cake i' their lives. But what did Mr. Irwine say to you aboutthat fool's trick o' preaching on the Green?"
"He only said he'd heard of it; he didn't seem to feel any displeasureabout it. But, dear aunt, don't think any more about that. He told mesomething that I'm sure will cause you sorrow, as it does me. Thias Bedewas drowned last night in the Willow Brook, and I'm thinking that theaged mother will be greatly in need of comfort. Perhaps I can be of useto her, so I have fetched my bonnet and am going to set out."
"Dear heart, dear heart! But you must have a cup o' tea first, child,"said Mrs. Poyser, falling at once from the key of B with five sharps tothe frank and genial C. "The kettle's boiling--we'll have it ready ina minute; and the young uns 'ull be in and wanting theirs directly. I'mquite willing you should go and see th' old woman, for you're one asis allays welcome in trouble, Methodist or no Methodist; but, for thematter o' that, it's the flesh and blood folks are made on as makes thedifference. Some cheeses are made o' skimmed milk and some o' new milk,and it's no matter what you call 'em, you may tell which is which by thelook and the smell. But as to Thias Bede, he's better out o' the way norin--God forgi' me for saying so--for he's done little this ten year butmake trouble for them as belonged to him; and I think it 'ud be wellfor you to take a little bottle o' rum for th' old woman, for I daresayshe's got never a drop o' nothing to comfort her inside. Sit down,child, and be easy, for you shan't stir out till you've had a cup o'tea, and so I tell you."
During the latter part of this speech, Mrs. Poyser had been reachingdown the tea-things from the shelves, and was on her way towardsthe pantry for the loaf (followed close by Totty, who had made herappearance on the rattling of the tea-cups), when Hetty came out ofthe dairy relieving her tired arms by lifting them up, and clasping herhands at the back of her head.
"Molly," she said, rather languidly, "just run out and get me a bunch ofdock-leaves: the butter's ready to pack up now."
"D' you hear what's happened, Hetty?" said her aunt.
"No; how should I hear anything?" was the answer, in a pettish tone.
"Not as you'd care much, I daresay, if you did hear; for you're toofeather-headed to mind if everybody was dead, so as you could stayupstairs a-dressing yourself for two hours by the clock. But anybodybesides yourself 'ud mind about such things happening to them as thinka deal more of you than you deserve. But Adam Bede and all his kin mightbe drownded for what you'd care--you'd be perking at the glass the nextminute."
"Adam Bede--drowned?" said Hetty, letting her arms
fall and lookingrather bewildered, but suspecting that her aunt was as usualexaggerating with a didactic purpose.
"No, my dear, no," said Dinah kindly, for Mrs. Poyser had passed on tothe pantry without deigning more precise information. "Not Adam. Adam'sfather, the old man, is drowned. He was drowned last night in the WillowBrook. Mr. Irwine has just told me about it."
"Oh, how dreadful!" said Hetty, looking serious, but not deeplyaffected; and as Molly now entered with the dock-leaves, she took themsilently and returned to the dairy without asking further questions.
