by George Eliot
Chapter X
Dinah Visits Lisbeth
AT five o'clock Lisbeth came downstairs with a large key in her hand:it was the key of the chamber where her husband lay dead. Throughout theday, except in her occasional outbursts of wailing grief, she had beenin incessant movement, performing the initial duties to her dead withthe awe and exactitude that belong to religious rites. She had broughtout her little store of bleached linen, which she had for long yearskept in reserve for this supreme use. It seemed but yesterday--that timeso many midsummers ago, when she had told Thias where this linen lay,that he might be sure and reach it out for her when SHE died, for shewas the elder of the two. Then there had been the work of cleansing tothe strictest purity every object in the sacred chamber, and of removingfrom it every trace of common daily occupation. The small window, whichhad hitherto freely let in the frosty moonlight or the warm summersunrise on the working man's slumber, must now be darkened with a fairwhite sheet, for this was the sleep which is as sacred under the barerafters as in ceiled houses. Lisbeth had even mended a long-neglectedand unnoticeable rent in the checkered bit of bed-curtain; for themoments were few and precious now in which she would be able to do thesmallest office of respect or love for the still corpse, to which in allher thoughts she attributed some consciousness. Our dead are never deadto us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they canbe wounded; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that theirplace is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of theirpresence. And the aged peasant woman most of all believes that her deadare conscious. Decent burial was what Lisbeth had been thinking of forherself through years of thrift, with an indistinct expectation that sheshould know when she was being carried to the churchyard, followed byher husband and her sons; and now she felt as if the greatest work ofher life were to be done in seeing that Thias was buried decently beforeher--under the white thorn, where once, in a dream, she had thought shelay in the coffin, yet all the while saw the sunshine above and smeltthe white blossoms that were so thick upon the thorn the Sunday she wentto be churched after Adam was born.
But now she had done everything that could be done to-day in the chamberof death--had done it all herself, with some aid from her sons inlifting, for she would let no one be fetched to help her from thevillage, not being fond of female neighbours generally; and herfavourite Dolly, the old housekeeper at Mr. Burge's, who had come tocondole with her in the morning as soon as she heard of Thias's death,was too dim-sighted to be of much use. She had locked the door, and nowheld the key in her hand, as she threw herself wearily into a chairthat stood out of its place in the middle of the house floor, where inordinary times she would never have consented to sit. The kitchen hadhad none of her attention that day; it was soiled with the tread ofmuddy shoes and untidy with clothes and other objects out of place. Butwhat at another time would have been intolerable to Lisbeth's habitsof order and cleanliness seemed to her now just what should be: it wasright that things should look strange and disordered and wretched, nowthe old man had come to his end in that sad way; the kitchen ought notto look as if nothing had happened. Adam, overcome with the agitationsand exertions of the day after his night of hard work, had fallen asleepon a bench in the workshop; and Seth was in the back kitchen making afire of sticks that he might get the kettle to boil, and persuade hismother to have a cup of tea, an indulgence which she rarely allowedherself.
There was no one in the kitchen when Lisbeth entered and threw herselfinto the chair. She looked round with blank eyes at the dirt andconfusion on which the bright afternoon's sun shone dismally; it wasall of a piece with the sad confusion of her mind--that confusion whichbelongs to the first hours of a sudden sorrow, when the poor human soulis like one who has been deposited sleeping among the ruins of a vastcity, and wakes up in dreary amazement, not knowing whether it isthe growing or the dying day--not knowing why and whence came thisillimitable scene of desolation, or why he too finds himself desolate inthe midst of it.
At another time Lisbeth's first thought would have been, "Where isAdam?" but the sudden death of her husband had restored him inthese hours to that first place in her affections which he had heldsix-and-twenty years ago. She had forgotten his faults as we forget thesorrows of our departed childhood, and thought of nothing but the younghusband's kindness and the old man's patience. Her eyes continuedto wander blankly until Seth came in and began to remove some of thescattered things, and clear the small round deal table that he might setout his mother's tea upon it.
"What art goin' to do?" she said, rather peevishly.
"I want thee to have a cup of tea, Mother," answered Seth, tenderly."It'll do thee good; and I'll put two or three of these things away, andmake the house look more comfortable."
"Comfortable! How canst talk o' ma'in' things comfortable? Let a-be, leta-be. There's no comfort for me no more," she went on, the tears comingwhen she began to speak, "now thy poor feyther's gone, as I'n washed forand mended, an' got's victual for him for thirty 'ear, an' him allaysso pleased wi' iverything I done for him, an' used to be so handy an' dothe jobs for me when I war ill an' cumbered wi' th' babby, an' made methe posset an' brought it upstairs as proud as could be, an' carried thelad as war as heavy as two children for five mile an' ne'er grumbled,all the way to Warson Wake, 'cause I wanted to go an' see my sister, aswar dead an' gone the very next Christmas as e'er come. An' him to bedrownded in the brook as we passed o'er the day we war married an'come home together, an' he'd made them lots o' shelves for me to put myplates an' things on, an' showed 'em me as proud as could be, 'cause heknow'd I should be pleased. An' he war to die an' me not to know, but tobe a-sleepin' i' my bed, as if I caredna nought about it. Eh! An' me tolive to see that! An' us as war young folks once, an' thought we shoulddo rarely when we war married. Let a-be, lad, let a-be! I wonna ha'no tay. I carena if I ne'er ate nor drink no more. When one end o' th'bridge tumbles down, where's th' use o' th' other stannin'? I may's welldie, an' foller my old man. There's no knowin' but he'll want me."
Here Lisbeth broke from words into moans, swaying herself backwards andforwards on her chair. Seth, always timid in his behaviour towards hismother, from the sense that he had no influence over her, felt it wasuseless to attempt to persuade or soothe her till this passion was past;so he contented himself with tending the back kitchen fire and foldingup his father's clothes, which had been hanging out to dry sincemorning--afraid to move about in the room where his mother was, lest heshould irritate her further.
But after Lisbeth had been rocking herself and moaning for some minutes,she suddenly paused and said aloud to herself, "I'll go an' see arterAdam, for I canna think where he's gotten; an' I want him to go upstairswi' me afore it's dark, for the minutes to look at the corpse is likethe meltin' snow."
Seth overheard this, and coming into the kitchen again, as his motherrose from her chair, he said, "Adam's asleep in the workshop, mother.Thee'dst better not wake him. He was o'erwrought with work and trouble."
"Wake him? Who's a-goin' to wake him? I shanna wake him wi' lookin' athim. I hanna seen the lad this two hour--I'd welly forgot as he'd e'ergrowed up from a babby when's feyther carried him."
Adam was seated on a rough bench, his head supported by his arm, whichrested from the shoulder to the elbow on the long planing-table inthe middle of the workshop. It seemed as if he had sat down for a fewminutes' rest and had fallen asleep without slipping from his firstattitude of sad, fatigued thought. His face, unwashed since yesterday,looked pallid and clammy; his hair was tossed shaggily about hisforehead, and his closed eyes had the sunken look which follows uponwatching and sorrow. His brow was knit, and his whole face had anexpression of weariness and pain. Gyp was evidently uneasy, for he saton his haunches, resting his nose on his master's stretched-out leg, anddividing the time between licking the hand that hung listlessly down andglancing with a listening air towards the door. The poor dog washungry and restless, but would not leave his master, and was waitingimpatiently for some chan
ge in the scene. It was owing to this feelingon Gyp's part that, when Lisbeth came into the workshop and advancedtowards Adam as noiselessly as she could, her intention not to awakenhim was immediately defeated; for Gyp's excitement was too great to findvent in anything short of a sharp bark, and in a moment Adam opened hiseyes and saw his mother standing before him. It was not very unlike hisdream, for his sleep had been little more than living through again, ina fevered delirious way, all that had happened since daybreak, and hismother with her fretful grief was present to him through it all. Thechief difference between the reality and the vision was that inhis dream Hetty was continually coming before him in bodilypresence--strangely mingling herself as an actor in scenes with whichshe had nothing to do. She was even by the Willow Brook; she made hismother angry by coming into the house; and he met her with her smartclothes quite wet through, as he walked in the rain to Treddleston, totell the coroner. But wherever Hetty came, his mother was sure to followsoon and when he opened his eyes, it was not at all startling to seeher standing near him.
"Eh, my lad, my lad!" Lisbeth burst out immediately, her wailing impulsereturning, for grief in its freshness feels the need of associating itsloss and its lament with every change of scene and incident, "thee'stgot nobody now but thy old mother to torment thee and be a burden tothee. Thy poor feyther 'ull ne'er anger thee no more; an' thy mothermay's well go arter him--the sooner the better--for I'm no good tonobody now. One old coat 'ull do to patch another, but it's good fornought else. Thee'dst like to ha' a wife to mend thy clothes an' get thyvictual, better nor thy old mother. An' I shall be nought but cumber,a-sittin' i' th' chimney-corner. (Adam winced and moved uneasily; hedreaded, of all things, to hear his mother speak of Hetty.) But ifthy feyther had lived, he'd ne'er ha' wanted me to go to make room foranother, for he could no more ha' done wi'out me nor one side o' thescissars can do wi'out th' other. Eh, we should ha' been both flung awaytogether, an' then I shouldna ha' seen this day, an' one buryin' 'ud ha'done for us both."
Here Lisbeth paused, but Adam sat in pained silence--he could not speakotherwise than tenderly to his mother to-day, but he could not helpbeing irritated by this plaint. It was not possible for poor Lisbeth toknow how it affected Adam any more than it is possible for a woundeddog to know how his moans affect the nerves of his master. Like allcomplaining women, she complained in the expectation of being soothed,and when Adam said nothing, she was only prompted to complain morebitterly.
"I know thee couldst do better wi'out me, for thee couldst go where theelikedst an' marry them as thee likedst. But I donna want to say theenay, let thee bring home who thee wut; I'd ne'er open my lips to findfaut, for when folks is old an' o' no use, they may think theirsens welloff to get the bit an' the sup, though they'n to swallow ill words wi't.An' if thee'st set thy heart on a lass as'll bring thee nought and wasteall, when thee mightst ha' them as 'ud make a man on thee, I'll saynought, now thy feyther's dead an' drownded, for I'm no better nor anold haft when the blade's gone."
Adam, unable to bear this any longer, rose silently from the bench andwalked out of the workshop into the kitchen. But Lisbeth followed him.
"Thee wutna go upstairs an' see thy feyther then? I'n done everythin'now, an' he'd like thee to go an' look at him, for he war allays sopleased when thee wast mild to him."
Adam turned round at once and said, "Yes, mother; let us go upstairs.Come, Seth, let us go together."
They went upstairs, and for five minutes all was silence. Then the keywas turned again, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. ButAdam did not come down again; he was too weary and worn-out to encountermore of his mother's querulous grief, and he went to rest on his bed.Lisbeth no sooner entered the kitchen and sat down than she threw herapron over her head, and began to cry and moan and rock herself asbefore. Seth thought, "She will be quieter by and by, now we have beenupstairs"; and he went into the back kitchen again, to tend his littlefire, hoping that he should presently induce her to have some tea.
Lisbeth had been rocking herself in this way for more than five minutes,giving a low moan with every forward movement of her body, when shesuddenly felt a hand placed gently on hers, and a sweet treble voicesaid to her, "Dear sister, the Lord has sent me to see if I can be acomfort to you."
Lisbeth paused, in a listening attitude, without removing her apron fromher face. The voice was strange to her. Could it be her sister's spiritcome back to her from the dead after all those years? She trembled anddared not look.
Dinah, believing that this pause of wonder was in itself a relief forthe sorrowing woman, said no more just yet, but quietly took off herbonnet, and then, motioning silence to Seth, who, on hearing her voice,had come in with a beating heart, laid one hand on the back of Lisbeth'schair and leaned over her, that she might be aware of a friendlypresence.
Slowly Lisbeth drew down her apron, and timidly she opened her dimdark eyes. She saw nothing at first but a face--a pure, pale face, withloving grey eyes, and it was quite unknown to her. Her wonder increased;perhaps it WAS an angel. But in the same instant Dinah had laid her handon Lisbeth's again, and the old woman looked down at it. It was a muchsmaller hand than her own, but it was not white and delicate, for Dinahhad never worn a glove in her life, and her hand bore the traces oflabour from her childhood upwards. Lisbeth looked earnestly at the handfor a moment, and then, fixing her eyes again on Dinah's face, said,with something of restored courage, but in a tone of surprise, "Why,ye're a workin' woman!"
"Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and I work in the cotton-mill when I am athome."
"Ah!" said Lisbeth slowly, still wondering; "ye comed in so light, likethe shadow on the wall, an' spoke i' my ear, as I thought ye might be asperrit. Ye've got a'most the face o' one as is a-sittin' on the gravei' Adam's new Bible."
"I come from the Hall Farm now. You know Mrs. Poyser--she's my aunt, andshe has heard of your great affliction, and is very sorry; and I'm cometo see if I can be any help to you in your trouble; for I know your sonsAdam and Seth, and I know you have no daughter; and when the clergymantold me how the hand of God was heavy upon you, my heart went outtowards you, and I felt a command to come and be to you in the place ofa daughter in this grief, if you will let me."
"Ah! I know who y' are now; y' are a Methody, like Seth; he's touldme on you," said Lisbeth fretfully, her overpowering sense of painreturning, now her wonder was gone. "Ye'll make it out as trouble's agood thing, like HE allays does. But where's the use o' talkin' to mea-that'n? Ye canna make the smart less wi' talkin'. Ye'll ne'er make mebelieve as it's better for me not to ha' my old man die in's bed, if hemust die, an' ha' the parson to pray by him, an' me to sit by him, an'tell him ne'er to mind th' ill words I've gi'en him sometimes when I warangered, an' to gi' him a bit an' a sup, as long as a bit an' a suphe'd swallow. But eh! To die i' the cold water, an' us close to him, an'ne'er to know; an' me a-sleepin', as if I ne'er belonged to him no morenor if he'd been a journeyman tramp from nobody knows where!"
Here Lisbeth began to cry and rock herself again; and Dinah said, "Yes,dear friend, your affliction is great. It would be hardness of heart tosay that your trouble was not heavy to bear. God didn't send me to youto make light of your sorrow, but to mourn with you, if you will let me.If you had a table spread for a feast, and was making merry with yourfriends, you would think it was kind to let me come and sit down andrejoice with you, because you'd think I should like to share thosegood things; but I should like better to share in your trouble and yourlabour, and it would seem harder to me if you denied me that. You won'tsend me away? You're not angry with me for coming?"
"Nay, nay; angered! who said I war angered? It war good on you to come.An' Seth, why donna ye get her some tay? Ye war in a hurry to get somefor me, as had no need, but ye donna think o' gettin' 't for them aswants it. Sit ye down; sit ye down. I thank you kindly for comin', forit's little wage ye get by walkin' through the wet fields to see an oldwoman like me....Nay, I'n got no daughter o' my own--ne'er had one--an'I warna sorry, for they're po
or queechy things, gells is; I allayswanted to ha' lads, as could fend for theirsens. An' the lads 'ull bemarryin'--I shall ha' daughters eno', an' too many. But now, do ye makethe tay as ye like it, for I'n got no taste i' my mouth this day--it'sall one what I swaller--it's all got the taste o' sorrow wi't."
Dinah took care not to betray that she had had her tea, and acceptedLisbeth's invitation very readily, for the sake of persuading the oldwoman herself to take the food and drink she so much needed after a dayof hard work and fasting.
Seth was so happy now Dinah was in the house that he could not helpthinking her presence was worth purchasing with a life in which griefincessantly followed upon grief; but the next moment he reproachedhimself--it was almost as if he were rejoicing in his father's saddeath. Nevertheless the joy of being with Dinah WOULD triumph--it waslike the influence of climate, which no resistance can overcome. And thefeeling even suffused itself over his face so as to attract his mother'snotice, while she was drinking her tea.
"Thee may'st well talk o' trouble bein' a good thing, Seth, for theethriv'st on't. Thee look'st as if thee know'dst no more o' care an'cumber nor when thee wast a babby a-lyin' awake i' th' cradle. Forthee'dst allays lie still wi' thy eyes open, an' Adam ne'er 'ud liestill a minute when he wakened. Thee wast allays like a bag o' meal ascan ne'er be bruised--though, for the matter o' that, thy poor feytherwar just such another. But ye've got the same look too" (here Lisbethturned to Dinah). "I reckon it's wi' bein' a Methody. Not as I'ma-findin' faut wi' ye for't, for ye've no call to be frettin', an'somehow ye looken sorry too. Eh! Well, if the Methodies are fond o'trouble, they're like to thrive: it's a pity they canna ha't all, an'take it away from them as donna like it. I could ha' gi'en 'em plenty;for when I'd gotten my old man I war worreted from morn till night; andnow he's gone, I'd be glad for the worst o'er again."
"Yes," said Dinah, careful not to oppose any feeling of Lisbeth's, forher reliance, in her smallest words and deeds, on a divine guidance,always issued in that finest woman's tact which proceeds from acute andready sympathy; "yes, I remember too, when my dear aunt died, I longedfor the sound of her bad cough in the nights, instead of the silencethat came when she was gone. But now, dear friend, drink this other cupof tea and eat a little more."
"What!" said Lisbeth, taking the cup and speaking in a less queruloustone, "had ye got no feyther and mother, then, as ye war so sorry aboutyour aunt?"
"No, I never knew a father or mother; my aunt brought me up from a baby.She had no children, for she was never married and she brought me up astenderly as if I'd been her own child."
"Eh, she'd fine work wi' ye, I'll warrant, bringin' ye up from a babby,an' her a lone woman--it's ill bringin' up a cade lamb. But I daresayye warna franzy, for ye look as if ye'd ne'er been angered i' your life.But what did ye do when your aunt died, an' why didna ye come to live inthis country, bein' as Mrs. Poyser's your aunt too?"
Dinah, seeing that Lisbeth's attention was attracted, told her the storyof her early life--how she had been brought up to work hard, andwhat sort of place Snowfield was, and how many people had a hard lifethere--all the details that she thought likely to interest Lisbeth. Theold woman listened, and forgot to be fretful, unconsciously subject tothe soothing influence of Dinah's face and voice. After a while she waspersuaded to let the kitchen be made tidy; for Dinah was bent on this,believing that the sense of order and quietude around her would help indisposing Lisbeth to join in the prayer she longed to pour forth at herside. Seth, meanwhile, went out to chop wood, for he surmised that Dinahwould like to be left alone with his mother.
Lisbeth sat watching her as she moved about in her still quick way, andsaid at last, "Ye've got a notion o' cleanin' up. I wouldna mind ha'inye for a daughter, for ye wouldna spend the lad's wage i' fine clothesan' waste. Ye're not like the lasses o' this countryside. I reckon folksis different at Snowfield from what they are here."
"They have a different sort of life, many of 'em," said Dinah; "theywork at different things--some in the mill, and many in the mines, inthe villages round about. But the heart of man is the same everywhere,and there are the children of this world and the children of light thereas well as elsewhere. But we've many more Methodists there than in thiscountry."
"Well, I didna know as the Methody women war like ye, for there's WillMaskery's wife, as they say's a big Methody, isna pleasant to look at,at all. I'd as lief look at a tooad. An' I'm thinkin' I wouldna mind ifye'd stay an' sleep here, for I should like to see ye i' th' house i'th' mornin'. But mayhappen they'll be lookin for ye at Mester Poyser's."
"No," said Dinah, "they don't expect me, and I should like to stay, ifyou'll let me."
"Well, there's room; I'n got my bed laid i' th' little room o'er theback kitchen, an' ye can lie beside me. I'd be glad to ha' ye wi' me tospeak to i' th' night, for ye've got a nice way o' talkin'. It puts mei' mind o' the swallows as was under the thack last 'ear when they fustbegun to sing low an' soft-like i' th' mornin'. Eh, but my old man warfond o' them birds! An' so war Adam, but they'n ne'er comed again this'ear. Happen THEY'RE dead too."
"There," said Dinah, "now the kitchen looks tidy, and now, dearMother--for I'm your daughter to-night, you know--I should like you towash your face and have a clean cap on. Do you remember what David did,when God took away his child from him? While the child was yet alivehe fasted and prayed to God to spare it, and he would neither eat nordrink, but lay on the ground all night, beseeching God for the child.But when he knew it was dead, he rose up from the ground and washed andanointed himself, and changed his clothes, and ate and drank; and whenthey asked him how it was that he seemed to have left off grieving nowthe child was dead, he said, 'While the child was yet alive, I fastedand wept; for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me,that the child may live? But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast?Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not returnto me.'"
"Eh, that's a true word," said Lisbeth. "Yea, my old man wonna come backto me, but I shall go to him--the sooner the better. Well, ye may do asye like wi' me: there's a clean cap i' that drawer, an' I'll go i' theback kitchen an' wash my face. An' Seth, thee may'st reach down Adam'snew Bible wi' th' picters in, an' she shall read us a chapter. Eh, Ilike them words--'I shall go to him, but he wonna come back to me.'"
Dinah and Seth were both inwardly offering thanks for the greaterquietness of spirit that had come over Lisbeth. This was what Dinah hadbeen trying to bring about, through all her still sympathy and absencefrom exhortation. From her girlhood upwards she had had experience amongthe sick and the mourning, among minds hardened and shrivelled throughpoverty and ignorance, and had gained the subtlest perception of themode in which they could best be touched and softened into willingnessto receive words of spiritual consolation or warning. As Dinah expressedit, "she was never left to herself; but it was always given her when tokeep silence and when to speak." And do we not all agree to call rapidthought and noble impulse by the name of inspiration? After our subtlestanalysis of the mental process, we must still say, as Dinah did, thatour highest thoughts and our best deeds are all given to us.
And so there was earnest prayer--there was faith, love, and hope pouringforth that evening in the little kitchen. And poor, aged, fretfulLisbeth, without grasping any distinct idea, without going through anycourse of religious emotions, felt a vague sense of goodness and love,and of something right lying underneath and beyond all this sorrowinglife. She couldn't understand the sorrow; but, for these moments, underthe subduing influence of Dinah's spirit, she felt that she must bepatient and still.
