Adam Bede

by George Eliot

  Chapter LI

  Sunday Morning

  LISBETH'S touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear serious enoughto detain Dinah another night from the Hall Farm, now she had made upher mind to leave her aunt so soon, and at evening the friends mustpart. "For a long while," Dinah had said, for she had told Lisbeth ofher resolve.

  "Then it'll be for all my life, an' I shall ne'er see thee again," saidLisbeth. "Long while! I'n got no long while t' live. An' I shall betook bad an' die, an' thee canst ne'er come a-nigh me, an' I shall diea-longing for thee."

  That had been the key-note of her wailing talk all day; for Adam was notin the house, and so she put no restraint on her complaining. She hadtried poor Dinah by returning again and again to the question, whyshe must go away; and refusing to accept reasons, which seemed to hernothing but whim and "contrairiness"; and still more, by regretting thatshe "couldna' ha' one o' the lads" and be her daughter.

  "Thee couldstna put up wi' Seth," she said. "He isna cliver enough forthee, happen, but he'd ha' been very good t' thee--he's as handy as canbe at doin' things for me when I'm bad, an' he's as fond o' the Biblean' chappellin' as thee art thysen. But happen, thee'dst like a husbandbetter as isna just the cut o' thysen: the runnin' brook isna athirstfor th' rain. Adam 'ud ha' done for thee--I know he would--an' he mightcome t' like thee well enough, if thee'dst stop. But he's as stubbornas th' iron bar--there's no bending him no way but's own. But he'd bea fine husband for anybody, be they who they will, so looked-on an' socliver as he is. And he'd be rare an' lovin': it does me good on'y alook o' the lad's eye when he means kind tow'rt me."

  Dinah tried to escape from Lisbeth's closest looks and questions byfinding little tasks of housework that kept her moving about, and assoon as Seth came home in the evening she put on her bonnet to go. Ittouched Dinah keenly to say the last good-bye, and still more to lookround on her way across the fields and see the old woman still standingat the door, gazing after her till she must have been the faintest speckin 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 gladaccording to the days wherein thou hast afflicted them, and the yearswherein they have seen evil. It is thy will that I should part fromthem; let me have no will but thine."

  Lisbeth turned into the house at last and sat down in the workshop nearSeth, who was busying himself there with fitting some bits of turnedwood he had brought from the village into a small work-box, which hemeant 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 sawright 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 overagain."

  "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'sface. "What! Has she said anything o' that sort to thee, Mother?" hesaid, in a lower tone.

  "Said? Nay, she'll say nothin'. It's on'y the men as have to wait tillfolks say things afore they find 'em out."

  "Well, but what makes thee think so, Mother? What's put it into thyhead?"

  "It's no matter what's put it into my head. My head's none so hollow asit must get in, an' nought to put it there. I know she's fond on him, asI know th' wind's comin' in at the door, an' that's anoof. An' he mightbe willin' to marry her if he know'd she's fond on him, but he'll ne'erthink on't if somebody doesna put it into's head."

  His mother's suggestion about Dinah's feeling towards Adam was not quitea new thought to Seth, but her last words alarmed him, lest she shouldherself undertake to open Adam's eyes. He was not sure about Dinah'sfeeling, and he thought he was sure about Adam's.

  "Nay, Mother, nay," he said, earnestly, "thee mustna think o' speakingo' such things to Adam. Thee'st no right to say what Dinah's feelingsare if she hasna told thee, and it 'ud do nothing but mischief to saysuch things to Adam. He feels very grateful and affectionate towardDinah, but he's no thoughts towards her that 'ud incline him to make herhis wife, and I don't believe Dinah 'ud marry him either. I don't thinkshe'll marry at all."

  "Eh," said Lisbeth, impatiently. "Thee think'st so 'cause she wouldnaha' 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 thinkthat of me. I should be as thankful t' have her for a sister as theewouldst t' have her for a daughter. I've no more thoughts about myselfin 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 Isay they are."

  "But, Mother," said Seth, "thee'dst be doing Dinah a wrong by tellingAdam 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'mpretty 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 wantst' see her; he knowsna as I put salt in's broth, but he'd miss it prettyquick if it warna there. He'll ne'er think o' marrying if it isna putinto's head, an' if thee'dst any love for thy mother, thee'dst put himup to't an' not let her go away out o' my sight, when I might ha' her tomake a bit o' comfort for me afore I go to bed to my old man under thewhite thorn."

  "Nay, Mother," said Seth, "thee mustna think me unkind, but I shouldbe going against my conscience if I took upon me to say what Dinah'sfeelings are. And besides that, I think I should give offence to Adam byspeaking 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, bywords 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 didnawant, 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 aboutDinah. He consoled himself after a time with reflecting that, sinceAdam's trouble, Lisbeth had been very timid about speaking to him onmatters of feeling, and that she would hardly dare to approach thistenderest of all subjects. Even if she did, he hoped Adam would not takemuch notice of what she said.

  Seth was right in believing that Lisbeth would be held in restraint bytimidity, and during the next three days, the intervals in which she hadan opportunity of speaking to Adam were too rare and short to cause herany strong temptation. But in her long solitary hours she brooded overher regretful thoughts about Dinah, till they had grown very near thatpoint of unmanageable strength when thoughts are apt to take wing outof their secret nest in a startling manner. And on Sunday morning, whenSeth went away to chapel at Treddleston, the dangerous opportunity came.

  Sunday morning was the happiest time in all the week to Lisbeth, foras there was no service at Hayslope church till the afternoon, Adam wasalways at home, doing nothing but reading, an occupation in which shecould venture to interrupt him. Moreover, she had always a better dinnerthan usual to prepare for her sons--very frequently for Adam and herselfalone, Seth being often away the entire day--and the smell of the roastmeat before the clear fire in the clean kitchen, the clock ticking ina peaceful Sunday manner, her darling Adam seated near her in his bestclothes, doing nothing very important, so that she could go and strokeher hand across his hair if she liked, and see him look up at her andsmile, while Gyp, rather jealous, poked his muzzle up between them--allthese things made poor Lisbeth's earthly paradise.

  The book Adam most often read on a Sunday morning was his large picturedBible, and this morning it lay open before him on the round white dealtable in the kitchen; for he sat the
re in spite of the fire, because heknew his mother liked to have him with her, and it was the only day inthe week when he could indulge her in that way. You would have liked tosee Adam reading his Bible. He never opened it on a weekday, and so hecame to it as a holiday book, serving him for history, biography, andpoetry. He held one hand thrust between his waistcoat buttons, and theother ready to turn the pages, and in the course of the morning youwould have seen many changes in his face. Sometimes his lips moved insemi-articulation--it was when he came to a speech that he could fancyhimself uttering, such as Samuel's dying speech to the people; then hiseyebrows would be raised, and the corners of his mouth would quiver alittle with sad sympathy--something, perhaps old Isaac's meeting withhis 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 andthen shake his head in serious assent, or just lift up his hand and letit fall again. And on some mornings, when he read in the Apocrypha, ofwhich he was very fond, the son of Sirach's keen-edged words would bringa delighted smile, though he also enjoyed the freedom of occasionallydiffering from an Apocryphal writer. For Adam knew the Articles quitewell, as became a good churchman.

  Lisbeth, in the pauses of attending to her dinner, always sat oppositeto him and watched him, till she could rest no longer without goingup to him and giving him a caress, to call his attention to her. Thismorning he was reading the Gospel according to St. Matthew, and Lisbethhad been standing close by him for some minutes, stroking his hair,which was smoother than usual this morning, and looking down at thelarge page with silent wonderment at the mystery of letters. She wasencouraged to continue this caress, because when she first went upto him, he had thrown himself back in his chair to look at heraffectionately and say, "Why, Mother, thee look'st rare and hearty thismorning. Eh, Gyp wants me t' look at him. He can't abide to think I lovethee the best." Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say so manythings. And now there was a new leaf to be turned over, and it wasa picture--that of the angel seated on the great stone that has beenrolled away from the sepulchre. This picture had one strong associationin Lisbeth's memory, for she had been reminded of it when she firstsaw Dinah, and Adam had no sooner turned the page, and lifted the booksideways that they might look at the angel, than she said, "That'sher--that's Dinah."

  Adam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel's face, said, "Itis 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 storeby Dinah?"

  "Nay," said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet feeling thatshe had broken the ice, and the waters must flow, whatever mischief theymight do. "What's th' use o' settin' store by things as are thirty mileoff? 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 aseries of complaints tending to nothing. Lisbeth sat down again in thechair opposite to him, as she said:

  "But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy." Lisbeth darednot venture beyond a vague phrase yet.

  "Contrairy, mother?" Adam said, looking up again in some anxiety. "Whathave I done? What dost mean?"

  "Why, thee't never look at nothin', nor think o' nothin', but thyfigurin, an' thy work," said Lisbeth, half-crying. "An' dost think theecanst 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 theeas thee gett'st a bit o' victual comfortable i' the mornin'?"

  "What hast got i' thy mind, Mother?" said Adam, vexed at thiswhimpering. "I canna see what thee't driving at. Is there anything Icould 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' houset' help thee? It isna by my wish as thee hast a stroke o' work to do. Wecan afford it--I've told thee often enough. It 'ud be a deal better forus."

  "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'erset eyes on i' my life? I'd sooner make a shift an' get into my owncoffin afore I die, nor ha' them folks to put me in."

  Adam was silent, and tried to go on reading. That was the utmostseverity he could show towards his mother on a Sunday morning. ButLisbeth had gone too far now to check herself, and after scarcely aminute's quietness she began again.

  "Thee mightst know well enough who 'tis I'd like t' ha' wi' me. It isnamany folks I send for t' come an' see me. I reckon. An' thee'st had thefetchin' on her times enow."

  "Thee mean'st Dinah, Mother, I know," said Adam. "But it's no usesetting thy mind on what can't be. If Dinah 'ud be willing to stay atHayslope, it isn't likely she can come away from her aunt's house, wherethey hold her like a daughter, and where she's more bound than she is tous. If it had been so that she could ha' married Seth, that 'ud ha' beena great blessing to us, but we can't have things just as we like in thislife. 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 'udhappen wear out on her wi' marryin'."

  Adam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his mother. Heunderstood now what she had been aiming at from the beginning of theconversation. It was as unreasonable, impracticable a wish as she hadever urged, but he could not help being moved by so entirely new anidea. The chief point, however, was to chase away the notion from hismother's mind as quickly as possible.

  "Mother," he said, gravely, "thee't talking wild. Don't let me hearthee 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 formarr'ing, when them as she'd be willin' t' marry wonna ax her. Ishouldna 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 quiteconscious 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 seemedas if there were a resurrection of his dead joy. But he woke up veryspeedily from that dream (the waking was chill and sad), for it wouldhave been very foolish in him to believe his mother's words--she couldhave no ground for them. He was prompted to express his disbelief verystrongly--perhaps that he might call forth the proofs, if there were anyto be offered.

  "What dost say such things for, Mother, when thee'st got no foundationfor '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 fondo' Seth, I reckon, is she? She doesna want to marry HIM? But I can seeas she doesna behave tow'rt thee as she daes tow'rt Seth. She makes nomore o' Seth's coming a-nigh her nor if he war Gyp, but she's all of atremble when thee't a-sittin' down by her at breakfast an' a-looking ather. Thee think'st thy mother knows nought, but she war alive afore theewast born."

  "But thee canstna be sure as the trembling means love?" said Adamanxiously.

  "Eh, what else should it mane? It isna hate, I reckon. An' what shouldshe do but love thee? Thee't made to be loved--for where's there astraighter cliverer man? An' what's it sinnify her bein' a Methody? It'son'y the marigold i' th' parridge."

  Adam had thrust his hands in his pockets, and was looking down at thebook on the table, without seeing any of the letters. He was tremblinglike a gold-seeker who sees the strong promise of gold but sees in thesame moment a sickening vision of disappointment. He could not trust hismo
ther'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 imperceptiblebreeze, which seemed to him some confirmation of his mother's words.

  Lisbeth noticed that he was moved. She went on, "An' thee't find outas thee't poorly aff when she's gone. Thee't fonder on her nor theeknow'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 outinto the fields.

  The sunshine was on them: that early autumn sunshine which we shouldknow was not summer's, even if there were not the touches of yellowon the lime and chestnut; the Sunday sunshine too, which has more thanautumnal calmness for the working man; the morning sunshine, which stillleaves the dew-crystals on the fine gossamer webs in the shadow of thebushy hedgerows.

  Adam needed the calm influence; he was amazed at the way in whichthis new thought of Dinah's love had taken possession of him, with anovermastering power that made all other feelings give way before theimpetuous desire to know that the thought was true. Strange, that tillthat moment the possibility of their ever being lovers had never crossedhis mind, and yet now, all his longing suddenly went out towards thatpossibility. He had no more doubt or hesitation as to his own wishesthan the bird that flies towards the opening through which the daylightgleams and the breath of heaven enters.

  The autumnal Sunday sunshine soothed him, but not by preparing him withresignation to the disappointment if his mother--if he himself--provedto be mistaken about Dinah. It soothed him by gentle encouragement ofhis hopes. Her love was so like that calm sunshine that they seemed tomake one presence to him, and he believed in them both alike. And Dinahwas so bound up with the sad memories of his first passion that he wasnot forsaking them, but rather giving them a new sacredness by lovingher. Nay, his love for her had grown out of that past: it was the noonof that morning.

  But Seth? Would the lad be hurt? Hardly; for he had seemed quitecontented of late, and there was no selfish jealousy in him; he hadnever been jealous of his mother's fondness for Adam. But had he seenanything of what their mother talked about? Adam longed to know this,for he thought he could trust Seth's observation better than hismother's. He must talk to Seth before he went to see Dinah, and, withthis intention in his mind, he walked back to the cottage and said tohis mother, "Did Seth say anything to thee about when he was cominghome? Will he be back to dinner?"

  "Aye, lad, he'll be back for a wonder. He isna gone to Treddles'on. He'sgone 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 norI do."

  Adam wanted to go and meet Seth, but he must content himself withwalking about the near fields and getting sight of him as soon aspossible. That would not be for more than an hour to come, for Sethwould scarcely be at home much before their dinner-time, which wastwelve o'clock. But Adam could not sit down to his reading again, and hesauntered along by the brook and stood leaning against the stiles, witheager 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 ofhis own feeling, at the strength and sweetness of this new love--almostlike the wonder a man feels at the added power he finds in himself foran art which he had laid aside for a space. How is it that the poetshave said so many fine things about our first love, so few about ourlater love? Are their first poems their best? Or are not those the bestwhich come from their fuller thought, their larger experience, theirdeeper-rooted affections? The boy's flutelike voice has its own springcharm; but the man should yield a richer deeper music.

  At last, there was Seth, visible at the farthest stile, and Adamhastened to meet him. Seth was surprised, and thought something unusualmust have happened, but when Adam came up, his face said plainly enoughthat 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 Wordto a little company of hearers at Brimstone's, as they call him. They'refolks as never go to church hardly--them on the Common--but they'll goand hear Dinah a bit. She's been speaking with power this forenoonfrom the words, 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners torepentance.' And there was a little thing happened as was pretty to see.The women mostly bring their children with 'em, but to-day there was onestout curly headed fellow about three or four year old, that I never sawthere before. He was as naughty as could be at the beginning while I waspraying, and while we was singing, but when we all sat down and Dinahbegan to speak, th' young un stood stock still all at once, and began tolook at her with's mouth open, and presently he ran away from's motherand went to Dinah, and pulled at her, like a little dog, for her to takenotice of him. So Dinah lifted him up and held th' lad on her lap, whileshe went on speaking; and he was as good as could be till he went tosleep--and the mother cried to see him."

  "It's a pity she shouldna be a mother herself," said Adam, "so fond asthe children are of her. Dost think she's quite fixed against marrying,Seth? Dost think nothing 'ud turn her?"

  There was something peculiar in his brother's tone, which made Sethsteal a glance at his face before he answered.

  "It 'ud be wrong of me to say nothing 'ud turn her," he answered. "Butif thee mean'st it about myself, I've given up all thoughts as she canever be my wife. She calls me her brother, and that's enough."

  "But dost think she might ever get fond enough of anybody else to bewilling to marry 'em?" said Adam rather shyly.

  "Well," said Seth, after some hesitation, "it's crossed my mindsometimes o' late as she might; but Dinah 'ud let no fondness for thecreature draw her out o' the path as she believed God had marked out forher. If she thought the leading was not from Him, she's not one tobe brought under the power of it. And she's allays seemed clear aboutthat--as her work was to minister t' others, and make no home forherself i' this world."

  "But suppose," said Adam, earnestly, "suppose there was a man as 'udlet her do just the same and not interfere with her--she might do a gooddeal o' what she does now, just as well when she was married as whenshe was single. Other women of her sort have married--that's to say, notjust like her, but women as preached and attended on the sick and needy.There's Mrs. Fletcher as she talks of."

  A new light had broken in on Seth. He turned round, and laying hishand on Adam's shoulder, said, "Why, wouldst like her to marry THEE,Brother?"

  Adam looked doubtfully at Seth's inquiring eyes and said, "Wouldst behurt if she was to be fonder o' me than o' thee?"

  "Nay," said Seth warmly, "how canst think it? Have I felt thy trouble solittle that I shouldna feel thy joy?"

  There was silence a few moments as they walked on, and then Seth said,"I'd no notion as thee'dst ever think of her for a wife."

  "But is it o' any use to think of her?" said Adam. "What dost say?Mother's made me as I hardly know where I am, with what she's beensaying to me this forenoon. She says she's sure Dinah feels for me morethan common, and 'ud be willing t' have me. But I'm afraid she speakswithout book. I want to know if thee'st seen anything."

  "It's a nice point to speak about," said Seth, "and I'm afraid o' beingwrong; besides, we've no right t' intermeddle with people's feelingswhen they wouldn't tell 'em themselves."

  Seth paused.

  "But thee mightst ask her," he said presently. "She took no offence atme for asking, and thee'st more right than I had, only thee't not in theSociety. But Dinah doesn't hold wi' them as are for keeping the Societyso strict to themselves. She doesn't mind about making folks enter theSociety, so as they're fit t' enter the kingdom o' God. Some o' thebrethren at Treddles'on are displeased with her for that."

  "Where will she be the rest o' the day?" said Adam.

  "She said she shouldn't leave the farm again to-day," said Seth,"be
cause it's her last Sabbath there, and she's going t' read out o' thebig Bible wi' the children."

  Adam thought--but did not say--"Then I'll go this afternoon for if Igo to church, my thoughts 'ull be with her all the while. They must singth' anthem without me to-day."