Adam Bede

by George Eliot

  Chapter LIV

  The Meeting on the Hill

  ADAM understood Dinah's haste to go away, and drew hope rather thandiscouragement from it. She was fearful lest the strength of her feelingtowards him should hinder her from waiting and listening faithfully forthe ultimate guiding voice from within.

  "I wish I'd asked her to write to me, though," he thought. "And yet eventhat might disturb her a bit, perhaps. She wants to be quite quietin her old way for a while. And I've no right to be impatient andinterrupting her with my wishes. She's told me what her mind is,and she's not a woman to say one thing and mean another. I'll waitpatiently."

  That was Adam's wise resolution, and it throve excellently for the firsttwo or three weeks on the nourishment it got from the remembrance ofDinah's confession that Sunday afternoon. There is a wonderful amountof sustenance in the first few words of love. But towards the middleof October the resolution began to dwindle perceptibly, and showeddangerous symptoms of exhaustion. The weeks were unusually long: Dinahmust surely have had more than enough time to make up her mind. Let awoman say what she will after she has once told a man that she loveshim, he is a little too flushed and exalted with that first draught sheoffers him to care much about the taste of the second. He treads theearth with a very elastic step as he walks away from her, and makeslight of all difficulties. But that sort of glow dies out: memory getssadly diluted with time, and is not strong enough to revive us. Adamwas no longer so confident as he had been. He began to fear that perhapsDinah's old life would have too strong a grasp upon her for any newfeeling to triumph. If she had not felt this, she would surely havewritten to him to give him some comfort; but it appeared that she heldit right to discourage him. As Adam's confidence waned, his patiencewaned with it, and he thought he must write himself. He must ask Dinahnot to leave him in painful doubt longer than was needful. He sat uplate one night to write her a letter, but the next morning he burnt it,afraid of its effect. It would be worse to have a discouraging answerby letter than from her own lips, for her presence reconciled him to herwill.

  You perceive how it was: Adam was hungering for the sight of Dinah, andwhen that sort of hunger reaches a certain stage, a lover is likely tostill it though he may have to put his future in pawn.

  But what harm could he do by going to Snowfield? Dinah could not bedispleased with him for it. She had not forbidden him to go. She mustsurely expect that he would go before long. By the second Sunday inOctober this view of the case had become so clear to Adam that he wasalready on his way to Snowfield, on horseback this time, for his hourswere precious now, and he had borrowed Jonathan Burge's good nag for thejourney.

  What keen memories went along the road with him! He had often been toOakbourne and back since that first journey to Snowfield, but beyondOakbourne the greystone walls, the broken country, the meagre trees,seemed to be telling him afresh the story of that painful past which heknew so well by heart. But no story is the same to us after a lapse oftime--or rather, we who read it are no longer the same interpreters--andAdam this morning brought with him new thoughts through that greycountry, thoughts which gave an altered significance to its story of thepast.

  That is a base and selfish, even a blasphemous, spirit which rejoicesand is thankful over the past evil that has blighted or crushed another,because it has been made a source of unforeseen good to ourselves. Adamcould never cease to mourn over that mystery of human sorrow which hadbeen brought so close to him; he could never thank God for another'smisery. And if I were capable of that narrow-sighted joy in Adam'sbehalf, I should still know he was not the man to feel it for himself.He would have shaken his head at such a sentiment and said, "Evil'sevil, and sorrow's sorrow, and you can't alter it's natur by wrappingit up in other words. Other folks were not created for my sake, that Ishould think all square when things turn out well for me."

  But it is not ignoble to feel that the fuller life which a sadexperience has brought us is worth our own personal share of pain.Surely it is not possible to feel otherwise, any more than it would bepossible for a man with cataract to regret the painful process by whichhis dim blurred sight of men as trees walking had been exchanged forclear outline and effulgent day. The growth of higher feeling withinus is like the growth of faculty, bringing with it a sense of addedstrength. We can no more wish to return to a narrower sympathy thana painter or a musician can wish to return to his cruder manner, or aphilosopher to his less complete formula.

  Something like this sense of enlarged being was in Adam's mind thisSunday morning, as he rode along in vivid recollection of the past. Hisfeeling towards Dinah, the hope of passing his life with her, had beenthe distant unseen point towards which that hard journey from Snowfieldeighteen months ago had been leading him. Tender and deep as his lovefor Hetty had been--so deep that the roots of it would never be tornaway--his love for Dinah was better and more precious to him, for itwas the outgrowth of that fuller life which had come to him from hisacquaintance with deep sorrow. "It's like as if it was a new strength tome," he said to himself, "to love her and know as she loves me. I shalllook t' her to help me to see things right. For she's better than Iam--there's less o' self in her, and pride. And it's a feeling as givesyou a sort o' liberty, as if you could walk more fearless, when you'vemore trust in another than y' have in yourself. I've always beenthinking I knew better than them as belonged to me, and that's a poorsort o' life, when you can't look to them nearest to you t' help youwith a bit better thought than what you've got inside you a'ready."

  It was more than two o'clock in the afternoon when Adam came in sight ofthe grey town on the hill-side and looked searchingly towards the greenvalley below, for the first glimpse of the old thatched roof near theugly red mill. The scene looked less harsh in the soft October sunshinethan it had in the eager time of early spring, and the one grand charmit possessed in common with all wide-stretching woodless regions--thatit filled you with a new consciousness of the overarching sky--had amilder, more soothing influence than usual, on this almost cloudlessday. Adam's doubts and fears melted under this influence as the delicateweblike clouds had gradually melted away into the clear blue above him.He seemed to see Dinah's gentle face assuring him, with its looks alone,of all he longed to know.

  He did not expect Dinah to be at home at this hour, but he got down fromhis horse and tied it at the little gate, that he might ask where shewas gone to-day. He had set his mind on following her and bringing herhome. She was gone to Sloman's End, a hamlet about three miles off, overthe hill, the old woman told him--had set off directly after morningchapel, to preach in a cottage there, as her habit was. Anybody at thetown would tell him the way to Sloman's End. So Adam got on his horseagain and rode to the town, putting up at the old inn and taking ahasty dinner there in the company of the too chatty landlord, from whosefriendly questions and reminiscences he was glad to escape as soon aspossible and set out towards Sloman's End. With all his haste it wasnearly four o'clock before he could set off, and he thought that asDinah had gone so early, she would perhaps already be near returning.The little, grey, desolate-looking hamlet, unscreened by shelteringtrees, lay in sight long before he reached it, and as he came near hecould hear the sound of voices singing a hymn. "Perhaps that's the lasthymn before they come away," Adam thought. "I'll walk back a bit andturn again to meet her, farther off the village." He walked back till hegot nearly to the top of the hill again, and seated himself on a loosestone, against the low wall, to watch till he should see the littleblack figure leaving the hamlet and winding up the hill. He chosethis spot, almost at the top of the hill, because it was away from alleyes--no house, no cattle, not even a nibbling sheep near--no presencebut the still lights and shadows and the great embracing sky.

  She was much longer coming than he expected. He waited an hour atleast watching for her and thinking of her, while the afternoon shadowslengthened and the light grew softer. At last he saw the little blackfigure coming from between the grey houses and gradually approaching thefoot of the hill. Slowly,
Adam thought, but Dinah was really walking ather usual pace, with a light quiet step. Now she was beginning to windalong the path up the hill, but Adam would not move yet; he would notmeet her too soon he had set his heart on meeting her in this assuredloneliness. And now he began to fear lest he should startle her toomuch. "Yet," he thought, "she's not one to be overstartled; she's alwaysso calm and quiet, as if she was prepared for anything."

  What was she thinking of as she wound up the hill? Perhaps she had foundcomplete repose without him, and had ceased to feel any need of hislove. On the verge of a decision we all tremble: hope pauses withfluttering wings.

  But now at last she was very near, and Adam rose from the stone wall.It happened that just as he walked forward, Dinah had paused and turnedround to look back at the village--who does not pause and look back inmounting a hill? Adam was glad, for, with the fine instinct of a lover,he felt that it would be best for her to hear his voice before shesaw him. He came within three paces of her and then said, "Dinah!" Shestarted without looking round, as if she connected the sound with noplace. "Dinah!" Adam said again. He knew quite well what was in hermind. She was so accustomed to think of impressions as purely spiritualmonitions that she looked for no material visible accompaniment of thevoice.

  But this second time she looked round. What a look of yearning love itwas that the mild grey eyes turned on the strong dark-eyed man! She didnot start again at the sight of him; she said nothing, but moved towardshim so that his arm could clasp her round.

  And they walked on so in silence, while the warm tears fell. Adam wascontent, and said nothing. It was Dinah who spoke first.

  "Adam," she said, "it is the Divine Will. My soul is so knit to yoursthat it is but a divided life I live without you. And this moment, nowyou are with me, and I feel that our hearts are filled with the samelove. I have a fulness of strength to bear and do our heavenly Father'sWill that I had lost before."

  Adam paused and looked into her sincere eyes.

  "Then we'll never part any more, Dinah, till death parts us."

  And they kissed each other with a deep joy.

  What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that theyare joined for life--to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest oneach other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to beone with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of thelast parting?