Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (59 page)

Arthur rose from his seat with the last words, and went to one of the windows, looking out and turning his back on Adam, as he continued, passionately, “Haven’t I loved her too? Didn’t I see her yesterday? Shan’t I carry the thought of her about with me as much as you will? And don’t you think you would suffer more if you’d been in fault?”

There was silence for several minutes, for the struggle in Adam’s mind was not easily decided. Facile natures, whose emotions have little permanence, can hardly understand how much inward resistance he overcame before he rose from his seat and turned towards Arthur. Arthur heard the movement, and turning round, met the sad but softened look with which Adam said, “It’s true what you say, sir. I’m hard — it’s in my nature. I was too hard with my father, for doing wrong. I’ve been a bit hard t’ everybody but her. I felt as if nobody pitied her enough — her suffering cut into me so; and when I thought the folks at the farm were too hard with her, I said I’d never be hard to anybody myself again. But feeling overmuch about her has perhaps made me unfair to you. I’ve known what it is in my life to repent and feel it’s too late. I felt I’d been too harsh to my father when he was gone from me — I feel it now, when I think of him. I’ve no right to be hard towards them as have done wrong and repent.”

Adam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a man who is resolved to leave nothing unsaid that he is bound to say; but he went on with more hesitation.

“I wouldn’t shake hands with you once, sir, when you asked me — but if you’re willing to do it now, for all I refused then...”

Arthur’s white hand was in Adam’s large grasp in an instant, and with that action there was a strong rush, on both sides, of the old, boyish affection.

“Adam,” Arthur said, impelled to full confession now, “it would never have happened if I’d known you loved her. That would have helped to save me from it. And I did struggle. I never meant to injure her. I deceived you afterwards — and that led on to worse; but I thought it was forced upon me, I thought it was the best thing I could do. And in that letter I told her to let me know if she were in any trouble: don’t think I would not have done everything I could. But I was all wrong from the very first, and horrible wrong has come of it. God knows, I’d give my life if I could undo it.”

They sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said, tremulously, “How did she seem when you left her, sir?”

“Don’t ask me, Adam,” Arthur said; “I feel sometimes as if I should go mad with thinking of her looks and what she said to me, and then, that I couldn’t get a full pardon — that I couldn’t save her from that wretched fate of being transported — that I can do nothing for her all those years; and she may die under it, and never know comfort any more.”

“Ah, sir,” said Adam, for the first time feeling his own pain merged in sympathy for Arthur, “you and me’ll often be thinking o’ the same thing, when we’re a long way off one another. I’ll pray God to help you, as I pray him to help me.”

“But there’s that sweet woman — that Dinah Morris,” Arthur said, pursuing his own thoughts and not knowing what had been the sense of Adam’s words, “she says she shall stay with her to the very last moment — till she goes; and the poor thing clings to her as if she found some comfort in her. I could worship that woman; I don’t know what I should do if she were not there. Adam, you will see her when she comes back. I could say nothing to her yesterday — nothing of what I felt towards her. Tell her,” Arthur went on hurriedly, as if he wanted to hide the emotion with which he spoke, while he took off his chain and watch, “tell her I asked you to give her this in remembrance of me — of the man to whom she is the one source of comfort, when he thinks of...I know she doesn’t care about such things — or anything else I can give her for its own sake. But she will use the watch — I shall like to think of her using it.”

“I’ll give it to her, sir,” Adam said, “and tell her your words. She told me she should come back to the people at the Hall Farm.”

“And you will persuade the Poysers to stay, Adam?” said Arthur, reminded of the subject which both of them had forgotten in the first interchange of revived friendship. “You will stay yourself, and help Mr. Irwine to carry out the repairs and improvements on the estate?”

“There’s one thing, sir, that perhaps you don’t take account of,” said Adam, with hesitating gentleness, “and that was what made me hang back longer. You see, it’s the same with both me and the Poysers: if we stay, it’s for our own worldly interest, and it looks as if we’d put up with anything for the sake o’ that. I know that’s what they’ll feel, and I can’t help feeling a little of it myself. When folks have got an honourable independent spirit, they don’t like to do anything that might make ‘em seem base-minded.”

“But no one who knows you will think that, Adam. That is not a reason strong enough against a course that is really more generous, more unselfish than the other. And it will be known — it shall be made known, that both you and the Poysers stayed at my entreaty. Adam, don’t try to make things worse for me; I’m punished enough without that.”

“No, sir, no,” Adam said, looking at Arthur with mournful affection. “God forbid I should make things worse for you. I used to wish I could do it, in my passion — but that was when I thought you didn’t feel enough. I’ll stay, sir, I’ll do the best I can. It’s all I’ve got to think of now — to do my work well and make the world a bit better place for them as can enjoy it.”

“Then we’ll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine to-morrow, and consult with him about everything.”

“Are you going soon, sir?” said Adam.

“As soon as possible — after I’ve made the necessary arrangements. Good-bye, Adam. I shall think of you going about the old place.”

“Good-bye, sir. God bless you.”

The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the Hermitage, feeling that sorrow was more bearable now hatred was gone.

As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went to the waste-paper basket and took out the little pink silk handkerchief.

Book Si
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Chapter XLI
X

At the Hall Far
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THE first autumnal afternoon sunshine of 1801 — more than eighteen months after that parting of Adam and Arthur in the Hermitage — was on the yard at the Hall Farm; and the bull-dog was in one of his most excited moments, for it was that hour of the day when the cows were being driven into the yard for their afternoon milking. No wonder the patient beasts ran confusedly into the wrong places, for the alarming din of the bull-dog was mingled with more distant sounds which the timid feminine creatures, with pardonable superstition, imagined also to have some relation to their own movements — with the tremendous crack of the waggoner’s whip, the roar of his voice, and the booming thunder of the waggon, as it left the rick-yard empty of its golden load.

The milking of the cows was a sight Mrs. Poyser loved, and at this hour on mild days she was usually standing at the house door, with her knitting in her hands, in quiet contemplation, only heightened to a keener interest when the vicious yellow cow, who had once kicked over a pailful of precious milk, was about to undergo the preventive punishment of having her hinder-legs strapped.

To-day, however, Mrs. Poyser gave but a divided attention to the arrival of the cows, for she was in eager discussion with Dinah, who was stitching Mr. Poyser’s shirt-collars, and had borne patiently to have her thread broken three times by Totty pulling at her arm with a sudden insistence that she should look at “Baby,” that is, at a large wooden doll with no legs and a long skirt, whose bald head Totty, seated in her small chair at Dinah’s side, was caressing and pressing to her fat cheek with much fervour. Totty is larger by more than two years’ growth than when you first saw her, and she has on a black frock under her pinafore. Mrs. Poyser too has on a black gown, which seems to heighten the family likeness between her and Dinah. In other respects there is little outward change now discernible in our old friends, or in the pleasant house-place, bright with polished oak and pewter.

“I never saw the like to you, Dinah,” Mrs. Poyser was saying, “when you’ve once took anything into your head: there’s no more moving you than the rooted tree. You may say what you like, but I don’t believe that’s religion; for what’s the Sermon on the Mount about, as you’re so fond o’ reading to the boys, but doing what other folks ‘ud have you do? But if it was anything unreasonable they wanted you to do, like taking your cloak off and giving it to ‘em, or letting ‘em slap you i’ the face, I daresay you’d be ready enough. It’s only when one ‘ud have you do what’s plain common sense and good for yourself, as you’re obstinate th’ other way.”

“Nay, dear Aunt,” said Dinah, smiling slightly as she went on with her work, “I’m sure your wish ‘ud be a reason for me to do anything that I didn’t feel it was wrong to do.”

“Wrong! You drive me past bearing. What is there wrong, I should like to know, i’ staying along wi’ your own friends, as are th’ happier for having you with ‘em an’ are willing to provide for you, even if your work didn’t more nor pay ‘em for the bit o’ sparrow’s victual y’ eat and the bit o’ rag you put on? An’ who is it, I should like to know, as you’re bound t’ help and comfort i’ the world more nor your own flesh and blood — an’ me th’ only aunt you’ve got above-ground, an’ am brought to the brink o’ the grave welly every winter as comes, an’ there’s the child as sits beside you ‘ull break her little heart when you go, an’ the grandfather not been dead a twelvemonth, an’ your uncle ‘ull miss you so as never was — a-lighting his pipe an’ waiting on him, an’ now I can trust you wi’ the butter, an’ have had all the trouble o’ teaching you, and there’s all the sewing to be done, an’ I must have a strange gell out o’ Treddles’on to do it — an’ all because you must go back to that bare heap o’ stones as the very crows fly over an’ won’t stop at.”

“Dear Aunt Rachel,” said Dinah, looking up in Mrs. Poyser’s face, “it’s your kindness makes you say I’m useful to you. You don’t really want me now, for Nancy and Molly are clever at their work, and you’re in good health now, by the blessing of God, and my uncle is of a cheerful countenance again, and you have neighbours and friends not a few — some of them come to sit with my uncle almost daily. Indeed, you will not miss me; and at Snowfield there are brethren and sisters in great need, who have none of those comforts you have around you. I feel that I am called back to those amongst whom my lot was first cast. I feel drawn again towards the hills where I used to be blessed in carrying the word of life to the sinful and desolate.”

“You feel! Yes,” said Mrs. Poyser, returning from a parenthetic glance at the cows, “that’s allays the reason I’m to sit down wi’, when you’ve a mind to do anything contrairy. What do you want to be preaching for more than you’re preaching now? Don’t you go off, the Lord knows where, every Sunday a-preaching and praying? An’ haven’t you got Methodists enow at Treddles’on to go and look at, if church-folks’s faces are too handsome to please you? An’ isn’t there them i’ this parish as you’ve got under hand, and they’re like enough to make friends wi’ Old Harry again as soon as your back’s turned? There’s that Bessy Cranage — she’ll be flaunting i’ new finery three weeks after you’re gone, I’ll be bound. She’ll no more go on in her new ways without you than a dog ‘ull stand on its hind-legs when there’s nobody looking. But I suppose it doesna matter so much about folks’s souls i’ this country, else you’d be for staying with your own aunt, for she’s none so good but what you might help her to be better.”

There was a certain something in Mrs. Poyser’s voice just then, which she did not wish to be noticed, so she turned round hastily to look at the clock, and said: “See there! It’s tea-time; an’ if Martin’s i’ the rick-yard, he’ll like a cup. Here, Totty, my chicken, let mother put your bonnet on, and then you go out into the rick-yard and see if Father’s there, and tell him he mustn’t go away again without coming t’ have a cup o’ tea; and tell your brothers to come in too.”

Totty trotted off in her flapping bonnet, while Mrs. Poyser set out the bright oak table and reached down the tea-cups.

“You talk o’ them gells Nancy and Molly being clever i’ their work,” she began again; “it’s fine talking. They’re all the same, clever or stupid — one can’t trust ‘em out o’ one’s sight a minute. They want somebody’s eye on ‘em constant if they’re to be kept to their work. An’ suppose I’m ill again this winter, as I was the winter before last? Who’s to look after ‘em then, if you’re gone? An’ there’s that blessed child — something’s sure t’ happen to her — they’ll let her tumble into the fire, or get at the kettle wi’ the boiling lard in’t, or some mischief as ‘ull lame her for life; an’ it’ll be all your fault, Dinah.”

“Aunt,” said Dinah, “I promise to come back to you in the winter if you’re ill. Don’t think I will ever stay away from you if you’re in real want of me. But, indeed, it is needful for my own soul that I should go away from this life of ease and luxury in which I have all things too richly to enjoy — at least that I should go away for a short space. No one can know but myself what are my inward needs, and the besetments I am most in danger from. Your wish for me to stay is not a call of duty which I refuse to hearken to because it is against my own desires; it is a temptation that I must resist, lest the love of the creature should become like a mist in my soul shutting out the heavenly light.”

“It passes my cunning to know what you mean by ease and luxury,” said Mrs. Poyser, as she cut the bread and butter. “It’s true there’s good victual enough about you, as nobody shall ever say I don’t provide enough and to spare, but if there’s ever a bit o’ odds an’ ends as nobody else ‘ud eat, you’re sure to pick it out...but look there! There’s Adam Bede a-carrying the little un in. I wonder how it is he’s come so early.”

Mrs. Poyser hastened to the door for the pleasure of looking at her darling in a new position, with love in her eyes but reproof on her tongue.

“Oh for shame, Totty! Little gells o’ five year old should be ashamed to be carried. Why, Adam, she’ll break your arm, such a big gell as that; set her down — for shame!”

“Nay, nay,” said Adam, “I can lift her with my hand — I’ve no need to take my arm to it.”

Totty, looking as serenely unconscious of remark as a fat white puppy, was set down at the door-place, and the mother enforced her reproof with a shower of kisses.

“You’re surprised to see me at this hour o’ the day,” said Adam.

“Yes, but come in,” said Mrs. Poyser, making way for him; “there’s no bad news, I hope?”

“No, nothing bad,” Adam answered, as he went up to Dinah and put out his hand to her. She had laid down her work and stood up, instinctively, as he approached her. A faint blush died away from her pale cheek as she put her hand in his and looked up at him timidly.

“It’s an errand to you brought me, Dinah,” said Adam, apparently unconscious that he was holding her hand all the while; “mother’s a bit ailing, and she’s set her heart on your coming to stay the night with her, if you’ll be so kind. I told her I’d call and ask you as I came from the village. She overworks herself, and I can’t persuade her to have a little girl t’ help her. I don’t know what’s to be done.”

Adam released Dinah’s hand as he ceased speaking, and was expecting an answer, but before she had opened her lips Mrs. Poyser said, “Look there now! I told you there was folks enow t’ help i’ this parish, wi’out going further off. There’s Mrs. Bede getting as old and cas’alty as can be, and she won’t let anybody but you go a-nigh her hardly. The folks at Snowfield have learnt by this time to do better wi’out you nor she can.”

“I’ll put my bonnet on and set off directly, if you don’t want anything done first, Aunt,” said Dinah, folding up her work.

“Yes, I do want something done. I want you t’ have your tea, child; it’s all ready — and you’ll have a cup, Adam, if y’ arena in too big a hurry.”

“Yes, I’ll have a cup, please; and then I’ll walk with Dinah. I’m going straight home, for I’ve got a lot o’ timber valuations to write out.”

“Why, Adam, lad, are you here?” said Mr. Poyser, entering warm and coatless, with the two black-eyed boys behind him, still looking as much like him as two small elephants are like a large one. “How is it we’ve got sight o’ you so long before foddering-time?”

“I came on an errand for Mother,” said Adam. “She’s got a touch of her old complaint, and she wants Dinah to go and stay with her a bit.”

“Well, we’ll spare her for your mother a little while,” said Mr. Poyser. “But we wonna spare her for anybody else, on’y her husband.”

“Husband!” said Marty, who was at the most prosaic and literal period of the boyish mind. “Why, Dinah hasn’t got a husband.”

“Spare her?” said Mrs. Poyser, placing a seed-cake on the table and then seating herself to pour out the tea. “But we must spare her, it seems, and not for a husband neither, but for her own megrims. Tommy, what are you doing to your little sister’s doll? Making the child naughty, when she’d be good if you’d let her. You shanna have a morsel o’ cake if you behave so.”

Tommy, with true brotherly sympathy, was amusing himself by turning Dolly’s skirt over her bald head and exhibiting her truncated body to the general scorn — an indignity which cut Totty to the heart.

“What do you think Dinah’s been a-telling me since dinner-time?” Mrs. Poyser continued, looking at her husband.

“Eh! I’m a poor un at guessing,” said Mr. Poyser.

“Why, she means to go back to Snowfield again, and work i’ the mill, and starve herself, as she used to do, like a creatur as has got no friends.”

Mr. Poyser did not readily find words to express his unpleasant astonishment; he only looked from his wife to Dinah, who had now seated herself beside Totty, as a bulwark against brotherly playfulness, and was busying herself with the children’s tea. If he had been given to making general reflections, it would have occurred to him that there was certainly a change come over Dinah, for she never used to change colour; but, as it was, he merely observed that her face was flushed at that moment. Mr. Poyser thought she looked the prettier for it: it was a flush no deeper than the petal of a monthly rose. Perhaps it came because her uncle was looking at her so fixedly; but there is no knowing, for just then Adam was saying, with quiet surprise, “Why, I hoped Dinah was settled among us for life. I thought she’d given up the notion o’ going back to her old country.”

“Thought! Yes,” said Mrs. Poyser, “and so would anybody else ha’ thought, as had got their right end up’ards. But I suppose you must be a Methodist to know what a Methodist ‘ull do. It’s ill guessing what the bats are flying after.”

“Why, what have we done to you. Dinah, as you must go away from us?” said Mr. Poyser, still pausing over his tea-cup. “It’s like breaking your word, welly, for your aunt never had no thought but you’d make this your home.”