Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (61 page)

“It’s wonderful she doesn’t love th’ lad,” Adam had said sometimes to himself, “for anybody ‘ud think he was just cut out for her. But her heart’s so taken up with other things. She’s one o’ those women that feel no drawing towards having a husband and children o’ their own. She thinks she should be filled up with her own life then, and she’s been used so to living in other folks’s cares, she can’t bear the thought of her heart being shut up from ‘em. I see how it is, well enough. She’s cut out o’ different stuff from most women: I saw that long ago. She’s never easy but when she’s helping somebody, and marriage ‘ud interfere with her ways — that’s true. I’ve no right to be contriving and thinking it ‘ud be better if she’d have Seth, as if I was wiser than she is — or than God either, for He made her what she is, and that’s one o’ the greatest blessings I’ve ever had from His hands, and others besides me.”

This self-reproof had recurred strongly to Adam’s mind when he gathered from Dinah’s face that he had wounded her by referring to his wish that she had accepted Seth, and so he had endeavoured to put into the strongest words his confidence in her decision as right — his resignation even to her going away from them and ceasing to make part of their life otherwise than by living in their thoughts, if that separation were chosen by herself. He felt sure she knew quite well enough how much he cared to see her continually — to talk to her with the silent consciousness of a mutual great remembrance. It was not possible she should hear anything but self-renouncing affection and respect in his assurance that he was contented for her to go away; and yet there remained an uneasy feeling in his mind that he had not said quite the right thing — that, somehow, Dinah had not understood him.

Dinah must have risen a little before the sun the next morning, for she was downstairs about five o’clock. So was Seth, for, through Lisbeth’s obstinate refusal to have any woman-helper in the house, he had learned to make himself, as Adam said, “very handy in the housework,” that he might save his mother from too great weariness; on which ground I hope you will not think him unmanly, any more than you can have thought the gallant Colonel Bath unmanly when he made the gruel for his invalid sister. Adam, who had sat up late at his writing, was still asleep, and was not likely, Seth said, to be down till breakfast-time. Often as Dinah had visited Lisbeth during the last eighteen months, she had never slept in the cottage since that night after Thias’s death, when, you remember, Lisbeth praised her deft movements and even gave a modified approval to her porridge. But in that long interval Dinah had made great advances in household cleverness, and this morning, since Seth was there to help, she was bent on bringing everything to a pitch of cleanliness and order that would have satisfied her Aunt Poyser. The cottage was far from that standard at present, for Lisbeth’s rheumatism had forced her to give up her old habits of dilettante scouring and polishing. When the kitchen was to her mind, Dinah went into the new room, where Adam had been writing the night before, to see what sweeping and dusting were needed there. She opened the window and let in the fresh morning air, and the smell of the sweet-brier, and the bright low-slanting rays of the early sun, which made a glory about her pale face and pale auburn hair as she held the long brush, and swept, singing to herself in a very low tone — like a sweet summer murmur that you have to listen for very closely — one of Charles Wesley’s hymns:

She laid by the brush and took up the duster; and if you had ever lived in Mrs. Poyser’s household, you would know how the duster behaved in Dinah’s hand — how it went into every small corner, and on every ledge in and out of sight — how it went again and again round every bar of the chairs, and every leg, and under and over everything that lay on the table, till it came to Adam’s papers and rulers and the open desk near them. Dinah dusted up to the very edge of these and then hesitated, looking at them with a longing but timid eye. It was painful to see how much dust there was among them. As she was looking in this way, she heard Seth’s step just outside the open door, towards which her back was turned, and said, raising her clear treble, “Seth, is your brother wrathful when his papers are stirred?”

“Yes, very, when they are not put back in the right places,” said a deep strong voice, not Seth’s.

It was as if Dinah had put her hands unawares on a vibrating chord. She was shaken with an intense thrill, and for the instant felt nothing else; then she knew her cheeks were glowing, and dared not look round, but stood still, distressed because she could not say good-morning in a friendly way. Adam, finding that she did not look round so as to see the smile on his face, was afraid she had thought him serious about his wrathfulness, and went up to her, so that she was obliged to look at him.

“What! You think I’m a cross fellow at home, Dinah?” he said, smilingly.

“Nay,” said Dinah, looking up with timid eyes, “not so. But you might be put about by finding things meddled with; and even the man Moses, the meekest of men, was wrathful sometimes.”

“Come, then,” said Adam, looking at her affectionately, “I’ll help you move the things, and put ‘em back again, and then they can’t get wrong. You’re getting to be your aunt’s own niece, I see, for particularness.”

They began their little task together, but Dinah had not recovered herself sufficiently to think of any remark, and Adam looked at her uneasily. Dinah, he thought, had seemed to disapprove him somehow lately; she had not been so kind and open to him as she used to be. He wanted her to look at him, and be as pleased as he was himself with doing this bit of playful work. But Dinah did not look at him — it was easy for her to avoid looking at the tall man — and when at last there was no more dusting to be done and no further excuse for him to linger near her, he could bear it no longer, and said, in rather a pleading tone, “Dinah, you’re not displeased with me for anything, are you? I’ve not said or done anything to make you think ill of me?”

The question surprised her, and relieved her by giving a new course to her feeling. She looked up at him now, quite earnestly, almost with the tears coming, and said, “Oh, no, Adam! how could you think so?”

“I couldn’t bear you not to feel as much a friend to me as I do to you,” said Adam. “And you don’t know the value I set on the very thought of you, Dinah. That was what I meant yesterday, when I said I’d be content for you to go, if you thought right. I meant, the thought of you was worth so much to me, I should feel I ought to be thankful, and not grumble, if you see right to go away. You know I do mind parting with you, Dinah?”

“Yes, dear friend,” said Dinah, trembling, but trying to speak calmly, “I know you have a brother’s heart towards me, and we shall often be with one another in spirit; but at this season I am in heaviness through manifold temptations. You must not mark me. I feel called to leave my kindred for a while; but it is a trial — the flesh is weak.”

Adam saw that it pained her to be obliged to answer.

“I hurt you by talking about it, Dinah,” he said. “I’ll say no more. Let’s see if Seth’s ready with breakfast now.”

That is a simple scene, reader. But it is almost certain that you, too, have been in love — perhaps, even, more than once, though you may not choose to say so to all your feminine friends. If so, you will no more think the slight words, the timid looks, the tremulous touches, by which two human souls approach each other gradually, like two little quivering rain-streams, before they mingle into one — you will no more think these things trivial than you will think the first-detected signs of coming spring trivial, though they be but a faint indescribable something in the air and in the song of the birds, and the tiniest perceptible budding on the hedge-row branches. Those slight words and looks and touches are part of the soul’s language; and the finest language, I believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as “light,” “sound,” “stars,” “music” — words really not worth looking at, or hearing, in themselves, any more than “chips” or “sawdust.” It is only that they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably great and beautiful. I am of opinion that love is a great and beautiful thing too, and if you agree with me, the smallest signs of it will not be chips and sawdust to you: they will rather be like those little words, “light” and “music,” stirring the long-winding fibres of your memory and enriching your present with your most precious past.

Chapter L
I

Sunday Mornin
g

LISBETH’S touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear serious enough to detain Dinah another night from the Hall Farm, now she had made up her mind to leave her aunt so soon, and at evening the friends must part. “For a long while,” Dinah had said, for she had told Lisbeth of her resolve.

“Then it’ll be for all my life, an’ I shall ne’er see thee again,” said Lisbeth. “Long while! I’n got no long while t’ live. An’ I shall be took bad an’ die, an’ thee canst ne’er come a-nigh me, an’ I shall die a-longing for thee.”

That had been the key-note of her wailing talk all day; for Adam was not in the house, and so she put no restraint on her complaining. She had tried poor Dinah by returning again and again to the question, why she must go away; and refusing to accept reasons, which seemed to her nothing but whim and “contrairiness”; and still more, by regretting that she “couldna’ ha’ one o’ the lads” and be her daughter.

“Thee couldstna put up wi’ Seth,” she said. “He isna cliver enough for thee, happen, but he’d ha’ been very good t’ thee — he’s as handy as can be at doin’ things for me when I’m bad, an’ he’s as fond o’ the Bible an’ chappellin’ as thee art thysen. But happen, thee’dst like a husband better as isna just the cut o’ thysen: the runnin’ brook isna athirst for th’ rain. Adam ‘ud ha’ done for thee — I know he would — an’ he might come t’ like thee well enough, if thee’dst stop. But he’s as stubborn as th’ iron bar — there’s no bending him no way but’s own. But he’d be a fine husband for anybody, be they who they will, so looked-on an’ so cliver as he is. And he’d be rare an’ lovin’: it does me good on’y a look o’ the lad’s eye when he means kind tow’rt me.”

Dinah tried to escape from Lisbeth’s closest looks and questions by finding little tasks of housework that kept her moving about, and as soon as Seth came home in the evening she put on her bonnet to go. It touched Dinah keenly to say the last good-bye, and still more to look round on her way across the fields and see the old woman still standing at the door, gazing after her till she must have been the faintest speck in 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 glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted them, and the years wherein they have seen evil. It is thy will that I should part from them; let me have no will but thine.”

Lisbeth turned into the house at last and sat down in the workshop near Seth, who was busying himself there with fitting some bits of turned wood he had brought from the village into a small work-box, which he meant 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 saw right 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 over again.”

“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’s face. “What! Has she said anything o’ that sort to thee, Mother?” he said, in a lower tone.

“Said? Nay, she’ll say nothin’. It’s on’y the men as have to wait till folks say things afore they find ‘em out.”

“Well, but what makes thee think so, Mother? What’s put it into thy head?”

“It’s no matter what’s put it into my head. My head’s none so hollow as it must get in, an’ nought to put it there. I know she’s fond on him, as I know th’ wind’s comin’ in at the door, an’ that’s anoof. An’ he might be willin’ to marry her if he know’d she’s fond on him, but he’ll ne’er think on’t if somebody doesna put it into’s head.”

His mother’s suggestion about Dinah’s feeling towards Adam was not quite a new thought to Seth, but her last words alarmed him, lest she should herself undertake to open Adam’s eyes. He was not sure about Dinah’s feeling, and he thought he was sure about Adam’s.

“Nay, Mother, nay,” he said, earnestly, “thee mustna think o’ speaking o’ such things to Adam. Thee’st no right to say what Dinah’s feelings are if she hasna told thee, and it ‘ud do nothing but mischief to say such things to Adam. He feels very grateful and affectionate toward Dinah, but he’s no thoughts towards her that ‘ud incline him to make her his wife, and I don’t believe Dinah ‘ud marry him either. I don’t think she’ll marry at all.”

“Eh,” said Lisbeth, impatiently. “Thee think’st so ‘cause she wouldna ha’ 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 think that of me. I should be as thankful t’ have her for a sister as thee wouldst t’ have her for a daughter. I’ve no more thoughts about myself in 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 I say they are.”

“But, Mother,” said Seth, “thee’dst be doing Dinah a wrong by telling Adam 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’m pretty 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 wants t’ see her; he knowsna as I put salt in’s broth, but he’d miss it pretty quick if it warna there. He’ll ne’er think o’ marrying if it isna put into’s head, an’ if thee’dst any love for thy mother, thee’dst put him up to’t an’ not let her go away out o’ my sight, when I might ha’ her to make a bit o’ comfort for me afore I go to bed to my old man under the white thorn.”

“Nay, Mother,” said Seth, “thee mustna think me unkind, but I should be going against my conscience if I took upon me to say what Dinah’s feelings are. And besides that, I think I should give offence to Adam by speaking 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, by words 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 didna want, 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 about Dinah. He consoled himself after a time with reflecting that, since Adam’s trouble, Lisbeth had been very timid about speaking to him on matters of feeling, and that she would hardly dare to approach this tenderest of all subjects. Even if she did, he hoped Adam would not take much notice of what she said.

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

Sunday morning was the happiest time in all the week to Lisbeth, for as there was no service at Hayslope church till the afternoon, Adam was always at home, doing nothing but reading, an occupation in which she could venture to interrupt him. Moreover, she had always a better dinner than usual to prepare for her sons — very frequently for Adam and herself alone, Seth being often away the entire day — and the smell of the roast meat before the clear fire in the clean kitchen, the clock ticking in a peaceful Sunday manner, her darling Adam seated near her in his best clothes, doing nothing very important, so that she could go and stroke her hand across his hair if she liked, and see him look up at her and smile, while Gyp, rather jealous, poked his muzzle up between them — all these things made poor Lisbeth’s earthly paradise.

The book Adam most often read on a Sunday morning was his large pictured Bible, and this morning it lay open before him on the round white deal table in the kitchen; for he sat there in spite of the fire, because he knew his mother liked to have him with her, and it was the only day in the week when he could indulge her in that way. You would have liked to see Adam reading his Bible. He never opened it on a weekday, and so he came to it as a holiday book, serving him for history, biography, and poetry. He held one hand thrust between his waistcoat buttons, and the other ready to turn the pages, and in the course of the morning you would have seen many changes in his face. Sometimes his lips moved in semi-articulation — it was when he came to a speech that he could fancy himself uttering, such as Samuel’s dying speech to the people; then his eyebrows would be raised, and the corners of his mouth would quiver a little with sad sympathy — something, perhaps old Isaac’s meeting with his 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 and then shake his head in serious assent, or just lift up his hand and let it fall again. And on some mornings, when he read in the Apocrypha, of which he was very fond, the son of Sirach’s keen-edged words would bring a delighted smile, though he also enjoyed the freedom of occasionally differing from an Apocryphal writer. For Adam knew the Articles quite well, as became a good churchman.

Lisbeth, in the pauses of attending to her dinner, always sat opposite to him and watched him, till she could rest no longer without going up to him and giving him a caress, to call his attention to her. This morning he was reading the Gospel according to St. Matthew, and Lisbeth had been standing close by him for some minutes, stroking his hair, which was smoother than usual this morning, and looking down at the large page with silent wonderment at the mystery of letters. She was encouraged to continue this caress, because when she first went up to him, he had thrown himself back in his chair to look at her affectionately and say, “Why, Mother, thee look’st rare and hearty this morning. Eh, Gyp wants me t’ look at him. He can’t abide to think I love thee the best.” Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say so many things. And now there was a new leaf to be turned over, and it was a picture — that of the angel seated on the great stone that has been rolled away from the sepulchre. This picture had one strong association in Lisbeth’s memory, for she had been reminded of it when she first saw Dinah, and Adam had no sooner turned the page, and lifted the book sideways that they might look at the angel, than she said, “That’s her — that’s Dinah.”

Adam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel’s face, said, “It is 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 store by Dinah?”

“Nay,” said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet feeling that she had broken the ice, and the waters must flow, whatever mischief they might do. “What’s th’ use o’ settin’ store by things as are thirty mile off? 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 a series of complaints tending to nothing. Lisbeth sat down again in the chair opposite to him, as she said:

“But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy.” Lisbeth dared not venture beyond a vague phrase yet.

“Contrairy, mother?” Adam said, looking up again in some anxiety. “What have I done? What dost mean?”

“Why, thee’t never look at nothin’, nor think o’ nothin’, but thy figurin, an’ thy work,” said Lisbeth, half-crying. “An’ dost think thee canst 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 thee as thee gett’st a bit o’ victual comfortable i’ the mornin’?”

“What hast got i’ thy mind, Mother?” said Adam, vexed at this whimpering. “I canna see what thee’t driving at. Is there anything I could 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’ house t’ help thee? It isna by my wish as thee hast a stroke o’ work to do. We can afford it — I’ve told thee often enough. It ‘ud be a deal better for us.”