Adam Bede

by George Eliot

  Chapter XI

  In the Cottage

  IT was but half-past four the next morning when Dinah, tired of lyingawake listening to the birds and watching the growing light through thelittle window in the garret roof, rose and began to dress herself veryquietly, lest she should disturb Lisbeth. But already some one else wasastir in the house, and had gone downstairs, preceded by Gyp. The dog'spattering step was a sure sign that it was Adam who went down; but Dinahwas not aware of this, and she thought it was more likely to be Seth,for he had told her how Adam had stayed up working the night before.Seth, however, had only just awakened at the sound of the openingdoor. The exciting influence of the previous day, heightened at lastby Dinah's unexpected presence, had not been counteracted by any bodilyweariness, for he had not done his ordinary amount of hard work; and sowhen he went to bed; it was not till he had tired himself with hours oftossing wakefulness that drowsiness came, and led on a heavier morningsleep than was usual with him.

  But Adam had been refreshed by his long rest, and with his habitualimpatience of mere passivity, he was eager to begin the new day andsubdue sadness by his strong will and strong arm. The white mist lay inthe valley; it was going to be a bright warm day, and he would start towork again when he had had his breakfast.

  "There's nothing but what's bearable as long as a man can work," he saidto himself; "the natur o' things doesn't change, though it seems as ifone's own life was nothing but change. The square o' four is sixteen,and you must lengthen your lever in proportion to your weight, is astrue when a man's miserable as when he's happy; and the best o' workingis, it gives you a grip hold o' things outside your own lot."

  As he dashed the cold water over his head and face, he felt completelyhimself again, and with his black eyes as keen as ever and his thickblack hair all glistening with the fresh moisture, he went into theworkshop to look out the wood for his father's coffin, intending thathe and Seth should carry it with them to Jonathan Burge's and have thecoffin made by one of the workmen there, so that his mother might notsee and hear the sad task going forward at home.

  He had just gone into the workshop when his quick ear detected a lightrapid foot on the stairs--certainly not his mother's. He had been in bedand asleep when Dinah had come in, in the evening, and now he wonderedwhose step this could be. A foolish thought came, and moved himstrangely. As if it could be Hetty! She was the last person likely tobe in the house. And yet he felt reluctant to go and look and have theclear proof that it was some one else. He stood leaning on a plank hehad taken hold of, listening to sounds which his imagination interpretedfor him so pleasantly that the keen strong face became suffused with atimid tenderness. The light footstep moved about the kitchen, followedby the sound of the sweeping brush, hardly making so much noise as thelightest breeze that chases the autumn leaves along the dusty path; andAdam's imagination saw a dimpled face, with dark bright eyes and roguishsmiles looking backward at this brush, and a rounded figure just leaninga little to clasp the handle. A very foolish thought--it could not beHetty; but the only way of dismissing such nonsense from his head wasto go and see WHO it was, for his fancy only got nearer and nearer tobelief while he stood there listening. He loosed the plank and went tothe kitchen door.

  "How do you do, Adam Bede?" said Dinah, in her calm treble, pausing fromher sweeping and fixing her mild grave eyes upon him. "I trust you feelrested and strengthened again to bear the burden and heat of the day."

  It was like dreaming of the sunshine and awaking in the moonlight. Adamhad seen Dinah several times, but always at the Hall Farm, where he wasnot very vividly conscious of any woman's presence except Hetty's, andhe had only in the last day or two begun to suspect that Seth was inlove with her, so that his attention had not hitherto been drawn towardsher for his brother's sake. But now her slim figure, her plain blackgown, and her pale serene face impressed him with all the force thatbelongs to a reality contrasted with a preoccupying fancy. For thefirst moment or two he made no answer, but looked at her with theconcentrated, examining glance which a man gives to an object in whichhe has suddenly begun to be interested. Dinah, for the first time in herlife, felt a painful self-consciousness; there was something in the darkpenetrating glance of this strong man so different from the mildness andtimidity of his brother Seth. A faint blush came, which deepened as shewondered at it. This blush recalled Adam from his forgetfulness.

  "I was quite taken by surprise; it was very good of you to come and seemy mother in her trouble," he said, in a gentle grateful tone, for hisquick mind told him at once how she came to be there. "I hope my motherwas thankful to have you," he added, wondering rather anxiously what hadbeen Dinah's reception.

  "Yes," said Dinah, resuming her work, "she seemed greatly comfortedafter a while, and she's had a good deal of rest in the night, by times.She was fast asleep when I left her."

  "Who was it took the news to the Hall Farm?" said Adam, his thoughtsreverting to some one there; he wondered whether SHE had felt anythingabout it.

  "It was Mr. Irwine, the clergyman, told me, and my aunt was grievedfor your mother when she heard it, and wanted me to come; and so is myuncle, I'm sure, now he's heard it, but he was gone out to Rosseter allyesterday. They'll look for you there as soon as you've got time to go,for there's nobody round that hearth but what's glad to see you."

  Dinah, with her sympathetic divination, knew quite well that Adam waslonging to hear if Hetty had said anything about their trouble; she wastoo rigorously truthful for benevolent invention, but she had contrivedto say something in which Hetty was tacitly included. Love has a wayof cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitaryhide-and-seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the whiledisbelieves. Adam liked what Dinah had said so much that his mind wasdirectly full of the next visit he should pay to the Hall Farm, whenHetty would perhaps behave more kindly to him than she had ever donebefore.

  "But you won't be there yourself any longer?" he said to Dinah.

  "No, I go back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I shall have to set out toTreddleston early, to be in time for the Oakbourne carrier. So I must goback to the farm to-night, that I may have the last day with my aunt andher children. But I can stay here all to-day, if your mother would likeme; and her heart seemed inclined towards me last night."

  "Ah, then, she's sure to want you to-day. If mother takes to people atthe beginning, she's sure to get fond of 'em; but she's a strange way ofnot liking young women. Though, to be sure," Adam went on, smiling, "hernot liking other young women is no reason why she shouldn't like you."

  Hitherto Gyp had been assisting at this conversation in motionlesssilence, seated on his haunches, and alternately looking up in hismaster's face to watch its expression and observing Dinah's movementsabout the kitchen. The kind smile with which Adam uttered the last wordswas apparently decisive with Gyp of the light in which the strangerwas to be regarded, and as she turned round after putting aside hersweeping-brush, he trotted towards her and put up his muzzle against herhand in a friendly way.

  "You see Gyp bids you welcome," said Adam, "and he's very slow towelcome strangers."

  "Poor dog!" said Dinah, patting the rough grey coat, "I've a strangefeeling about the dumb things as if they wanted to speak, and it was atrouble to 'em because they couldn't. I can't help being sorry for thedogs always, though perhaps there's no need. But they may well have morein them than they know how to make us understand, for we can't say halfwhat we feel, with all our words."

  Seth came down now, and was pleased to find Adam talking with Dinah; hewanted Adam to know how much better she was than all other women.But after a few words of greeting, Adam drew him into the workshop toconsult about the coffin, and Dinah went on with her cleaning.

  By six o'clock they were all at breakfast with Lisbeth in a kitchen asclean as she could have made it herself. The window and door were open,and the morning air brought with it a mingled scent of southernwood,thyme, and sweet-briar from the patch of garden by the side of thecottage. Dina
h did not sit down at first, but moved about, serving theothers with the warm porridge and the toasted oat-cake, which she hadgot ready in the usual way, for she had asked Seth to tell her just whathis mother gave them for breakfast. Lisbeth had been unusually silentsince she came downstairs, apparently requiring some time to adjust herideas to a state of things in which she came down like a lady to findall the work done, and sat still to be waited on. Her new sensationsseemed to exclude the remembrance of her grief. At last, after tastingthe porridge, she broke silence:

  "Ye might ha' made the parridge worse," she said to Dinah; "I can ate itwi'out its turnin' my stomach. It might ha' been a trifle thicker an' noharm, an' I allays putten a sprig o' mint in mysen; but how's ye t' knowthat? The lads arena like to get folks as 'll make their parridge as I'nmade it for 'em; it's well if they get onybody as 'll make parridge atall. But ye might do, wi' a bit o' showin'; for ye're a stirrin' bodyin a mornin', an' ye've a light heel, an' ye've cleaned th' house wellenough for a ma'shift."

  "Makeshift, mother?" said Adam. "Why, I think the house looks beautiful.I don't know how it could look better."

  "Thee dostna know? Nay; how's thee to know? Th' men ne'er know whetherthe floor's cleaned or cat-licked. But thee'lt know when thee gets thyparridge burnt, as it's like enough to be when I'n gi'en o'er makin' it.Thee'lt think thy mother war good for summat then."

  "Dinah," said Seth, "do come and sit down now and have your breakfast.We're all served now."

  "Aye, come an' sit ye down--do," said Lisbeth, "an' ate a morsel; ye'dneed, arter bein' upo' your legs this hour an' half a'ready. Come,then," she added, in a tone of complaining affection, as Dinah sat downby her side, "I'll be loath for ye t' go, but ye canna stay much longer,I doubt. I could put up wi' ye i' th' house better nor wi' most folks."

  "I'll stay till to-night if you're willing," said Dinah. "I'd staylonger, only I'm going back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I must be withmy aunt to-morrow."

  "Eh, I'd ne'er go back to that country. My old man come from thatStonyshire side, but he left it when he war a young un, an' i' the righton't too; for he said as there war no wood there, an' it 'ud ha' been abad country for a carpenter."

  "Ah," said Adam, "I remember father telling me when I was a little ladthat he made up his mind if ever he moved it should be south'ard. ButI'm not so sure about it. Bartle Massey says--and he knows the South--asthe northern men are a finer breed than the southern, harder-headed andstronger-bodied, and a deal taller. And then he says in some o' thosecounties it's as flat as the back o' your hand, and you can see nothingof a distance without climbing up the highest trees. I couldn't abidethat. I like to go to work by a road that'll take me up a bit of a hill,and see the fields for miles round me, and a bridge, or a town, or a bitof a steeple here and there. It makes you feel the world's a big place,and there's other men working in it with their heads and hands besidesyourself."

  "I like th' hills best," said Seth, "when the clouds are over your headand you see the sun shining ever so far off, over the Loamford way, asI've often done o' late, on the stormy days. It seems to me as if thatwas heaven where there's always joy and sunshine, though this life'sdark and cloudy."

  "Oh, I love the Stonyshire side," said Dinah; "I shouldn't like to setmy face towards the countries where they're rich in corn and cattle, andthe ground so level and easy to tread; and to turn my back on the hillswhere the poor people have to live such a hard life and the men spendtheir days in the mines away from the sunlight. It's very blessed on ableak cold day, when the sky is hanging dark over the hill, to feelthe love of God in one's soul, and carry it to the lonely, bare, stonehouses, where there's nothing else to give comfort."

  "Eh!" said Lisbeth, "that's very well for ye to talk, as looks wellylike the snowdrop-flowers as ha' lived for days an' days when I'ngethered 'em, wi' nothin' but a drop o' water an' a peep o' daylight;but th' hungry foulks had better leave th' hungry country. It makes lessmouths for the scant cake. But," she went on, looking at Adam, "donnathee talk o' goin' south'ard or north'ard, an' leavin' thy feyther andmother i' the churchyard, an' goin' to a country as they know nothin'on. I'll ne'er rest i' my grave if I donna see thee i' the churchyard ofa Sunday."

  "Donna fear, mother," said Adam. "If I hadna made up my mind not to go,I should ha' been gone before now."

  He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was speaking.

  "What art goin' to do?" asked Lisbeth. "Set about thy feyther's coffin?"

  "No, mother," said Adam; "we're going to take the wood to the villageand have it made there."

  "Nay, my lad, nay," Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing tone; "theewotna let nobody make thy feyther's coffin but thysen? Who'd make itso well? An' him as know'd what good work war, an's got a son as is thehead o' the village an' all Treddles'on too, for cleverness."

  "Very well, mother, if that's thy wish, I'll make the coffin at home;but I thought thee wouldstna like to hear the work going on."

  "An' why shouldna I like 't? It's the right thing to be done. An' what'sliking got to do wi't? It's choice o' mislikings is all I'n got i' thisworld. One morsel's as good as another when your mouth's out o' taste.Thee mun set about it now this mornin' fust thing. I wonna ha' nobody totouch the coffin but thee."

  Adam's eyes met Seth's, which looked from Dinah to him rather wistfully.

  "No, Mother," he said, "I'll not consent but Seth shall have a handin it too, if it's to be done at home. I'll go to the village thisforenoon, because Mr. Burge 'ull want to see me, and Seth shall stay athome and begin the coffin. I can come back at noon, and then he can go."

  "Nay, nay," persisted Lisbeth, beginning to cry, "I'n set my heart on'tas thee shalt ma' thy feyther's coffin. Thee't so stiff an' masterful,thee't ne'er do as thy mother wants thee. Thee wast often angered wi'thy feyther when he war alive; thee must be the better to him now he'sgone. He'd ha' thought nothin' on't for Seth to ma's coffin."

  "Say no more, Adam, say no more," said Seth, gently, though his voicetold that he spoke with some effort; "Mother's in the right. I'll go towork, and do thee stay at home."

  He passed into the workshop immediately, followed by Adam; whileLisbeth, automatically obeying her old habits, began to put away thebreakfast things, as if she did not mean Dinah to take her place anylonger. Dinah said nothing, but presently used the opportunity ofquietly joining the brothers in the workshop.

  They had already got on their aprons and paper caps, and Adam wasstanding with his left hand on Seth's shoulder, while he pointed withthe hammer in his right to some boards which they were looking at. Theirbacks were turned towards the door by which Dinah entered, and she camein so gently that they were not aware of her presence till they heardher voice saying, "Seth Bede!" Seth started, and they both turned round.Dinah looked as if she did not see Adam, and fixed her eyes on Seth'sface, saying with calm kindness, "I won't say farewell. I shall see youagain when you come from work. So as I'm at the farm before dark, itwill be quite soon enough."

  "Thank you, Dinah; I should like to walk home with you once more. It'llperhaps be the last time."

  There was a little tremor in Seth's voice. Dinah put out her hand andsaid, "You'll have sweet peace in your mind to-day, Seth, for yourtenderness and long-suffering towards your aged mother."

  She turned round and left the workshop as quickly and quietly as she hadentered it. Adam had been observing her closely all the while, but shehad not looked at him. As soon as she was gone, he said, "I don't wonderat thee for loving her, Seth. She's got a face like a lily."

  Seth's soul rushed to his eyes and lips: he had never yet confessed hissecret to Adam, but now he felt a delicious sense of disburdenment,as he answered, "Aye, Addy, I do love her--too much, I doubt. But shedoesna love me, lad, only as one child o' God loves another. She'llnever love any man as a husband--that's my belief."

  "Nay, lad, there's no telling; thee mustna lose heart. She's made outo' stuff with a finer grain than most o' the women; I can see that clearenough. But if she's better
than they are in other things, I canna thinkshe'll fall short of 'em in loving."

  No more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam began his workon the coffin.

  "God help the lad, and me too," he thought, as he lifted the board."We're like enough to find life a tough job--hard work inside and out.It's a strange thing to think of a man as can lift a chair with histeeth and walk fifty mile on end, trembling and turning hot and coldat only a look from one woman out of all the rest i' the world. It's amystery we can give no account of; but no more we can of the sproutingo' the seed, for that matter."