Chapter IV
Home and Its Sorrows
A GREEN valley with a brook running through it, full almost to
overflowing with the late rains, overhung by low stooping willows.
Across this brook a plank is thrown, and over this plank Adam Bede
is passing with his undoubting step, followed close by Gyp with
the basket; evidently making his way to the thatched house, with a
stack of timber by the side of it, about twenty yards up the
opposite slope.
The door of the house is open, and an elderly woman is looking
out; but she is not placidly contemplating the evening sunshine;
she has been watching with dim eyes the gradually enlarging speck
which for the last few minutes she has been quite sure is her
darling son Adam. Lisbeth Bede loves her son with the love of a
woman to whom her first-born has come late in life. She is an
anxious, spare, yet vigorous old woman, clean as a snowdrop. Her
grey hair is turned neatly back under a pure linen cap with a
black band round it; her broad chest is covered with a buff
neckerchief, and below this you see a sort of short bedgown made
of blue-checkered linen, tied round the waist and descending to
the hips, from whence there is a considerable length of linsey-
woolsey petticoat. For Lisbeth is tall, and in other points too
there is a strong likeness between her and her son Adam. Her dark
eyes are somewhat dim now--perhaps from too much crying--but her
broadly marked eyebrows are still black, her teeth are sound, and
as she stands knitting rapidly and unconsciously with her work-
hardened hands, she has as firmly upright an attitude as when she
is carrying a pail of water on her head from the spring. There is
the same type of frame and the same keen activity of temperament
in mother and son, but it was not from her that Adam got his well-
filled brow and his expression of large-hearted intelligence.
Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that
great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and
divides us by the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and
repulsion; and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar
us at every movement. We hear a voice with the very cadence of
our own uttering the thoughts we despise; we see eyes--ah, so like
our mother's!--averted from us in cold alienation; and our last
darling child startles us with the air and gestures of the sister
we parted from in bitterness long years ago. The father to whom
we owe our best heritage--the mechanical instinct, the keen
sensibility to harmony, the unconscious skill of the modelling
hand--galls us and puts us to shame by his daily errors; the long-
lost mother, whose face we begin to see in the glass as our own
wrinkles come, once fretted our young souls with her anxious
humours and irrational persistence.
It is such a fond anxious mother's voice that you hear, as Lisbeth
says, "Well, my lad, it's gone seven by th' clock. Thee't allays
stay till the last child's born. Thee wants thy supper, I'll
warrand. Where's Seth? Gone arter some o's chapellin', I
reckon?"
"Aye, aye, Seth's at no harm, mother, thee mayst be sure.
But where's father?" said Adam quickly, as he entered the house
and glanced into the room on the left hand, which was used as a
workshop. "Hasn't he done the coffin for Tholer? There's the
stuff standing just as I left it this morning."
"Done the coffin?" said Lisbeth, following him, and knitting
uninterruptedly, though she looked at her son very anxiously.
"Eh, my lad, he went aff to Treddles'on this forenoon, an's niver
come back. I doubt he's got to th' 'Waggin Overthrow' again."
A deep flush of anger passed rapidly over Adam's face. He said
nothing, but threw off his jacket and began to roll up his shirt-
sleeves again.
"What art goin' to do, Adam?" said the mother, with a tone and
look of alarm. "Thee wouldstna go to work again, wi'out ha'in thy
bit o' supper?"
Adam, too angry to speak, walked into the workshop. But his
mother threw down her knitting, and, hurrying after him, took hold
of his arm, and said, in a tone of plaintive remonstrance, "Nay,
my lad, my lad, thee munna go wi'out thy supper; there's the
taters wi' the gravy in 'em, just as thee lik'st 'em. I saved 'em
o' purpose for thee. Come an' ha' thy supper, come."
"Let be!" said Adam impetuously, shaking her off and seizing one
of the planks that stood against the wall. "It's fine talking
about having supper when here's a coffin promised to be ready at
Brox'on by seven o'clock to-morrow morning, and ought to ha' been
there now, and not a nail struck yet. My throat's too full to
swallow victuals."
"Why, thee canstna get the coffin ready," said Lisbeth. "Thee't
work thyself to death. It 'ud take thee all night to do't."
"What signifies how long it takes me? Isn't the coffin promised?
Can they bury the man without a coffin? I'd work my right hand
off sooner than deceive people with lies i' that way. It makes me
mad to think on't. I shall overrun these doings before long.
I've stood enough of 'em."
Poor Lisbeth did not hear this threat for the first time, and if
she had been wise she would have gone away quietly and said
nothing for the next hour. But one of the lessons a woman most
rarely learns is never to talk to an angry or a drunken man.
Lisbeth sat down on the chopping bench and began to cry, and by
the time she had cried enough to make her voice very piteous, she
burst out into words.
"Nay, my lad, my lad, thee wouldstna go away an' break thy
mother's heart, an' leave thy feyther to ruin. Thee wouldstna ha'
'em carry me to th' churchyard, an' thee not to follow me. I
shanna rest i' my grave if I donna see thee at th' last; an' how's
they to let thee know as I'm a-dyin', if thee't gone a-workin' i'
distant parts, an' Seth belike gone arter thee, and thy feyther
not able to hold a pen for's hand shakin', besides not knowin'
where thee art? Thee mun forgie thy feyther--thee munna be so
bitter again' him. He war a good feyther to thee afore he took to
th' drink. He's a clever workman, an' taught thee thy trade,
remember, an's niver gen me a blow nor so much as an ill word--no,
not even in 's drink. Thee wouldstna ha' 'm go to the workhus--
thy own feyther--an' him as was a fine-growed man an' handy at
everythin' amost as thee art thysen, five-an'-twenty 'ear ago,
when thee wast a baby at the breast."
Lisbeth's voice became louder, and choked with sobs--a sort of
wail, the most irritating of all sounds where real sorrows are to
be borne and real work to be done. Adam broke in impatiently.
"Now, Mother, don't cry and talk so. Haven't I got enough to vex
me without that? What's th' use o' telling me things as I only
think too much on every day? If I didna think on 'em, why should
I do as I do, for the sake o' keeping things together here? But I
hate to be talking where it's no use: I like to keep my breath for
doing i'stead o' talking."
"I know thee dost things as nobody else 'ud do, my lad. But
thee't allays so hard upo' thy feyther, Adam. Thee think'st
nothing too much to do for Seth: thee snapp'st me up if iver I
find faut wi' th' lad. But thee't so angered wi' thy feyther,
more nor wi' anybody else."
"That's better than speaking soft and letting things go the wrong
way, I reckon, isn't it? If I wasn't sharp with him he'd sell
every bit o' stuff i' th' yard and spend it on drink. I know
there's a duty to be done by my father, but it isn't my duty to
encourage him in running headlong to ruin. And what has Seth got
to do with it? The lad does no harm as I know of. But leave me
alone, Mother, and let me get on with the work."
Lisbeth dared not say any more; but she got up and called Gyp,
thinking to console herself somewhat for Adam's refusal of the
supper she had spread out in the loving expectation of looking at
him while he ate it, by feeding Adam's dog with extra liberality.
But Gyp was watching his master with wrinkled brow and ears erect,
puzzled at this unusual course of things; and though he glanced at
Lisbeth when she called him, and moved his fore-paws uneasily,
well knowing that she was inviting him to supper, he was in a
divided state of mind, and remained seated on his haunches, again
fixing his eyes anxiously on his master. Adam noticed Gyp's
mental conflict, and though his anger had made him less tender
than usual to his mother, it did not prevent him from caring as
much as usual for his dog. We are apt to be kinder to the brutes
that love us than to the women that love us. Is it because the
brutes are dumb?
"Go, Gyp; go, lad!" Adam said, in a tone of encouraging command;
and Gyp, apparently satisfied that duty and pleasure were one,
followed Lisbeth into the house-place.
But no sooner had he licked up his supper than he went back to his
master, while Lisbeth sat down alone to cry over her knitting.
Women who are never bitter and resentful are often the most
querulous; and if Solomon was as wise as he is reputed to be, I
feel sure that when he compared a contentious woman to a continual
dropping on a very rainy day, he had not a vixen in his eye--a
fury with long nails, acrid and selfish. Depend upon it, he meant
a good creature, who had no joy but in the happiness of the loved
ones whom she contributed to make uncomfortable, putting by all
the tid-bits for them and spending nothing on herself. Such a
woman as Lisbeth, for example--at once patient and complaining,
self-renouncing and exacting, brooding the livelong day over what
happened yesterday and what is likely to happen to-morrow, and
crying very readily both at the good and the evil. But a certain
awe mingled itself with her idolatrous love of Adam, and when he
said, "Leave me alone," she was always silenced.
So the hours passed, to the loud ticking of the old day-clock and
the sound of Adam's tools. At last he called for a light and a
draught of water (beer was a thing only to be drunk on holidays),
and Lisbeth ventured to say as she took it in, "Thy supper stan's
ready for thee, when thee lik'st."
"Donna thee sit up, mother," said Adam, in a gentle tone. He had
worked off his anger now, and whenever he wished to be especially
kind to his mother, he fell into his strongest native accent and
dialect, with which at other times his speech was less deeply
tinged. "I'll see to Father when he comes home; maybe he wonna
come at all to-night. I shall be easier if thee't i' bed."
"Nay, I'll bide till Seth comes. He wonna be long now, I reckon."
It was then past nine by the clock, which was always in advance of
the days, and before it had struck ten the latch was lifted and
Seth entered. He had heard the sound of the tools as he was
approaching.
"Why, Mother," he said, "how is it as Father's working so late?"
"It's none o' thy feyther as is a-workin'--thee might know that
well anoof if thy head warna full o' chapellin'--it's thy brother
as does iverything, for there's niver nobody else i' th' way to do
nothin'."
Lisbeth was going on, for she was not at all afraid of Seth, and
usually poured into his ears all the querulousness which was
repressed by her awe of Adam. Seth had never in his life spoken a
harsh word to his mother, and timid people always wreak their
peevishness on the gentle. But Seth, with an anxious look, had
passed into the workshop and said, "Addy, how's this? What!
Father's forgot the coffin?"
"Aye, lad, th' old tale; but I shall get it done," said Adam,
looking up and casting one of his bright keen glances at his
brother. "Why, what's the matter with thee? Thee't in trouble."
Seth's eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depression on
his mild face.
"Yes, Addy, but it's what must be borne, and can't be helped.
Why, thee'st never been to the school, then?"
"School? No, that screw can wait," said Adam, hammering away
again.
"Let me take my turn now, and do thee go to bed," said Seth.
"No, lad, I'd rather go on, now I'm in harness. Thee't help me to
carry it to Brox'on when it's done. I'll call thee up at sunrise.
Go and eat thy supper, and shut the door so as I mayn't hear
Mother's talk."
Seth knew that Adam always meant what he said, and was not to be
persuaded into meaning anything else. So he turned, with rather a
heavy heart, into the house-place.
"Adam's niver touched a bit o' victual sin' home he's come," said
Lisbeth. "I reckon thee'st hed thy supper at some o' thy Methody
folks."
"Nay, Mother," said Seth, "I've had no supper yet."
"Come, then," said Lisbeth, "but donna thee ate the taters, for
Adam 'ull happen ate 'em if I leave 'em stannin'. He loves a bit
o' taters an' gravy. But he's been so sore an' angered, he
wouldn't ate 'em, for all I'd putten 'em by o' purpose for him.
An' he's been a-threatenin' to go away again," she went on,
whimpering, "an' I'm fast sure he'll go some dawnin' afore I'm up,
an' niver let me know aforehand, an' he'll niver come back again
when once he's gone. An' I'd better niver ha' had a son, as is
like no other body's son for the deftness an' th' handiness, an'
so looked on by th' grit folks, an' tall an' upright like a
poplar-tree, an' me to be parted from him an' niver see 'm no
more."
"Come, Mother, donna grieve thyself in vain," said Seth, in a
soothing voice. "Thee'st not half so good reason to think as Adam
'ull go away as to think he'll stay with thee. He may say such a
thing when he's in wrath--and he's got excuse for being wrathful
sometimes--but his heart 'ud never let him go. Think how he's
stood by us all when it's been none so easy--paying his savings to
free me from going for a soldier, an' turnin' his earnin's into
wood for father, when he's got plenty o' uses for his money, and
many a young man like him 'ud ha' been married and settled before
now. He'll never turn round and knock down his own work, and
forsake them as it's been the labour of his life to stand by."
"Donna talk to me about's marr'in'," said Lisbeth, crying afresh.
"He's set's heart on that Hetty Sorrel, as 'ull niver save a
penny, an' 'ull toss up her head at's old mother. An' to think as
he might ha' Mary Burge, an' be took partners, an' be a big man
wi' workmen under him, like Mester Burge--Dolly's told me so o'er
and o'er again--if it warna as he's set's heart on that bit of a
wench, as is o' no more use nor the gillyflower on the wall. An'
he so wise at bookin' an' figurin', an' not to know no better nor
that!"
"But, Mother, thee know'st we canna love just where other folks
'ud have us. There's nobody but God can control the heart of man.
I could ha' wished myself as Adam could ha' made another choice,
but I wouldn't reproach him for what he can't help. And I'm not
sure but what he tries to o'ercome it. But it's a matter as he
doesn't like to be spoke to about, and I can only pray to the Lord
to bless and direct him."
"Aye, thee't allays ready enough at prayin', but I donna see as
thee gets much wi' thy prayin'. Thee wotna get double earnin's o'
this side Yule. Th' Methodies 'll niver make thee half the man
thy brother is, for all they're a-makin' a preacher on thee."
"It's partly truth thee speak'st there, Mother," said Seth,
mildly; "Adam's far before me, an's done more for me than I can
ever do for him. God distributes talents to every man according
as He sees good. But thee mustna undervally prayer. Prayer mayna
bring money, but it brings us what no money can buy--a power to
keep from sin and be content with God's will, whatever He may
please to send. If thee wouldst pray to God to help thee, and
trust in His goodness, thee wouldstna be so uneasy about things."
"Unaisy? I'm i' th' right on't to be unaisy. It's well seen on
THEE what it is niver to be unaisy. Thee't gi' away all thy
earnin's, an' niver be unaisy as thee'st nothin' laid up again' a
rainy day. If Adam had been as aisy as thee, he'd niver ha' had
no money to pay for thee. Take no thought for the morrow--take no
thought--that's what thee't allays sayin'; an' what comes on't?
Why, as Adam has to take thought for thee."
"Those are the words o' the Bible, Mother," said Seth. "They
don't mean as we should be idle. They mean we shouldn't be
overanxious and worreting ourselves about what'll happen to-
morrow, but do our duty and leave the rest to God's will."
"Aye, aye, that's the way wi' thee: thee allays makes a peck o'
thy own words out o' a pint o' the Bible's. I donna see how
thee't to know as 'take no thought for the morrow' means all that.
An' when the Bible's such a big book, an' thee canst read all
thro't, an' ha' the pick o' the texes, I canna think why thee
dostna pick better words as donna mean so much more nor they say.
Adam doesna pick a that'n; I can understan' the tex as he's allays
a-sayin', 'God helps them as helps theirsens.'"
"Nay, Mother," said Seth, "that's no text o' the Bible. It comes
out of a book as Adam picked up at the stall at Treddles'on. It
was wrote by a knowing man, but overworldly, I doubt. However,
that saying's partly true; for the Bible tells us we must be
workers together with God."
"Well, how'm I to know? It sounds like a tex. But what's th'
matter wi' th' lad? Thee't hardly atin' a bit o' supper. Dostna
mean to ha' no more nor that bit o' oat-cake? An' thee lookst as
white as a flick o' new bacon. What's th' matter wi' thee?"
"Nothing to mind about, Mother; I'm not hungry. I'll just look in
at Adam again, and see if he'll let me go on with the coffin."
"Ha' a drop o' warm broth?" said Lisbeth, whose motherly feeling
now got the better of her "nattering" habit. "I'll set two-three
sticks a-light in a minute."
"Nay, Mother, thank thee; thee't very good," said Seth,
gratefully; and encouraged by this touch of tenderness, he went
on: "Let me pray a bit with thee for Father, and Adam, and all of
us--it'll comfort thee, happen, more than thee thinkst."
"Well, I've nothin' to say again' it."
Lisbeth, though disposed always to take the negative side in her
conversations with Seth, had a vague sense that there was some
comfort and safety in the fact of his piety, and that it somehow
relieved her from the trouble of any spiritual transactions on her
own behalf.
So the mother and son knelt down together, and Seth prayed for the
poor wandering father and for those who were sorrowing for him at
home. And when he came to the petition that Adam might never be
called to set up his tent in a far country, but that his mother
might be cheered and comforted by his presence all the days of her
pilgrimage, Lisbeth's ready tears flowed again, and she wept
aloud.
When they rose from their knees, Seth went to Adam again and said,
"Wilt only lie down for an hour or two, and let me go on the
while?"
"No, Seth, no. Make Mother go to bed, and go thyself."
Meantime Lisbeth had dried her eyes, and now followed Seth,
holding something in her hands. It was the brown-and-yellow
platter containing the baked potatoes with the gravy in them and
bits of meat which she had cut and mixed among them. Those were
dear times, when wheaten bread and fresh meat were delicacies to
working people. She set the dish down rather timidly on the bench
by Adam's side and said, "Thee canst pick a bit while thee't
workin'. I'll bring thee another drop o' water."
"Aye, Mother, do," said Adam, kindly; "I'm getting very thirsty."
In half an hour all was quiet; no sound was to be heard in the
house but the loud ticking of the old day-clock and the ringing of
Adam's tools. The night was very still: when Adam opened the door
to look out at twelve o'clock, the only motion seemed to be in the
glowing, twinkling stars; every blade of grass was asleep.
Bodily haste and exertion usually leave our thoughts very much at
the mercy of our feelings and imagination; and it was so to-night
with Adam. While his muscles were working lustily, his mind
seemed as passive as a spectator at a diorama: scenes of the sad
past, and probably sad future, floating before him and giving
place one to the other in swift sucession.
He saw how it would be to-morrow morning, when he had carried the
coffin to Broxton and was at home again, having his breakfast: his
father perhaps would come in ashamed to meet his son's glance--
would sit down, looking older and more tottering than he had done
the morning before, and hang down his head, examining the floor-
quarries; while Lisbeth would ask him how he supposed the coffin
had been got ready, that he had slinked off and left undone--for
Lisbeth was always the first to utter the word of reproach,
although she cried at Adam's severity towards his father.
"So it will go on, worsening and worsening," thought Adam;
"there's no slipping uphill again, and no standing still when once
youve begun to slip down." And then the day came back to him when
he was a little fellow and used to run by his father's side, proud
to be taken out to work, and prouder still to hear his father
boasting to his fellow-workmen how "the little chap had an
uncommon notion o' carpentering." What a fine active fellow his
father was then! When people asked Adam whose little lad he was,
he had a sense of distinction as he answered, "I'm Thias Bede's
lad." He was quite sure everybody knew Thias Bede--didn't he make
the wonderful pigeon-house at Broxton parsonage? Those were happy
days, especially when Seth, who was three years the younger, began
to go out working too, and Adam began to be a teacher as well as a
learner. But then came the days of sadness, when Adam was someway
on in his teens, and Thias began to loiter at the public-houses,
and Lisbeth began to cry at home, and to pour forth her plaints in
the hearing of her sons. Adam remembered well the night of shame
and anguish when he first saw his father quite wild and foolish,
shouting a song out fitfully among his drunken companions at the
"Waggon Overthrown." He had run away once when he was only
eighteen, making his escape in the morning twilight with a little
blue bundle over his shoulder, and his "mensuration book" in his
pocket, and saying to himself very decidedly that he could bear
the vexations of home no longer--he would go and seek his fortune,
setting up his stick at the crossways and bending his steps the
way it fell. But by the time he got to Stoniton, the thought of
his mother and Seth, left behind to endure everything without him,
became too importunate, and his resolution failed him. He came
back the next day, but the misery and terror his mother had gone
through in those two days had haunted her ever since.
"No!" Adam said to himself to-night, "that must never happen
again. It 'ud make a poor balance when my doings are cast up at
the last, if my poor old mother stood o' the wrong side. My
back's broad enough and strong enough; I should be no better than
a coward to go away and leave the troubles to be borne by them as
aren't half so able. 'They that are strong ought to bear the
infirmities of those that are weak, and not to please themselves.'
There's a text wants no candle to show't; it shines by its own
light. It's plain enough you get into the wrong road i' this life
if you run after this and that only for the sake o' making things
easy and pleasant to yourself. A pig may poke his nose into the
trough and think o' nothing outside it; but if you've got a man's
heart and soul in you, you can't be easy a-making your own bed an'
leaving the rest to lie on the stones. Nay, nay, I'll never slip
my neck out o' the yoke, and leave the load to be drawn by the
weak uns. Father's a sore cross to me, an's likely to be for many
a long year to come. What then? I've got th' health, and the
limbs, and the sperrit to bear it."
At this moment a smart rap, as if with a willow wand, was given at
the house door, and Gyp, instead of barking, as might have been
expected, gave a loud howl. Adam, very much startled, went at
once to the door and opened it. Nothing was there; all was still,
as when he opened it an hour before; the leaves were motionless,
and the light of the stars showed the placid fields on both sides
of the brook quite empty of visible life. Adam walked round the
house, and still saw nothing except a rat which darted into the
woodshed as he passed. He went in again, wondering; the sound was
so peculiar that the moment he heard it it called up the image of
the willow wand striking the door. He could not help a little
shudder, as he remembered how often his mother had told him of
just such a sound coming as a sign when some one was dying. Adam
was not a man to be gratuitously superstitious, but he had the
blood of the peasant in him as well as of the artisan, and a
peasant can no more help believing in a traditional superstition
than a horse can help trembling when he sees a camel. Besides, he
had that mental combination which is at once humble in the region
of mystery and keen in the region of knowledge: it was the depth
of his reverence quite as much as his hard common sense which gave
him his disinclination to doctrinal religion, and he often checked
Seth's argumentative spiritualism by saying, "Eh, it's a big
mystery; thee know'st but little about it." And so it happened
that Adam was at once penetrating and credulous. If a new
building had fallen down and he had been told that this was a
divine judgment, he would have said, "May be; but the bearing o'
the roof and walls wasn't right, else it wouldn't ha' come down";
yet he believed in dreams and prognostics, and to his dying day he
bated his breath a little when he told the story of the stroke
with the willow wand. I tell it as he told it, not attempting to
reduce it to its natural elements--in our eagerness to explain
impressions, we often lose our hold of the sympathy that
comprehends them.
But he had the best antidote against imaginative dread in the
necessity for getting on with the coffin, and for the next ten
minutes his hammer was ringing so uninterruptedly, that other
sounds, if there were any, might well be overpowered. A pause
came, however, when he had to take up his ruler, and now again
came the strange rap, and again Gyp howled. Adam was at the door
without the loss of a moment; but again all was still, and the
starlight showed there was nothing but the dew-laden grass in
front of the cottage.
Adam for a moment thought uncomfortably about his father; but of
late years he had never come home at dark hours from Treddleston,
and there was every reason for believing that he was then sleeping
off his drunkenness at the "Waggon Overthrown." Besides, to Adam,
the conception of the future was so inseparable from the painful
image of his father that the fear of any fatal accident to him was
excluded by the deeply infixed fear of his continual degradation.
The next thought that occurred to him was one that made him slip
off his shoes and tread lightly upstairs, to listen at the bedroom
doors. But both Seth and his mother were breathing regularly.
Adam came down and set to work again, saying to himself, "I won't
open the door again. It's no use staring about to catch sight of
a sound. Maybe there's a world about us as we can't see, but th'
ear's quicker than the eye and catches a sound from't now and
then. Some people think they get a sight on't too, but they're
mostly folks whose eyes are not much use to 'em at anything else.
For my part, I think it's better to see when your perpendicular's
true than to see a ghost."
Such thoughts as these are apt to grow stronger and stronger as
daylight quenches the candles and the birds begin to sing. By the
time the red sunlight shone on the brass nails that formed the
initials on the lid of the coffin, any lingering foreboding from
the sound of the willow wand was merged in satisfaction that the
work was done and the promise redeemed. There was no need to call
Seth, for he was already moving overhead, and presently came
downstairs.
"Now, lad," said Adam, as Seth made his appearance, "the coffin's
done, and we can take it over to Brox'on, and be back again before
half after six. I'll take a mouthful o' oat-cake, and then we'll
be off."
The coffin was soon propped on the tall shoulders of the two
brothers, and they were making their way, followed close by Gyp,
out of the little woodyard into the lane at the back of the house.
It was but about a mile and a half to Broxton over the opposite
slope, and their road wound very pleasantly along lanes and across
fields, where the pale woodbines and the dog-roses were scenting
the hedgerows, and the birds were twittering and trilling in the
tall leafy boughs of oak and elm. It was a strangely mingled
picture--the fresh youth of the summer morning, with its Edenlike
peace and loveliness, the stalwart strength of the two brothers in
their rusty working clothes, and the long coffin on their
shoulders. They paused for the last time before a small farmhouse
outside the village of Broxton. By six o'clock the task was done
the coffin nailed down, and Adam and Seth were on their way home.
They chose a shorter way homewards, which would take them across
the fields and the brook in front of the house. Adam had not
mentioned to Seth what had happened in the night, but he still
retained sufficient impression from it himself to say, "Seth, lad,
if Father isn't come home by the time we've had our breakfast, I
think it'll be as well for thee to go over to Treddles'on and look
after him, and thee canst get me the brass wire I want. Never
mind about losing an hour at thy work; we can make that up. What
dost say?"
"I'm willing," said Seth. "But see what clouds have gathered
since we set out. I'm thinking we shall have more rain. It'll be
a sore time for th' haymaking if the meadows are flooded again.
The brook's fine and full now: another day's rain 'ud cover the
plank, and we should have to go round by the road."
They were coming across the valley now, and had entered the
pasture through which the brook ran.
"Why, what's that sticking against the willow?" continued Seth,
beginning to walk faster. Adam's heart rose to his mouth: the
vague anxiety about his father was changed into a great dread. He
made no answer to Seth, but ran forward preceded by Gyp, who began
to bark uneasily; and in two moments he was at the bridge.
This was what the omen meant, then! And the grey-haired father,
of whom he had thought with a sort of hardness a few hours ago, as
certain to live to be a thorn in his side was perhaps even then
struggling with that watery death! This was the first thought
that flashed through Adam's conscience, before he had time to
seize the coat and drag out the tall heavy body. Seth was already
by his side, helping him, and when they had it on the bank, the
two sons in the first moment knelt and looked with mute awe at the
glazed eyes, forgetting that there was need for action--forgetting
everything but that their father lay dead before them. Adam was
the first to speak.
"I'll run to Mother," he said, in a loud whisper. "I'll be back
to thee in a minute."
Poor Lisbeth was busy preparing her sons' breakfast, and their
porridge was already steaming on the fire. Her kitchen always
looked the pink of cleanliness, but this morning she was more than
usually bent on making her hearth and breakfast-table look
comfortable and inviting.
"The lads 'ull be fine an' hungry," she said, half-aloud, as she
stirred the porridge. "It's a good step to Brox'on, an' it's
hungry air o'er the hill--wi' that heavy coffin too. Eh! It's
heavier now, wi' poor Bob Tholer in't. Howiver, I've made a drap
more porridge nor common this mornin'. The feyther 'ull happen
come in arter a bit. Not as he'll ate much porridge. He swallers
sixpenn'orth o' ale, an' saves a hap'orth o' por-ridge--that's his
way o' layin' by money, as I've told him many a time, an' am
likely to tell him again afore the day's out. Eh, poor mon, he
takes it quiet enough; there's no denyin' that."
But now Lisbeth heard the heavy "thud" of a running footstep on
the turf, and, turning quickly towards the door, she saw Adam
enter, looking so pale and overwhelmed that she screamed aloud and
rushed towards him before he had time to speak.
"Hush, Mother," Adam said, rather hoarsely, "don't be frightened.
Father's tumbled into the water. Belike we may bring him round
again. Seth and me are going to carry him in. Get a blanket and
make it hot as the fire."
In reality Adam was convinced that his father was dead but he knew
there was no other way of repressing his mother's impetuous
wailing grief than by occupying her with some active task which
had hope in it.
He ran back to Seth, and the two sons lifted the sad burden in
heart-stricken silence. The wide-open glazed eyes were grey, like
Seth's, and had once looked with mild pride on the boys before
whom Thias had lived to hang his head in shame. Seth's chief
feeling was awe and distress at this sudden snatching away of his
father's soul; but Adam's mind rushed back over the past in a
flood of relenting and pity. When death, the great Reconciler,
has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our
severity.
