Chapter VIII
A Vocation
DINAH, who had risen when the gentlemen came in, but still kept
hold of the sheet she was mending, curtsied respectfully when she
saw Mr. Irwine looking at her and advancing towards her. He had
never yet spoken to her, or stood face to face with her, and her
first thought, as her eyes met his, was, "What a well-favoured
countenance! Oh that the good seed might fall on that soil, for
it would surely flourish." The agreeable impression must have
been mutual, for Mr. Irwine bowed to her with a benignant
deference, which would have been equally in place if she had been
the most dignified lady of his acquaintance.
"You are only a visitor in this neighbourhood, I think?" were his
first words, as he seated himself opposite to her.
"No, sir, I come from Snowfield, in Stonyshire. But my aunt was
very kind, wanting me to have rest from my work there, because I'd
been ill, and she invited me to come and stay with her for a
while."
"Ah, I remember Snowfield very well; I once had occasion to go
there. It's a dreary bleak place. They were building a cotton-
mill there; but that's many years ago now. I suppose the place is
a good deal changed by the employment that mill must have
brought."
"It IS changed so far as the mill has brought people there, who
get a livelihood for themselves by working in it, and make it
better for the tradesfolks. I work in it myself, and have reason
to be grateful, for thereby I have enough and to spare. But it's
still a bleak place, as you say, sir--very different from this
country."
"You have relations living there, probably, so that you are
attached to the place as your home?"
"I had an aunt there once; she brought me up, for I was an orphan.
But she was taken away seven years ago, and I have no other
kindred that I know of, besides my Aunt Poyser, who is very good
to me, and would have me come and live in this country, which to
be sure is a good land, wherein they eat bread without scarceness.
But I'm not free to leave Snowfield, where I was first planted,
and have grown deep into it, like the small grass on the hill-
top."
"Ah, I daresay you have many religious friends and companions
there; you are a Methodist--a Wesleyan, I think?"
"Yes, my aunt at Snowfield belonged to the Society, and I have
cause to be thankful for the privileges I have had thereby from my
earliest childhood."
"And have you been long in the habit of preaching? For I
understand you preached at Hayslope last night."
"I first took to the work four years since, when I was twenty-
one."
"Your Society sanctions women's preaching, then?"
"It doesn't forbid them, sir, when they've a clear call to the
work, and when their ministry is owned by the conversion of
sinners and the strengthening of God's people. Mrs. Fletcher, as
you may have heard about, was the first woman to preach in the
Society, I believe, before she was married, when she was Miss
Bosanquet; and Mr. Wesley approved of her undertaking the work.
She had a great gift, and there are many others now living who are
precious fellow-helpers in the work of the ministry. I understand
there's been voices raised against it in the Society of late, but
I cannot but think their counsel will come to nought. It isn't
for men to make channels for God's Spirit, as they make channels
for the watercourses, and say, 'Flow here, but flow not there.'"
"But don't you find some danger among your people--I don't mean to
say that it is so with you, far from it--but don't you find
sometimes that both men and women fancy themselves channels for
God's Spirit, and are quite mistaken, so that they set about a
work for which they are unfit and bring holy things into
contempt?"
"Doubtless it is so sometimes; for there have been evil-doers
among us who have sought to deceive the brethren, and some there
are who deceive their own selves. But we are not without
discipline and correction to put a check upon these things.
There's a very strict order kept among us, and the brethren and
sisters watch for each other's souls as they that must give
account. They don't go every one his own way and say, 'Am I my
brother's keeper?'"
"But tell me--if I may ask, and I am really interested in knowing
it--how you first came to think of preaching?"
"Indeed, sir, I didn't think of it at all--I'd been used from the
time I was sixteen to talk to the little children, and teach them,
and sometimes I had had my heart enlarged to speak in class, and
was much drawn out in prayer with the sick. But I had felt no
call to preach, for when I'm not greatly wrought upon, I'm too
much given to sit still and keep by myself. It seems as if I
could sit silent all day long with the thought of God overflowing
my soul--as the pebbles lie bathed in the Willow Brook. For
thoughts are so great--aren't they, sir? They seem to lie upon us
like a deep flood; and it's my besetment to forget where I am and
everything about me, and lose myself in thoughts that I could give
no account of, for I could neither make a beginning nor ending of
them in words. That was my way as long as I can remember; but
sometimes it seemed as if speech came to me without any will of my
own, and words were given to me that came out as the tears come,
because our hearts are full and we can't help it. And those were
always times of great blessing, though I had never thought it
could be so with me before a congregation of people. But, sir, we
are led on, like the little children, by a way that we know not.
I was called to preach quite suddenly, and since then I have never
been left in doubt about the work that was laid upon me."
"But tell me the circumstances--just how it was, the very day you
began to preach."
"It was one Sunday I walked with brother Marlowe, who was an aged
man, one of the local preachers, all the way to Hetton-Deeps--
that's a village where the people get their living by working in
the lead-mines, and where there's no church nor preacher, but they
live like sheep without a shepherd. It's better than twelve miles
from Snowfield, so we set out early in the morning, for it was
summertime; and I had a wonderful sense of the Divine love as we
walked over the hills, where there's no trees, you know, sir, as
there is here, to make the sky look smaller, but you see the
heavens stretched out like a tent, and you feel the everlasting
arms around you. But before we got to Hetton, brother Marlowe was
seized with a dizziness that made him afraid of falling, for he
overworked himself sadly, at his years, in watching and praying,
and walking so many miles to speak the Word, as well as carrying
on his trade of linen-weaving. And when we got to the village,
the people were expecting him, for he'd appointed the time and the
place when he was there before, and such of them as cared to hear
the Word of Life were assembled on a spot where the cottages was
thickest, so as others might be drawn to come. But he felt as he
couldn't stand up to preach, and he was forced to lie down in the
first of the cottages we came to. So I went to tell the people,
thinking we'd go into one of the houses, and I would read and pray
with them. But as I passed along by the cottages and saw the aged
and trembling women at the doors, and the hard looks of the men,
who seemed to have their eyes no more filled with the sight of the
Sabbath morning than if they had been dumb oxen that never looked
up to the sky, I felt a great movement in my soul, and I trembled
as if I was shaken by a strong spirit entering into my weak body.
And I went to where the little flock of people was gathered
together, and stepped on the low wall that was built against the
green hillside, and I spoke the words that were given to me
abundantly. And they all came round me out of all the cottages,
and many wept over their sins, and have since been joined to the
Lord. That was the beginning of my preaching, sir, and I've
preached ever since."
Dinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she
uttered in her usual simple way, but with that sincere articulate,
thrilling treble by which she always mastered her audience. She
stooped now to gather up her sewing, and then went on with it as
before. Mr. Irwine was deeply interested. He said to himself,
"He must be a miserable prig who would act the pedagogue here: one
might as well go and lecture the trees for growing in their own
shape."
"And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of your
youth--that you are a lovely young woman on whom men's eyes are
fixed?" he said aloud.
"No, I've no room for such feelings, and I don't believe the
people ever take notice about that. I think, sir, when God makes
His presence felt through us, we are like the burning bush: Moses
never took any heed what sort of bush it was--he only saw the
brightness of the Lord. I've preached to as rough ignorant people
as can be in the villages about Snowfield--men that looked very
hard and wild--but they never said an uncivil word to me, and
often thanked me kindly as they made way for me to pass through
the midst of them."
"THAT I can believe--that I can well believe," said Mr. Irwine,
emphatically. "And what did you think of your hearers last night,
now? Did you find them quiet and attentive?"
"Very quiet, sir, but I saw no signs of any great work upon them,
except in a young girl named Bessy Cranage, towards whom my heart
yearned greatly, when my eyes first fell on her blooming youth,
given up to folly and vanity. I had some private talk and prayer
with her afterwards, and I trust her heart is touched. But I've
noticed that in these villages where the people lead a quiet life
among the green pastures and the still waters, tilling the ground
and tending the cattle, there's a strange deadness to the Word, as
different as can be from the great towns, like Leeds, where I once
went to visit a holy woman who preaches there. It's wonderful how
rich is the harvest of souls up those high-walled streets, where
you seemed to walk as in a prison-yard, and the ear is deafened
with the sounds of worldly toil. I think maybe it is because the
promise is sweeter when this life is so dark and weary, and the
soul gets more hungry when the body is ill at ease."
"Why, yes, our farm-labourers are not easily roused. They take
life almost as slowly as the sheep and cows. But we have some
intelligent workmen about here. I daresay you know the Bedes;
Seth Bede, by the by, is a Methodist."
"Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. Seth is a
gracious young man--sincere and without offence; and Adam is like
the patriarch Joseph, for his great skill and knowledge and the
kindness he shows to his brother and his parents."
"Perhaps you don't know the trouble that has just happened to
them? Their father, Matthias Bede, was drowned in the Willow
Brook last night, not far from his own door. I'm going now to see
Adam."
"Ah, their poor aged mother!" said Dinah, dropping her hands and
looking before her with pitying eyes, as if she saw the object of
her sympathy. "She will mourn heavily, for Seth has told me she's
of an anxious, troubled heart. I must go and see if I can give
her any help."
As she rose and was beginning to fold up her work, Captain
Donnithorne, having exhausted all plausible pretexts for remaining
among the milk-pans, came out of the dairy, followed by Mrs.
Poyser. Mr. Irwine now rose also, and, advancing towards Dinah,
held out his hand, and said, "Good-bye. I hear you are going away
soon; but this will not be the last visit you will pay your aunt--
so we shall meet again, I hope."
His cordiality towards Dinah set all Mrs. Poyser's anxieties at
rest, and her face was brighter than usual, as she said, "I've
never asked after Mrs. Irwine and the Miss Irwines, sir; I hope
they're as well as usual."
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poyser, except that Miss Anne has one of her
bad headaches to-day. By the by, we all liked that nice cream-
cheese you sent us--my mother especially."
"I'm very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, but I
remembered Mrs. Irwine was fond of 'em. Please to give my duty to
her, and to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. They've never been to look
at my poultry this long while, and I've got some beautiful
speckled chickens, black and white, as Miss Kate might like to
have some of amongst hers."
"Well, I'll tell her; she must come and see them. Good-bye," said
the rector, mounting his horse.
"Just ride slowly on, Irwine," said Captain Donnithorne, mounting
also. "I'll overtake you in three minutes. I'm only going to
speak to the shepherd about the whelps. Good-bye, Mrs. Poyser;
tell your husband I shall come and have a long talk with him
soon."
Mrs. Poyser curtsied duly, and watched the two horses until they
had disappeared from the yard, amidst great excitement on the part
of the pigs and the poultry, and under the furious indignation of
the bull-dog, who performed a Pyrrhic dance, that every moment
seemed to threaten the breaking of his chain. Mrs. Poyser
delighted in this noisy exit; it was a fresh assurance to her that
the farm-yard was well guarded, and that no loiterers could enter
unobserved; and it was not until the gate had closed behind the
captain that she turned into the kitchen again, where Dinah stood
with her bonnet in her hand, waiting to speak to her aunt, before
she set out for Lisbeth Bede's cottage.
Mrs. Poyser, however, though she noticed the bonnet, deferred
remarking on it until she had disburdened herself of her surprise
at Mr. Irwine's behaviour.
"Why, Mr. Irwine wasn't angry, then? What did he say to you,
Dinah? Didn't he scold you for preaching?"
"No, he was not at all angry; he was very friendly to me. I was
quite drawn out to speak to him; I hardly know how, for I had
always thought of him as a worldly Sadducee. But his countenance
is as pleasant as the morning sunshine."
"Pleasant! And what else did y' expect to find him but pleasant?"
said Mrs. Poyser impatiently, resuming her knitting. "I should
think his countenance is pleasant indeed! And him a gentleman
born, and's got a mother like a picter. You may go the country
round and not find such another woman turned sixty-six. It's
summat-like to see such a man as that i' the desk of a Sunday! As
I say to Poyser, it's like looking at a full crop o' wheat, or a
pasture with a fine dairy o' cows in it; it makes you think the
world's comfortable-like. But as for such creaturs as you
Methodisses run after, I'd as soon go to look at a lot o' bare-
ribbed runts on a common. Fine folks they are to tell you what's
right, as look as if they'd never tasted nothing better than
bacon-sword and sour-cake i' their lives. But what did Mr. Irwine
say to you about that fool's trick o' preaching on the Green?"
"He only said he'd heard of it; he didn't seem to feel any
displeasure about it. But, dear aunt, don't think any more about
that. He told me something that I'm sure will cause you sorrow,
as it does me. Thias Bede was drowned last night in the Willow
Brook, and I'm thinking that the aged mother will be greatly in
need of comfort. Perhaps I can be of use to her, so I have
fetched my bonnet and am going to set out."
"Dear heart, dear heart! But you must have a cup o' tea first,
child," said Mrs. Poyser, falling at once from the key of B with
five sharps to the frank and genial C. "The kettle's boiling--
we'll have it ready in a minute; and the young uns 'ull be in and
wanting theirs directly. I'm quite willing you should go and see
th' old woman, for you're one as is allays welcome in trouble,
Methodist or no Methodist; but, for the matter o' that, it's the
flesh and blood folks are made on as makes the difference. Some
cheeses are made o' skimmed milk and some o' new milk, and it's no
matter what you call 'em, you may tell which is which by the look
and the smell. But as to Thias Bede, he's better out o' the way
nor in--God forgi' me for saying so--for he's done little this ten
year but make trouble for them as belonged to him; and I think it
'ud be well for you to take a little bottle o' rum for th' old
woman, for I daresay she's got never a drop o' nothing to comfort
her inside. Sit down, child, and be easy, for you shan't stir out
till you've had a cup o' tea, and so I tell you."
During the latter part of this speech, Mrs. Poyser had been
reaching down the tea-things from the shelves, and was on her way
towards the pantry for the loaf (followed close by Totty, who had
made her appearance on the rattling of the tea-cups), when Hetty
came out of the dairy relieving her tired arms by lifting them up,
and clasping her hands at the back of her head.
"Molly," she said, rather languidly, "just run out and get me a
bunch of dock-leaves: the butter's ready to pack up now."
"D' you hear what's happened, Hetty?" said her aunt.
"No; how should I hear anything?" was the answer, in a pettish
tone.
"Not as you'd care much, I daresay, if you did hear; for you're
too feather-headed to mind if everybody was dead, so as you could
stay upstairs a-dressing yourself for two hours by the clock. But
anybody besides yourself 'ud mind about such things happening to
them as think a deal more of you than you deserve. But Adam Bede
and all his kin might be drownded for what you'd care--you'd be
perking at the glass the next minute."
"Adam Bede--drowned?" said Hetty, letting her arms fall and
looking rather bewildered, but suspecting that her aunt was as
usual exaggerating with a didactic purpose.
"No, my dear, no," said Dinah kindly, for Mrs. Poyser had passed
on to the pantry without deigning more precise information. "Not
Adam. Adam's father, the old man, is drowned. He was drowned
last night in the Willow Brook. Mr. Irwine has just told me about
it."
"Oh, how dreadful!" said Hetty, looking serious, but not deeply
affected; and as Molly now entered with the dock-leaves, she took
them silently and returned to the dairy without asking further
questions.
