Chapter XI
In the Cottage
IT was but half-past four the next morning when Dinah, tired of
lying awake listening to the birds and watching the growing light
through the little window in the garret roof, rose and began to
dress herself very quietly, lest she should disturb Lisbeth. But
already some one else was astir in the house, and had gone
downstairs, preceded by Gyp. The dog's pattering step was a sure
sign that it was Adam who went down; but Dinah was 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 opening door.
The exciting influence of the previous day, heightened at last by
Dinah's unexpected presence, had not been counteracted by any
bodily weariness, for he had not done his ordinary amount of hard
work; and so when he went to bed; it was not till he had tired
himself with hours of tossing wakefulness that drowsiness came,
and led on a heavier morning sleep than was usual with him.
But Adam had been refreshed by his long rest, and with his
habitual impatience of mere passivity, he was eager to begin the
new day and subdue sadness by his strong will and strong arm. The
white mist lay in the valley; it was going to be a bright warm
day, and he would start to work again when he had had his
breakfast.
"There's nothing but what's bearable as long as a man can work,"
he said to himself; "the natur o' things doesn't change, though it
seems as if one'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 as true when a man's miserable as when he's happy;
and the best o' working is, 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
completely himself again, and with his black eyes as keen as ever
and his thick black hair all glistening with the fresh moisture,
he went into the workshop to look out the wood for his father's
coffin, intending that he and Seth should carry it with them to
Jonathan Burge's and have the coffin made by one of the workmen
there, so that his mother might not see and hear the sad task
going forward at home.
He had just gone into the workshop when his quick ear detected a
light rapid foot on the stairs--certainly not his mother's. He
had been in bed and asleep when Dinah had come in, in the evening,
and now he wondered whose step this could be. A foolish thought
came, and moved him strangely. As if it could be Hetty! She was
the last person likely to be in the house. And yet he felt
reluctant to go and look and have the clear proof that it was some
one else. He stood leaning on a plank he had taken hold of,
listening to sounds which his imagination interpreted for him so
pleasantly that the keen strong face became suffused with a timid
tenderness. The light footstep moved about the kitchen, followed
by the sound of the sweeping brush, hardly making so much noise as
the lightest breeze that chases the autumn leaves along the dusty
path; and Adam's imagination saw a dimpled face, with dark bright
eyes and roguish smiles looking backward at this brush, and a
rounded figure just leaning a little to clasp the handle. A very
foolish thought--it could not be Hetty; but the only way of
dismissing such nonsense from his head was to go and see WHO it
was, for his fancy only got nearer and nearer to belief while he
stood there listening. He loosed the plank and went to the
kitchen door.
"How do you do, Adam Bede?" said Dinah, in her calm treble,
pausing from her sweeping and fixing her mild grave eyes upon him.
"I trust you feel rested and strengthened again to bear the burden
and heat of the day."
It was like dreaming of the sunshine and awaking in the moonlight.
Adam had seen Dinah several times, but always at the Hall Farm,
where he was not very vividly conscious of any woman's presence
except Hetty's, and he had only in the last day or two begun to
suspect that Seth was in love with her, so that his attention had
not hitherto been drawn towards her for his brother's sake. But
now her slim figure, her plain black gown, and her pale serene
face impressed him with all the force that belongs to a reality
contrasted with a preoccupying fancy. For the first moment or two
he made no answer, but looked at her with the concentrated,
examining glance which a man gives to an object in which he has
suddenly begun to be interested. Dinah, for the first time in her
life, felt a painful self-consciousness; there was something in
the dark penetrating glance of this strong man so different from
the mildness and timidity of his brother Seth. A faint blush
came, which deepened as she wondered at it. This blush recalled
Adam from his forgetfulness.
"I was quite taken by surprise; it was very good of you to come
and see my mother in her trouble," he said, in a gentle grateful
tone, for his quick mind told him at once how she came to be
there. "I hope my mother was thankful to have you," he added,
wondering rather anxiously what had been Dinah's reception.
"Yes," said Dinah, resuming her work, "she seemed greatly
comforted after 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
thoughts reverting to some one there; he wondered whether SHE had
felt anything about it.
"It was Mr. Irwine, the clergyman, told me, and my aunt was
grieved for your mother when she heard it, and wanted me to come;
and so is my uncle, I'm sure, now he's heard it, but he was gone
out to Rosseter all yesterday. 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
was longing to hear if Hetty had said anything about their
trouble; she was too rigorously truthful for benevolent invention,
but she had contrived to say something in which Hetty was tacitly
included. Love has a way of cheating itself consciously, like a
child who plays at solitary hide-and-seek; it is pleased with
assurances that it all the while disbelieves. Adam liked what
Dinah had said so much that his mind was directly full of the next
visit he should pay to the Hall Farm, when Hetty would perhaps
behave more kindly to him than she had ever done before.
"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 to Treddleston early, to be in time for the Oakbourne carrier.
So I must go back to the farm to-night, that I may have the last
day with my aunt and her children. But I can stay here all to-
day, if your mother would like me; and her heart seemed inclined
towards me last night."
"Ah, then, she's sure to want you to-day. If mother takes to
people at the beginning, she's sure to get fond of 'em; but she's
a strange way of not liking young women. Though, to be sure,"
Adam went on, smiling, "her not liking other young women is no
reason why she shouldn't like you."
Hitherto Gyp had been assisting at this conversation in motionless
silence, seated on his haunches, and alternately looking up in his
master's face to watch its expression and observing Dinah's
movements about the kitchen. The kind smile with which Adam
uttered the last words was apparently decisive with Gyp of the
light in which the stranger was to be regarded, and as she turned
round after putting aside her sweeping-brush, he trotted towards
her and put up his muzzle against her hand in a friendly way.
"You see Gyp bids you welcome," said Adam, "and he's very slow to
welcome strangers."
"Poor dog!" said Dinah, patting the rough grey coat, "I've a
strange feeling about the dumb things as if they wanted to speak,
and it was a trouble to 'em because they couldn't. I can't help
being sorry for the dogs always, though perhaps there's no need.
But they may well have more in them than they know how to make us
understand, for we can't say half what we feel, with all our
words."
Seth came down now, and was pleased to find Adam talking with
Dinah; he wanted 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 to consult about the coffin, and Dinah went on
with her cleaning.
By six o'clock they were all at breakfast with Lisbeth in a
kitchen as clean 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 the cottage. Dinah did not sit down at
first, but moved about, serving the others with the warm porridge
and the toasted oat-cake, which she had got ready in the usual
way, for she had asked Seth to tell her just what his mother gave
them for breakfast. Lisbeth had been unusually silent since she
came downstairs, apparently requiring some time to adjust her
ideas to a state of things in which she came down like a lady to
find all the work done, and sat still to be waited on. Her new
sensations seemed to exclude the remembrance of her grief. At
last, after tasting the porridge, she broke silence:
"Ye might ha' made the parridge worse," she said to Dinah; "I can
ate it wi'out its turnin' my stomach. It might ha' been a trifle
thicker an' no harm, an' I allays putten a sprig o' mint in mysen;
but how's ye t' know that? The lads arena like to get folks as
'll make their parridge as I'n made it for 'em; it's well if they
get onybody as 'll make parridge at all. But ye might do, wi' a
bit o' showin'; for ye're a stirrin' body in a mornin', an' ye've
a light heel, an' ye've cleaned th' house well enough 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
whether the floor's cleaned or cat-licked. But thee'lt know when
thee gets thy parridge 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'd need, arter bein' upo' your legs this hour an' half a'ready.
Come, then," she added, in a tone of complaining affection, as
Dinah sat down by 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
stay longer, only I'm going back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I
must be with my aunt to-morrow."
"Eh, I'd ne'er go back to that country. My old man come from that
Stonyshire side, but he left it when he war a young un, an' i' the
right on't too; for he said as there war no wood there, an' it 'ud
ha' been a bad country for a carpenter."
"Ah," said Adam, "I remember father telling me when I was a little
lad that he made up his mind if ever he moved it should be
south'ard. But I'm not so sure about it. Bartle Massey says--and
he knows the South--as the northern men are a finer breed than the
southern, harder-headed and stronger-bodied, and a deal taller.
And then he says in some o' those counties it's as flat as the
back o' your hand, and you can see nothing of a distance without
climbing up the highest trees. I couldn't abide that. 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 bit
of 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 besides yourself."
"I like th' hills best," said Seth, "when the clouds are over your
head and you see the sun shining ever so far off, over the
Loamford way, as I've often done o' late, on the stormy days. It
seems to me as if that was heaven where there's always joy and
sunshine, though this life's dark and cloudy."
"Oh, I love the Stonyshire side," said Dinah; "I shouldn't like to
set my face towards the countries where they're rich in corn and
cattle, and the ground so level and easy to tread; and to turn my
back on the hills where the poor people have to live such a hard
life and the men spend their days in the mines away from the
sunlight. It's very blessed on a bleak cold day, when the sky is
hanging dark over the hill, to feel the love of God in one's soul,
and carry it to the lonely, bare, stone houses, where there's
nothing else to give comfort."
"Eh!" said Lisbeth, "that's very well for ye to talk, as looks
welly like the snowdrop-flowers as ha' lived for days an' days
when I'n gethered '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 less mouths for the scant cake. But," she went
on, looking at Adam, "donna thee talk o' goin' south'ard or
north'ard, an' leavin' thy feyther and mother 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 of a 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
village and have it made there."
"Nay, my lad, nay," Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing tone;
"thee wotna let nobody make thy feyther's coffin but thysen?
Who'd make it so well? An' him as know'd what good work war, an's
got a son as is the head 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's liking got to do wi't? It's choice o' mislikings is
all I'n got i' this world. 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 to touch 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
hand in it too, if it's to be done at home. I'll go to the
village this forenoon, because Mr. Burge 'ull want to see me, and
Seth shall stay at home 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't as 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's gone. 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
voice told that he spoke with some effort; "Mother's in the right.
I'll go to work, and do thee stay at home."
He passed into the workshop immediately, followed by Adam; while
Lisbeth, automatically obeying her old habits, began to put away
the breakfast things, as if she did not mean Dinah to take her
place any longer. Dinah said nothing, but presently used the
opportunity of quietly joining the brothers in the workshop.
They had already got on their aprons and paper caps, and Adam was
standing with his left hand on Seth's shoulder, while he pointed
with the hammer in his right to some boards which they were
looking at. Their backs were turned towards the door by which
Dinah entered, and she came in so gently that they were not aware
of her presence till they heard her 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's face, saying with
calm kindness, "I won't say farewell. I shall see you again when
you come from work. So as I'm at the farm before dark, it will be
quite soon enough."
"Thank you, Dinah; I should like to walk home with you once more.
It'll perhaps be the last time."
There was a little tremor in Seth's voice. Dinah put out her hand
and said, "You'll have sweet peace in your mind to-day, Seth, for
your tenderness and long-suffering towards your aged mother."
She turned round and left the workshop as quickly and quietly as
she had entered it. Adam had been observing her closely all the
while, but she had not looked at him. As soon as she was gone, he
said, "I don't wonder at 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 his secret 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 she doesna love me, lad, only as one child o'
God loves another. She'll never love any man as a husband--that's
my belief."
"Nay, lad, there's no telling; thee mustna lose heart. She's made
out o' stuff with a finer grain than most o' the women; I can see
that clear enough. But if she's better than they are in other
things, I canna think she'll fall short of 'em in loving."
No more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam began his
work on 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 his teeth and walk fifty mile on end, trembling
and turning hot and cold at only a look from one woman out of all
the rest i' the world. It's a mystery we can give no account of;
but no more we can of the sprouting o' the seed, for that matter."
