Chapter XIV
The Return Home
WHILE that parting in the wood was happening, there was a parting
in the cottage too, and Lisbeth had stood with Adam at the door,
straining her aged eyes to get the last glimpse of Seth and Dinah,
as they mounted the opposite slope.
"Eh, I'm loath to see the last on her," she said to Adam, as they
turned into the house again. "I'd ha' been willin' t' ha' her
about me till I died and went to lie by my old man. She'd make it
easier dyin'--she spakes so gentle an' moves about so still. I
could be fast sure that pictur' was drawed for her i' thy new
Bible--th' angel a-sittin' on the big stone by the grave. Eh, I
wouldna mind ha'in a daughter like that; but nobody ne'er marries
them as is good for aught."
"Well, Mother, I hope thee WILT have her for a daughter; for
Seth's got a liking for her, and I hope she'll get a liking for
Seth in time."
"Where's th' use o' talkin' a-that'n? She caresna for Seth.
She's goin' away twenty mile aff. How's she to get a likin' for
him, I'd like to know? No more nor the cake 'ull come wi'out the
leaven. Thy figurin' books might ha' tould thee better nor that,
I should think, else thee mightst as well read the commin print,
as Seth allays does."
"Nay, Mother," said Adam, laughing, "the figures tell us a fine
deal, and we couldn't go far without 'em, but they don't tell us
about folks's feelings. It's a nicer job to calculate THEM. But
Seth's as good-hearted a lad as ever handled a tool, and plenty o'
sense, and good-looking too; and he's got the same way o' thinking
as Dinah. He deserves to win her, though there's no denying she's
a rare bit o' workmanship. You don't see such women turned off
the wheel every day."
"Eh, thee't allays stick up for thy brother. Thee'st been just
the same, e'er sin' ye war little uns together. Thee wart allays
for halving iverything wi' him. But what's Seth got to do with
marryin', as is on'y three-an'-twenty? He'd more need to learn
an' lay by sixpence. An' as for his desarving her--she's two 'ear
older nor Seth: she's pretty near as old as thee. But that's the
way; folks mun allays choose by contrairies, as if they must be
sorted like the pork--a bit o' good meat wi' a bit o' offal."
To the feminine mind in some of its moods, all things that might
be receive a temporary charm from comparison with what is; and
since Adam did not want to marry Dinah himself, Lisbeth felt
rather peevish on that score--as peevish as she would have been if
he HAD wanted to marry her, and so shut himself out from Mary
Burge and the partnership as effectually as by marrying Hetty.
It was more than half-past eight when Adam and his mother were
talking in this way, so that when, about ten minutes later, Hetty
reached the turning of the lane that led to the farmyard gate, she
saw Dinah and Seth approaching it from the opposite direction, and
waited for them to come up to her. They, too, like Hetty, had
lingered a little in their walk, for Dinah was trying to speak
words of comfort and strength to Seth in these parting moments.
But when they saw Hetty, they paused and shook hands; Seth turned
homewards, and Dinah came on alone.
"Seth Bede would have come and spoken to you, my dear," she said,
as she reached Hetty, "but he's very full of trouble to-night."
Hetty answered with a dimpled smile, as if she did not quite know
what had been said; and it made a strange contrast to see that
sparkling self-engrossed loveliness looked at by Dinah's calm
pitying face, with its open glance which told that her heart lived
in no cherished secrets of its own, but in feelings which it
longed to share with all the world. Hetty liked Dinah as well as
she had ever liked any woman; how was it possible to feel
otherwise towards one who always put in a kind word for her when
her aunt was finding fault, and who was always ready to take Totty
off her hands--little tiresome Totty, that was made such a pet of
by every one, and that Hetty could see no interest in at all?
Dinah had never said anything disapproving or reproachful to Hetty
during her whole visit to the Hall Farm; she had talked to her a
great deal in a serious way, but Hetty didn't mind that much, for
she never listened: whatever Dinah might say, she almost always
stroked Hetty's cheek after it, and wanted to do some mending for
her. Dinah was a riddle to her; Hetty looked at her much in the
same way as one might imagine a little perching bird that could
only flutter from bough to bough, to look at the swoop of the
swallow or the mounting of the lark; but she did not care to solve
such riddles, any more than she cared to know what was meant by
the pictures in the Pilgrim's Progress, or in the old folio Bible
that Marty and Tommy always plagued her about on a Sunday.
Dinah took her hand now and drew it under her own arm.
"You look very happy to-night, dear child," she said. "I shall
think ot you often when I'm at Snowfield, and see your face before
me as it is now. It's a strange thing--sometimes when I'm quite
alone, sitting in my room with my eyes closed, or walking over the
hills, the people I've seen and known, if it's only been for a few
days, are brought before me, and I hear their voices and see them
look and move almost plainer than I ever did when they were really
with me so as I could touch them. And then my heart is drawn out
towards them, and I feel their lot as if it was my own, and I take
comfort in spreading it before the Lord and resting in His love,
on their behalf as well as my own. And so I feel sure you will
come before me."
She paused a moment, but Hetty said nothing.
"It has been a very precious time to me," Dinah went on, "last
night and to-day--seeing two such good sons as Adam and Seth Bede.
They are so tender and thoughtful for their aged mother. And she
has been telling me what Adam has done, for these many years, to
help his father and his brother; it's wonderful what a spirit of
wisdom and knowledge he has, and how he's ready to use it all in
behalf of them that are feeble. And I'm sure he has a loving
spirit too. I've noticed it often among my own people round
Snowfield, that the strong, skilful men are often the gentlest to
the women and children; and it's pretty to see 'em carrying the
little babies as if they were no heavier than little birds. And
the babies always seem to like the strong arm best. I feel sure
it would be so with Adam Bede. Don't you think so, Hetty?"
"Yes," said Hetty abstractedly, for her mind had been all the
while in the wood, and she would have found it difficult to say
what she was assenting to. Dinah saw she was not inclined to
talk, but there would not have been time to say much more, for
they were now at the yard-gate.
The still twilight, with its dying western red and its few faint
struggling stars, rested on the farm-yard, where there was not a
sound to be heard but the stamping of the cart-horses in the
stable. It was about twenty minutes after sunset. The fowls were
all gone to roost, and the bull-dog lay stretched on the straw
outside his kennel, with the black-and-tan terrier by his side,
when the falling-to of the gate disturbed them and set them
barking, like good officials, before they had any distinct
knowledge of the reason.
The barking had its effect in the house, for, as Dinah and Hetty
approached, the doorway was filled by a portly figure, with a
ruddy black-eyed face which bore in it the possibility of looking
extremely acute, and occasionally contemptuous, on market-days,
but had now a predominant after-supper expression of hearty good-
nature. It is well known that great scholars who have shown the
most pitiless acerbity in their criticism of other men's
scholarship have yet been of a relenting and indulgent temper in
private life; and I have heard of a learned man meekly rocking the
twins in the cradle with his left hand, while with his right he
inflicted the most lacerating sarcasms on an opponent who had
betrayed a brutal ignorance of Hebrew. Weaknesses and errors must
be forgiven--alas! they are not alien to us--but the man who takes
the wrong side on the momentous subject of the Hebrew points must
be treated as the enemy of his race. There was the same sort of
antithetic mixture in Martin Poyser: he was of so excellent a
disposition that he had been kinder and more respectful than ever
to his old father since he had made a deed of gift of all his
property, and no man judged his neighbours more charitably on all
personal matters; but for a farmer, like Luke Britton, for
example, whose fallows were not well cleaned, who didn't know the
rudiments of hedging and ditching, and showed but a small share of
judgment in the purchase of winter stock, Martin Poyser was as
hard and implacable as the north-east wind. Luke Britton could
not make a remark, even on the weather, but Martin Poyser detected
in it a taint of that unsoundness and general ignorance which was
palpable in all his farming operations. He hated to see the
fellow lift the pewter pint to his mouth in the bar of the Royal
George on market-day, and the mere sight of him on the other side
of the road brought a severe and critical expression into his
black eyes, as different as possible from the fatherly glance he
bent on his two nieces as they approached the door. Mr. Poyser
had smoked his evening pipe, and now held his hands in his
pockets, as the only resource of a man who continues to sit up
after the day's business is done.
"Why, lasses, ye're rather late to-night," he said, when they
reached the little gate leading into the causeway. "The mother's
begun to fidget about you, an' she's got the little un ill. An'
how did you leave the old woman Bede, Dinah? Is she much down
about the old man? He'd been but a poor bargain to her this five
year."
"She's been greatly distressed for the loss of him," said Dinah,
"but she's seemed more comforted to-day. Her son Adam's been at
home all day, working at his father's coffin, and she loves to
have him at home. She's been talking about him to me almost all
the day. She has a loving heart, though she's sorely given to
fret and be fearful. I wish she had a surer trust to comfort her
in her old age."
"Adam's sure enough," said Mr. Poyser, misunderstanding Dinah's
wish. "There's no fear but he'll yield well i' the threshing.
He's not one o' them as is all straw and no grain. I'll be bond
for him any day, as he'll be a good son to the last. Did he say
he'd be coming to see us soon? But come in, come in," he added,
making way for them; "I hadn't need keep y' out any longer."
The tall buildings round the yard shut out a good deal of the sky,
but the large window let in abundant light to show every corner of
the house-place.
Mrs. Poyser, seated in the rocking-chair, which had been brought
out of the "right-hand parlour," was trying to soothe Totty to
sleep. But Totty was not disposed to sleep; and when her cousins
entered, she raised herself up and showed a pair of flushed
cheeks, which looked fatter than ever now they were defined by the
edge of her linen night-cap.
In the large wicker-bottomed arm-chair in the left-hand chimney-
nook sat old Martin Poyser, a hale but shrunken and bleached image
of his portly black-haired son--his head hanging forward a little,
and his elbows pushed backwards so as to allow the whole of his
forearm to rest on the arm of the chair. His blue handkerchief
was spread over his knees, as was usual indoors, when it was not
hanging over his head; and he sat watching what went forward with
the quiet OUTWARD glance of healthy old age, which, disengaged
from any interest in an inward drama, spies out pins upon the
floor, follows one's minutest motions with an unexpectant
purposeless tenacity, watches the flickering of the flame or the
sun-gleams on the wall, counts the quarries on the floor, watches
even the hand of the clock, and pleases itself with detecting a
rhythm in the tick.
"What a time o' night this is to come home, Hetty!" said Mrs.
Poyser. "Look at the clock, do; why, it's going on for half-past
nine, and I've sent the gells to bed this half-hour, and late
enough too; when they've got to get up at half after four, and the
mowers' bottles to fill, and the baking; and here's this blessed
child wi' the fever for what I know, and as wakeful as if it was
dinner-time, and nobody to help me to give her the physic but your
uncle, and fine work there's been, and half of it spilt on her
night-gown--it's well if she's swallowed more nor 'ull make her
worse i'stead o' better. But folks as have no mind to be o' use
have allays the luck to be out o' the road when there's anything
to be done."
"I did set out before eight, aunt," said Hetty, in a pettish tone,
with a slight toss of her head. But this clock's so much before
the clock at the Chase, there's no telling what time it'll be when
I get here."
"What! You'd be wanting the clock set by gentlefolks's time,
would you? An' sit up burnin' candle, an' lie a-bed wi' the sun
a-bakin' you like a cowcumber i' the frame? The clock hasn't been
put forrard for the first time to-day, I reckon."
The fact was, Hetty had really forgotten the difference of the
clocks when she told Captain Donnithorne that she set out at
eight, and this, with her lingering pace, had made her nearly half
an hour later than usual. But here her aunt's attention was
diverted from this tender subject by Totty, who, perceiving at
length that the arrival of her cousins was not likely to bring
anything satisfactory to her in particular, began to cry, "Munny,
munny," in an explosive manner.
"Well, then, my pet, Mother's got her, Mother won't leave her;
Totty be a good dilling, and go to sleep now," said Mrs. Poyser,
leaning back and rocking the chair, while she tried to make Totty
nestle against her. But Totty only cried louder, and said, "Don't
yock!" So the mother, with that wondrous patience which love gives
to the quickest temperament, sat up again, and pressed her cheek
against the linen night-cap and kissed it, and forgot to scold
Hetty any longer.
"Come, Hetty," said Martin Poyser, in a conciliatory tone, "go and
get your supper i' the pantry, as the things are all put away; an'
then you can come and take the little un while your aunt undresses
herself, for she won't lie down in bed without her mother. An' I
reckon YOU could eat a bit, Dinah, for they don't keep much of a
house down there."
"No, thank you, Uncle," said Dinah; "I ate a good meal before I
came away, for Mrs. Bede would make a kettle-cake for me."
"I don't want any supper," said Hetty, taking off her hat. "I can
hold Totty now, if Aunt wants me."
"Why, what nonsense that is to talk!" said Mrs. Poyser. "Do you
think you can live wi'out eatin', an' nourish your inside wi'
stickin' red ribbons on your head? Go an' get your supper this
minute, child; there's a nice bit o' cold pudding i' the safe--
just what you're fond of."
Hetty complied silently by going towards the pantry, and Mrs.
Poyser went on speaking to Dinah.
"Sit down, my dear, an' look as if you knowed what it was to make
yourself a bit comfortable i' the world. I warrant the old woman
was glad to see you, since you stayed so long."
"She seemed to like having me there at last; but her sons say she
doesn't like young women about her commonly; and I thought just at
first she was almost angry with me for going."
"Eh, it's a poor look-out when th' ould folks doesna like the
young uns," said old Martin, bending his head down lower, and
seeming to trace the pattern of the quarries with his eye.
"Aye, it's ill livin' in a hen-roost for them as doesn't like
fleas," said Mrs. Poyser. "We've all had our turn at bein' young,
I reckon, be't good luck or ill."
"But she must learn to 'commodate herself to young women," said
Mr. Poyser, "for it isn't to be counted on as Adam and Seth 'ull
keep bachelors for the next ten year to please their mother. That
'ud be unreasonable. It isn't right for old nor young nayther to
make a bargain all o' their own side. What's good for one's good
all round i' the long run. I'm no friend to young fellows a-
marrying afore they know the difference atween a crab an' a apple;
but they may wait o'er long."
"To be sure," said Mrs. Poyser; "if you go past your dinner-time,
there'll be little relish o' your meat. You turn it o'er an' o'er
wi' your fork, an' don't eat it after all. You find faut wi' your
meat, an' the faut's all i' your own stomach."
Hetty now came back from the pantry and said, "I can take Totty
now, Aunt, if you like."
"Come, Rachel," said Mr. Poyser, as his wife seemed to hesitate,
seeing that Totty was at last nestling quietly, "thee'dst better
let Hetty carry her upstairs, while thee tak'st thy things off.
Thee't tired. It's time thee wast in bed. Thee't bring on the
pain in thy side again."
"Well, she may hold her if the child 'ull go to her," said Mrs.
Poyser.
Hetty went close to the rocking-chair, and stood without her usual
smile, and without any attempt to entice Totty, simply waiting for
her aunt to give the child into her hands.
"Wilt go to Cousin Hetty, my dilling, while mother gets ready to
go to bed? Then Totty shall go into Mother's bed, and sleep there
all night."
Before her mother had done speaking, Totty had given her answer in
an unmistakable manner, by knitting her brow, setting her tiny
teeth against her underlip, and leaning forward to slap Hetty on
the arm with her utmost force. Then, without speaking, she
nestled to her mother again.
"Hey, hey," said Mr. Poyser, while Hetty stood without moving,
"not go to Cousin Hetty? That's like a babby. Totty's a little
woman, an' not a babby."
"It's no use trying to persuade her," said Mrs. Poyser. "She
allays takes against Hetty when she isn't well. Happen she'll go
to Dinah."
Dinah, having taken off her bonnet and shawl, had hitherto kept
quietly seated in the background, not liking to thrust herself
between Hetty and what was considered Hetty's proper work. But
now she came forward, and, putting out her arms, said, "Come
Totty, come and let Dinah carry her upstairs along with Mother:
poor, poor Mother! she's so tired--she wants to go to bed."
Totty turned her face towards Dinah, and looked at her an instant,
then lifted herself up, put out her little arms, and let Dinah
lift her from her mother's lap. Hetty turned away without any
sign of ill humour, and, taking her hat from the table, stood
waiting with an air of indifference, to see if she should be told
to do anything else.
"You may make the door fast now, Poyser; Alick's been come in this
long while," said Mrs. Poyser, rising with an appearance of relief
from her low chair. "Get me the matches down, Hetty, for I must
have the rushlight burning i' my room. Come, Father."
The heavy wooden bolts began to roll in the house doors, and old
Martin prepared to move, by gathering up his blue handkerchief,
and reaching his bright knobbed walnut-tree stick from the corner.
Mrs. Poyser then led the way out of the kitchen, followed by the
gandfather, and Dinah with Totty in her arms--all going to bed by
twilight, like the birds. Mrs. Poyser, on her way, peeped into
the room where her two boys lay; just to see their ruddy round
cheeks on the pillow, and to hear for a moment their light regular
breathing.
"Come, Hetty, get to bed," said Mr. Poyser, in a soothing tone, as
he himself turned to go upstairs. "You didna mean to be late,
I'll be bound, but your aunt's been worrited to-day. Good-night,
my wench, good-night."
