Chapter LV
Marriage Bells
IN little more than a month after that meeting on the hill--on a
rimy morning in departing November--Adam and Dinah were married.
It was an event much thought of in the village. All Mr. Burge's
men had a holiday, and all Mr. Poyser's, and most of those who had
a holiday appeared in their best clothes at the wedding. I think
there was hardly an inhabitant of Hayslope specially mentioned in
this history and still resident in the parish on this November
morning who was not either in church to see Adam and Dinah
married, or near the church door to greet them as they came forth.
Mrs. Irwine and her daughters were waiting at the churchyard gates
in their carriage (for they had a carriage now) to shake hands
with the bride and bridegroom and wish them well; and in the
absence of Miss Lydia Donnithorne at Bath, Mrs. Best, Mr. Mills,
and Mr. Craig had felt it incumbent on them to represent "the
family" at the Chase on the occasion. The churchyard walk was
quite lined with familiar faces, many of them faces that had first
looked at Dinah when she preached on the Green. And no wonder
they showed this eager interest on her marriage morning, for
nothing like Dinah and the history which had brought her and Adam
Bede together had been known at Hayslope within the memory of man.
Bessy Cranage, in her neatest cap and frock, was crying, though
she did not exactly know why; for, as her cousin Wiry Ben, who
stood near her, judiciously suggested, Dinah was not going away,
and if Bessy was in low spirits, the best thing for her to do was
to follow Dinah's example and marry an honest fellow who was ready
to have her. Next to Bessy, just within the church door, there
were the Poyser children, peeping round the corner of the pews to
get a sight of the mysterious ceremony; Totty's face wearing an
unusual air of anxiety at the idea of seeing cousin Dinah come
back looking rather old, for in Totty's experience no married
people were young.
I envy them all the sight they had when the marriage was fairly
ended and Adam led Dinah out of church. She was not in black this
morning, for her Aunt Poyser would by no means allow such a risk
of incurring bad luck, and had herself made a present of the
wedding dress, made all of grey, though in the usual Quaker form,
for on this point Dinah could not give way. So the lily face
looked out with sweet gravity from under a grey Quaker bonnet,
neither smiling nor blushing, but with lips trembling a little
under the weight of solemn feelings. Adam, as he pressed her arm
to his side, walked with his old erectness and his head thrown
rather backward as if to face all the world better. But it was
not because he was particularly proud this morning, as is the wont
of bridegrooms, for his happiness was of a kind that had little
reference to men's opinion of it. There was a tinge of sadness in
his deep joy; Dinah knew it, and did not feel aggrieved.
There were three other couples, following the bride and
bridegroom: first, Martin Poyser, looking as cheery as a bright
fire on this rimy morning, led quiet Mary Burge, the bridesmaid;
then came Seth serenely happy, with Mrs. Poyser on his arm; and
last of all Bartle Massey, with Lisbeth--Lisbeth in a new gown and
bonnet, too busy with her pride in her son and her delight in
possessing the one daughter she had desired to devise a single
pretext for complaint.
Bartle Massey had consented to attend the wedding at Adam's
earnest request, under protest against marriage in general and the
marriage of a sensible man in particular. Nevertheless, Mr.
Poyser had a joke against him after the wedding dinner, to the
effect that in the vestry he had given the bride one more kiss
than was necessary.
Behind this last couple came Mr. Irwine, glad at heart over this
good morning's work of joining Adam and Dinah. For he had seen
Adam in the worst moments of his sorrow; and what better harvest
from that painful seed-time could there be than this? The love
that had brought hope and comfort in the hour of despair, the love
that had found its way to the dark prison cell and to poor Hetty's
darker soul--this strong gentle love was to be Adam's companion
and helper till death.
There was much shaking of hands mingled with "God bless you's" and
other good wishes to the four couples, at the churchyard gate, Mr.
Poyser answering for the rest with unwonted vivacity of tongue,
for he had all the appropriate wedding-day jokes at his command.
And the women, he observed, could never do anything but put finger
in eye at a wedding. Even Mrs. Poyser could not trust herself to
speak as the neighbours shook hands with her, and Lisbeth began to
cry in the face of the very first person who told her she was
getting young again.
Mr. Joshua Rann, having a slight touch of rheumatism, did not join
in the ringing of the bells this morning, and, looking on with
some contempt at these informal greetings which required no
official co-operation from the clerk, began to hum in his musical
bass, "Oh what a joyful thing it is," by way of preluding a little
to the effect he intended to produce in the wedding psalm next
Sunday.
"That's a bit of good news to cheer Arthur," said Mr. Irwine to
his mother, as they drove off. "I shall write to him the first
thing when we get home."
Epilogue
IT is near the end of June, in 1807. The workshops have been shut
up half an hour or more in Adam Bede's timber-yard, which used to
be Jonathan Burge's, and the mellow evening light is falling on
the pleasant house with the buff walls and the soft grey thatch,
very much as it did when we saw Adam bringing in the keys on that
June evening nine years ago.
There is a figure we know well, just come out of the house, and
shading her eyes with her hands as she looks for something in the
distance, for the rays that fall on her white borderless cap and
her pale auburn hair are very dazzling. But now she turns away
from the sunlight and looks towards the door.
We can see the sweet pale face quite well now: it is scarcely at
all altered--only a little fuller, to correspond to her more
matronly figure, which still seems light and active enough in the
plain black dress.
"I see him, Seth," Dinah said, as she looked into the house. "Let
us go and meet him. Come, Lisbeth, come with Mother."
The last call was answered immediately by a small fair creature
with pale auburn hair and grey eyes, little more than four years
old, who ran out silently and put her hand into her mother's.
"Come, Uncle Seth," said Dinah.
"Aye, aye, we're coming," Seth answered from within, and presently
appeared stooping under the doorway, being taller than usual by
the black head of a sturdy two-year-old nephew, who had caused
some delay by demanding to be carried on uncle's shoulder.
"Better take him on thy arm, Seth," said Dinah, looking fondly at
the stout black-eyed fellow. "He's troublesome to thee so."
"Nay, nay: Addy likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry him so
for a bit." A kindness which young Addy acknowledged by drumming
his heels with promising force against Uncle Seth's chest. But to
walk by Dinah's side, and be tyrannized over by Dinah's and Adam's
children, was Uncle Seth's earthly happiness.
"Where didst see him?" asked Seth, as they walked on into the
adjoining field. "I can't catch sight of him anywhere."
"Between the hedges by the roadside," said Dinah. "I saw his hat
and his shoulder. There he is again."
"Trust thee for catching sight of him if he's anywhere to be
seen," said Seth, smiling. "Thee't like poor mother used to be.
She was always on the look out for Adam, and could see him sooner
than other folks, for all her eyes got dim."
"He's been longer than he expected," said Dinah, taking Arthur's
watch from a small side pocket and looking at it; "it's nigh upon
seven now."
"Aye, they'd have a deal to say to one another," said Seth, "and
the meeting 'ud touch 'em both pretty closish. Why, it's getting
on towards eight years since they parted."
"Yes," said Dinah, "Adam was greatly moved this morning at the
thought of the change he should see in the poor young man, from
the sickness he has undergone, as well as the years which have
changed us all. And the death of the poor wanderer, when she was
coming back to us, has been sorrow upon sorrow."
"See, Addy," said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm now and
pointing, "there's Father coming--at the far stile."
Dinah hastened her steps, and little Lisbeth ran on at her utmost
speed till she clasped her father's leg. Adam patted her head and
lifted her up to kiss her, but Dinah could see the marks of
agitation on his face as she approached him, and he put her arm
within his in silence.
"Well, youngster, must I take you?" he said, trying to smile, when
Addy stretched out his arms--ready, with the usual baseness of
infancy, to give up his Uncle Seth at once, now there was some
rarer patronage at hand.
"It's cut me a good deal, Dinah," Adam said at last, when they
were walking on.
"Didst find him greatly altered?" said Dinah.
"Why, he's altered and yet not altered. I should ha' known him
anywhere. But his colour's changed, and he looks sadly. However,
the doctors say he'll soon be set right in his own country air.
He's all sound in th' inside; it's only the fever shattered him
so. But he speaks just the same, and smiles at me just as he did
when he was a lad. It's wonderful how he's always had just the
same sort o' look when he smiles."
"I've never seen him smile, poor young man," said Dinah.
"But thee wilt see him smile, to-morrow," said Adam. "He asked
after thee the first thing when he began to come round, and we
could talk to one another. 'I hope she isn't altered,' he said,
'I remember her face so well.' I told him 'no,'" Adam continued,
looking fondly at the eyes that were turned towards his, "only a
bit plumper, as thee'dst a right to be after seven year. 'I may
come and see her to-morrow, mayn't I?' he said; 'I long to tell
her how I've thought of her all these years.'"
"Didst tell him I'd always used the watch?" said Dinah.
"Aye; and we talked a deal about thee, for he says he never saw a
woman a bit like thee. 'I shall turn Methodist some day,' he
said, 'when she preaches out of doors, and go to hear her.' And I
said, 'Nay, sir, you can't do that, for Conference has forbid the
women preaching, and she's given it up, all but talking to the
people a bit in their houses.'"
"Ah," said Seth, who could not repress a comment on this point,
"and a sore pity it was o' Conference; and if Dinah had seen as I
did, we'd ha' left the Wesleyans and joined a body that 'ud put no
bonds on Christian liberty."
"Nay, lad, nay," said Adam, "she was right and thee wast wrong.
There's no rules so wise but what it's a pity for somebody or
other. Most o' the women do more harm nor good with their
preaching--they've not got Dinah's gift nor her sperrit--and she's
seen that, and she thought it right to set th' example o'
submitting, for she's not held from other sorts o' teaching. And
I agree with her, and approve o' what she did."
Seth was silent. This was a standing subject of difference rarely
alluded to, and Dinah, wishing to quit it at once, said, "Didst
remember, Adam, to speak to Colonel Donnithorne the words my uncle
and aunt entrusted to thee?"
"Yes, and he's going to the Hall Farm with Mr. Irwine the day
after to-morrow. Mr. Irwine came in while we were talking about
it, and he would have it as the Colonel must see nobody but thee
to-morrow. He said--and he's in the right of it--as it'll be bad
for him t' have his feelings stirred with seeing many people one
after another. 'We must get you strong and hearty,' he said,
'that's the first thing to be done Arthur, and then you shall have
your own way. But I shall keep you under your old tutor's thumb
till then.' Mr. Irwine's fine and joyful at having him home
again."
Adam was silent a little while, and then said, "It was very
cutting when we first saw one another. He'd never heard about
poor Hetty till Mr. Irwine met him in London, for the letters
missed him on his journey. The first thing he said to me, when
we'd got hold o' one another's hands was, 'I could never do
anything for her, Adam--she lived long enough for all the
suffering--and I'd thought so of the time when I might do
something for her. But you told me the truth when you said to me
once, "There's a sort of wrong that can never be made up for."'"
"Why, there's Mr. and Mrs. Poyser coming in at the yard gate,"
said Seth.
"So there is," said Dinah. "Run, Lisbeth, run to meet Aunt Poyser.
Come in, Adam, and rest; it has been a hard day for thee."
