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 succession.
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 you ’ve 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.