Sunday Morning
Lisbeth’s touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear serious
enough to detain Dinah another night from the Hall Farm, now she had
made up her mind to leave her aunt so soon, and at evening the friends
must part. “For a long while,” Dinah had said, for she had told Lisbeth
of her resolve.
“Then it’ll be for all my life, an’ I shall ne’er see thee again,” said
Lisbeth. “Long while! I’n got no long while t’ live. An’ I shall be
took bad an’ die, an’ thee canst ne’er come a-nigh me, an’ I shall die
a-longing for thee.”
That had been the key-note of her wailing talk all day; for Adam was
not in the house, and so she put no restraint on her complaining. She
had tried poor Dinah by returning again and again to the question, why
she must go away; and refusing to accept reasons, which seemed to her
nothing but whim and “contrairiness”; and still more, by regretting
that she “couldna’ ha’ one o’ the lads” and be her daughter.
“Thee couldstna put up wi’ Seth,” she said. “He isna cliver enough for
thee, happen, but he’d ha’ been very good t’ thee—he’s as handy as can
be at doin’ things for me when I’m bad, an’ he’s as fond o’ the Bible
an’ chappellin’ as thee art thysen. But happen, thee’dst like a husband
better as isna just the cut o’ thysen: the runnin’ brook isna athirst
for th’ rain. Adam ’ud ha’ done for thee—I know he would—an’ he might
come t’ like thee well enough, if thee’dst stop. But he’s as stubborn
as th’ iron bar—there’s no bending him no way but’s own. But he’d be a
fine husband for anybody, be they who they will, so looked-on an’ so
cliver as he is. And he’d be rare an’ lovin’: it does me good on’y a
look o’ the lad’s eye when he means kind tow’rt me.”
Dinah tried to escape from Lisbeth’s closest looks and questions by
finding little tasks of housework that kept her moving about, and as
soon as Seth came home in the evening she put on her bonnet to go. It
touched Dinah keenly to say the last good-bye, and still more to look
round on her way across the fields and see the old woman still standing
at the door, gazing after her till she must have been the faintest
speck in the dim aged eyes. “The God of love and peace be with them,”
Dinah prayed, as she looked back from the last stile. “Make them glad
according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted them, and the years
wherein they have seen evil. It is thy will that I should part from
them; let me have no will but thine.”
Lisbeth turned into the house at last and sat down in the workshop near
Seth, who was busying himself there with fitting some bits of turned
wood he had brought from the village into a small work-box, which he
meant to give to Dinah before she went away.
“Thee’t see her again o’ Sunday afore she goes,” were her first words.
“If thee wast good for anything, thee’dst make her come in again o’
Sunday night wi’ thee, and see me once more.”
“Nay, Mother,” said Seth. “Dinah ’ud be sure to come again if she saw
right to come. I should have no need to persuade her. She only thinks
it ’ud be troubling thee for nought, just to come in to say good-bye
over again.”
“She’d ne’er go away, I know, if Adam ’ud be fond on her an’ marry her,
but everything’s so contrairy,” said Lisbeth, with a burst of vexation.
Seth paused a moment and looked up, with a slight blush, at his
mother’s face. “What! Has she said anything o’ that sort to thee,
Mother?” he said, in a lower tone.
“Said? Nay, she’ll say nothin’. It’s on’y the men as have to wait till
folks say things afore they find ’em out.”
“Well, but what makes thee think so, Mother? What’s put it into thy
head?”
“It’s no matter what’s put it into my head. My head’s none so hollow as
it must get in, an’ nought to put it there. I know she’s fond on him,
as I know th’ wind’s comin’ in at the door, an’ that’s anoof. An’ he
might be willin’ to marry her if he know’d she’s fond on him, but he’ll
ne’er think on’t if somebody doesna put it into’s head.”
His mother’s suggestion about Dinah’s feeling towards Adam was not
quite a new thought to Seth, but her last words alarmed him, lest she
should herself undertake to open Adam’s eyes. He was not sure about
Dinah’s feeling, and he thought he _was_ sure about Adam’s.
“Nay, Mother, nay,” he said, earnestly, “thee mustna think o’ speaking
o’ such things to Adam. Thee’st no right to say what Dinah’s feelings
are if she hasna told thee, and it ’ud do nothing but mischief to say
such things to Adam. He feels very grateful and affectionate toward
Dinah, but he’s no thoughts towards her that ’ud incline him to make
her his wife, and I don’t believe Dinah ’ud marry him either. I don’t
think she’ll marry at all.”
“Eh,” said Lisbeth, impatiently. “Thee think’st so ’cause she wouldna
ha’ thee. She’ll ne’er marry thee; thee mightst as well like her t’ ha’
thy brother.”
Seth was hurt. “Mother,” he said, in a remonstrating tone, “don’t think
that of me. I should be as thankful t’ have her for a sister as thee
wouldst t’ have her for a daughter. I’ve no more thoughts about myself
in that thing, and I shall take it hard if ever thee say’st it again.”
“Well, well, then thee shouldstna cross me wi’ sayin’ things arena as I
say they are.”
“But, Mother,” said Seth, “thee’dst be doing Dinah a wrong by telling
Adam what thee think’st about her. It ’ud do nothing but mischief, for
it ’ud make Adam uneasy if he doesna feel the same to her. And I’m
pretty sure he feels nothing o’ the sort.”
“Eh, donna tell me what thee’t sure on; thee know’st nought about it.
What’s he allays goin’ to the Poysers’ for, if he didna want t’ see
her? He goes twice where he used t’ go once. Happen he knowsna as he
wants t’ see her; he knowsna as I put salt in’s broth, but he’d miss it
pretty quick if it warna there. He’ll ne’er think o’ marrying if it
isna put into’s head, an’ if thee’dst any love for thy mother, thee’dst
put him up to’t an’ not let her go away out o’ my sight, when I might
ha’ her to make a bit o’ comfort for me afore I go to bed to my old man
under the white thorn.”
“Nay, Mother,” said Seth, “thee mustna think me unkind, but I should be
going against my conscience if I took upon me to say what Dinah’s
feelings are. And besides that, I think I should give offence to Adam
by speaking to him at all about marrying; and I counsel thee not to
do’t. Thee may’st be quite deceived about Dinah. Nay, I’m pretty sure,
by words she said to me last Sabbath, as she’s no mind to marry.”
“Eh, thee’t as contrairy as the rest on ’em. If it war summat I didna
want, it ’ud be done fast enough.”
Lisbeth rose from the bench at this, and went out of the workshop,
leaving Seth in much anxiety lest she should disturb Adam’s mind about
Dinah. He consoled himself after a time with reflecting that, since
Adam’s trouble, Lisbeth had been very timid about speaking to him on
matters of feeling, and that she would hardly dare to approach this
tenderest of all subjects. Even if she did, he hoped Adam would not
take much notice of what she said.
Seth was right in believing that Lisbeth would be held in restraint by
timidity, and during the next three days, the intervals in which she
had an opportunity of speaking to Adam were too rare and short to cause
her any strong temptation. But in her long solitary hours she brooded
over her regretful thoughts about Dinah, till they had grown very near
that point of unmanageable strength when thoughts are apt to take wing
out of their secret nest in a startling manner. And on Sunday morning,
when Seth went away to chapel at Treddleston, the dangerous opportunity
came.
Sunday morning was the happiest time in all the week to Lisbeth, for as
there was no service at Hayslope church till the afternoon, Adam was
always at home, doing nothing but reading, an occupation in which she
could venture to interrupt him. Moreover, she had always a better
dinner than usual to prepare for her sons—very frequently for Adam and
herself alone, Seth being often away the entire day—and the smell of
the roast meat before the clear fire in the clean kitchen, the clock
ticking in a peaceful Sunday manner, her darling Adam seated near her
in his best clothes, doing nothing very important, so that she could go
and stroke her hand across his hair if she liked, and see him look up
at her and smile, while Gyp, rather jealous, poked his muzzle up
between them—all these things made poor Lisbeth’s earthly paradise.
The book Adam most often read on a Sunday morning was his large
pictured Bible, and this morning it lay open before him on the round
white deal table in the kitchen; for he sat there in spite of the fire,
because he knew his mother liked to have him with her, and it was the
only day in the week when he could indulge her in that way. You would
have liked to see Adam reading his Bible. He never opened it on a
weekday, and so he came to it as a holiday book, serving him for
history, biography, and poetry. He held one hand thrust between his
waistcoat buttons, and the other ready to turn the pages, and in the
course of the morning you would have seen many changes in his face.
Sometimes his lips moved in semi-articulation—it was when he came to a
speech that he could fancy himself uttering, such as Samuel’s dying
speech to the people; then his eyebrows would be raised, and the
corners of his mouth would quiver a little with sad sympathy—something,
perhaps old Isaac’s meeting with his son, touched him closely; at other
times, over the New Testament, a very solemn look would come upon his
face, and he would every now and then shake his head in serious assent,
or just lift up his hand and let it fall again. And on some mornings,
when he read in the Apocrypha, of which he was very fond, the son of
Sirach’s keen-edged words would bring a delighted smile, though he also
enjoyed the freedom of occasionally differing from an Apocryphal
writer. For Adam knew the Articles quite well, as became a good
churchman.
Lisbeth, in the pauses of attending to her dinner, always sat opposite
to him and watched him, till she could rest no longer without going up
to him and giving him a caress, to call his attention to her. This
morning he was reading the Gospel according to St. Matthew, and Lisbeth
had been standing close by him for some minutes, stroking his hair,
which was smoother than usual this morning, and looking down at the
large page with silent wonderment at the mystery of letters. She was
encouraged to continue this caress, because when she first went up to
him, he had thrown himself back in his chair to look at her
affectionately and say, “Why, Mother, thee look’st rare and hearty this
morning. Eh, Gyp wants me t’ look at him. He can’t abide to think I
love thee the best.” Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say so
many things. And now there was a new leaf to be turned over, and it was
a picture—that of the angel seated on the great stone that has been
rolled away from the sepulchre. This picture had one strong association
in Lisbeth’s memory, for she had been reminded of it when she first saw
Dinah, and Adam had no sooner turned the page, and lifted the book
sideways that they might look at the angel, than she said, “That’s
her—that’s Dinah.”
Adam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel’s face, said,
“It _is_ a bit like her; but Dinah’s prettier, I think.”
“Well, then, if thee think’st her so pretty, why arn’t fond on her?”
Adam looked up in surprise. “Why, Mother, dost think I don’t set store
by Dinah?”
“Nay,” said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet feeling that
she had broken the ice, and the waters must flow, whatever mischief
they might do. “What’s th’ use o’ settin’ store by things as are thirty
mile off? If thee wast fond enough on her, thee wouldstna let her go
away.”
“But I’ve no right t’ hinder her, if she thinks well,” said Adam,
looking at his book as if he wanted to go on reading. He foresaw a
series of complaints tending to nothing. Lisbeth sat down again in the
chair opposite to him, as she said:
“But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy.” Lisbeth dared
not venture beyond a vague phrase yet.
“Contrairy, mother?” Adam said, looking up again in some anxiety. “What
have I done? What dost mean?”
“Why, thee’t never look at nothin’, nor think o’ nothin’, but thy
figurin, an’ thy work,” said Lisbeth, half-crying. “An’ dost think thee
canst go on so all thy life, as if thee wast a man cut out o’ timber?
An’ what wut do when thy mother’s gone, an’ nobody to take care on thee
as thee gett’st a bit o’ victual comfortable i’ the mornin’?”
“What hast got i’ thy mind, Mother?” said Adam, vexed at this
whimpering. “I canna see what thee’t driving at. Is there anything I
could do for thee as I don’t do?”
“Aye, an’ that there is. Thee might’st do as I should ha’ somebody wi’
me to comfort me a bit, an’ wait on me when I’m bad, an’ be good to
me.”
“Well, Mother, whose fault is it there isna some tidy body i’ th’ house
t’ help thee? It isna by my wish as thee hast a stroke o’ work to do.
We can afford it—I’ve told thee often enough. It ’ud be a deal better
for us.”
“Eh, what’s the use o’ talking o’ tidy bodies, when thee mean’st one o’
th’ wenches out o’ th’ village, or somebody from Treddles’on as I ne’er
set eyes on i’ my life? I’d sooner make a shift an’ get into my own
coffin afore I die, nor ha’ them folks to put me in.”
Adam was silent, and tried to go on reading. That was the utmost
severity he could show towards his mother on a Sunday morning. But
Lisbeth had gone too far now to check herself, and after scarcely a
minute’s quietness she began again.
“Thee mightst know well enough who ’tis I’d like t’ ha’ wi’ me. It isna
many folks I send for t’ come an’ see me, I reckon. An’ thee’st had the
fetchin’ on her times enow.”
“Thee mean’st Dinah, Mother, I know,” said Adam. “But it’s no use
setting thy mind on what can’t be. If Dinah ’ud be willing to stay at
Hayslope, it isn’t likely she can come away from her aunt’s house,
where they hold her like a daughter, and where she’s more bound than
she is to us. If it had been so that she could ha’ married Seth, that
’ud ha’ been a great blessing to us, but we can’t have things just as
we like in this life. Thee must try and make up thy mind to do without
her.”
“Nay, but I canna ma’ up my mind, when she’s just cut out for thee; an’
nought shall ma’ me believe as God didna make her an’ send her there o’
purpose for thee. What’s it sinnify about her bein’ a Methody! It ’ud
happen wear out on her wi’ marryin’.”
Adam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his mother. He
understood now what she had been aiming at from the beginning of the
conversation. It was as unreasonable, impracticable a wish as she had
ever urged, but he could not help being moved by so entirely new an
idea. The chief point, however, was to chase away the notion from his
mother’s mind as quickly as possible.
“Mother,” he said, gravely, “thee’t talking wild. Don’t let me hear
thee say such things again. It’s no good talking o’ what can never be.
Dinah’s not for marrying; she’s fixed her heart on a different sort o’
life.”
“Very like,” said Lisbeth, impatiently, “very like she’s none for
marr’ing, when them as she’d be willin’ t’ marry wonna ax her. I
shouldna ha’ been for marr’ing thy feyther if he’d ne’er axed me; an’
she’s as fond o’ thee as e’er I war o’ Thias, poor fellow.”
The blood rushed to Adam’s face, and for a few moments he was not quite
conscious where he was. His mother and the kitchen had vanished for
him, and he saw nothing but Dinah’s face turned up towards his. It
seemed as if there were a resurrection of his dead joy. But he woke up
very speedily from that dream (the waking was chill and sad), for it
would have been very foolish in him to believe his mother’s words—she
could have no ground for them. He was prompted to express his disbelief
very strongly—perhaps that he might call forth the proofs, if there
were any to be offered.
“What dost say such things for, Mother, when thee’st got no foundation
for ’em? Thee know’st nothing as gives thee a right to say that.”
“Then I knowna nought as gi’es me a right to say as the year’s turned,
for all I feel it fust thing when I get up i’ th’ morning. She isna
fond o’ Seth, I reckon, is she? She doesna want to marry _him?_ But I
can see as she doesna behave tow’rt thee as she daes tow’rt Seth. She
makes no more o’ Seth’s coming a-nigh her nor if he war Gyp, but she’s
all of a tremble when thee’t a-sittin’ down by her at breakfast an’
a-looking at her. Thee think’st thy mother knows nought, but she war
alive afore thee wast born.”
“But thee canstna be sure as the trembling means love?” said Adam
anxiously.
“Eh, what else should it mane? It isna hate, I reckon. An’ what should
she do but love thee? Thee’t made to be loved—for where’s there a
straighter cliverer man? An’ what’s it sinnify her bein’ a Methody?
It’s on’y the marigold i’ th’ parridge.”
Adam had thrust his hands in his pockets, and was looking down at the
book on the table, without seeing any of the letters. He was trembling
like a gold-seeker who sees the strong promise of gold but sees in the
same moment a sickening vision of disappointment. He could not trust
his mother’s insight; she had seen what she wished to see. And yet—and
yet, now the suggestion had been made to him, he remembered so many
things, very slight things, like the stirring of the water by an
imperceptible breeze, which seemed to him some confirmation of his
mother’s words.
Lisbeth noticed that he was moved. She went on, “An’ thee’t find out as
thee’t poorly aff when she’s gone. Thee’t fonder on her nor thee
know’st. Thy eyes follow her about, welly as Gyp’s follow thee.”
Adam could sit still no longer. He rose, took down his hat, and went
out into the fields.
The sunshine was on them: that early autumn sunshine which we should
know was not summer’s, even if there were not the touches of yellow on
the lime and chestnut; the Sunday sunshine too, which has more than
autumnal calmness for the working man; the morning sunshine, which
still leaves the dew-crystals on the fine gossamer webs in the shadow
of the bushy hedgerows.
Adam needed the calm influence; he was amazed at the way in which this
new thought of Dinah’s love had taken possession of him, with an
overmastering power that made all other feelings give way before the
impetuous desire to know that the thought was true. Strange, that till
that moment the possibility of their ever being lovers had never
crossed his mind, and yet now, all his longing suddenly went out
towards that possibility. He had no more doubt or hesitation as to his
own wishes than the bird that flies towards the opening through which
the daylight gleams and the breath of heaven enters.
The autumnal Sunday sunshine soothed him, but not by preparing him with
resignation to the disappointment if his mother—if he himself—proved to
be mistaken about Dinah. It soothed him by gentle encouragement of his
hopes. Her love was so like that calm sunshine that they seemed to make
one presence to him, and he believed in them both alike. And Dinah was
so bound up with the sad memories of his first passion that he was not
forsaking them, but rather giving them a new sacredness by loving her.
Nay, his love for her had grown out of that past: it was the noon of
that morning.
But Seth? Would the lad be hurt? Hardly; for he had seemed quite
contented of late, and there was no selfish jealousy in him; he had
never been jealous of his mother’s fondness for Adam. But had _he_ seen
anything of what their mother talked about? Adam longed to know this,
for he thought he could trust Seth’s observation better than his
mother’s. He must talk to Seth before he went to see Dinah, and, with
this intention in his mind, he walked back to the cottage and said to
his mother, “Did Seth say anything to thee about when he was coming
home? Will he be back to dinner?”
“Aye, lad, he’ll be back for a wonder. He isna gone to Treddles’on.
He’s gone somewhere else a-preachin’ and a-prayin’.”
“Hast any notion which way he’s gone?” said Adam.
“Nay, but he aften goes to th’ Common. Thee know’st more o’s goings nor
I do.”
Adam wanted to go and meet Seth, but he must content himself with
walking about the near fields and getting sight of him as soon as
possible. That would not be for more than an hour to come, for Seth
would scarcely be at home much before their dinner-time, which was
twelve o’clock. But Adam could not sit down to his reading again, and
he sauntered along by the brook and stood leaning against the stiles,
with eager intense eyes, which looked as if they saw something very
vividly; but it was not the brook or the willows, not the fields or the
sky. Again and again his vision was interrupted by wonder at the
strength of his own feeling, at the strength and sweetness of this new
love—almost like the wonder a man feels at the added power he finds in
himself for an art which he had laid aside for a space. How is it that
the poets have said so many fine things about our first love, so few
about our later love? Are their first poems their best? Or are not
those the best which come from their fuller thought, their larger
experience, their deeper-rooted affections? The boy’s flutelike voice
has its own spring charm; but the man should yield a richer deeper
music.
At last, there was Seth, visible at the farthest stile, and Adam
hastened to meet him. Seth was surprised, and thought something unusual
must have happened, but when Adam came up, his face said plainly enough
that it was nothing alarming.
“Where hast been?” said Adam, when they were side by side.
“I’ve been to the Common,” said Seth. “Dinah’s been speaking the Word
to a little company of hearers at Brimstone’s, as they call him.
They’re folks as never go to church hardly—them on the Common—but
they’ll go and hear Dinah a bit. She’s been speaking with power this
forenoon from the words, ‘I came not to call the righteous, but sinners
to repentance.’ And there was a little thing happened as was pretty to
see. The women mostly bring their children with ’em, but to-day there
was one stout curly headed fellow about three or four year old, that I
never saw there before. He was as naughty as could be at the beginning
while I was praying, and while we was singing, but when we all sat down
and Dinah began to speak, th’ young un stood stock still all at once,
and began to look at her with’s mouth open, and presently he ran away
from’s mother and went to Dinah, and pulled at her, like a little dog,
for her to take notice of him. So Dinah lifted him up and held th’ lad
on her lap, while she went on speaking; and he was as good as could be
till he went to sleep—and the mother cried to see him.”
“It’s a pity she shouldna be a mother herself,” said Adam, “so fond as
the children are of her. Dost think she’s quite fixed against marrying,
Seth? Dost think nothing ’ud turn her?”
There was something peculiar in his brother’s tone, which made Seth
steal a glance at his face before he answered.
“It ’ud be wrong of me to say nothing ’ud turn her,” he answered. “But
if thee mean’st it about myself, I’ve given up all thoughts as she can
ever be _my_ wife. She calls me her brother, and that’s enough.”
“But dost think she might ever get fond enough of anybody else to be
willing to marry ’em?” said Adam rather shyly.
“Well,” said Seth, after some hesitation, “it’s crossed my mind
sometimes o’ late as she might; but Dinah ’ud let no fondness for the
creature draw her out o’ the path as she believed God had marked out
for her. If she thought the leading was not from Him, she’s not one to
be brought under the power of it. And she’s allays seemed clear about
that—as her work was to minister t’ others, and make no home for
herself i’ this world.”
“But suppose,” said Adam, earnestly, “suppose there was a man as ’ud
let her do just the same and not interfere with her—she might do a good
deal o’ what she does now, just as well when she was married as when
she was single. Other women of her sort have married—that’s to say, not
just like her, but women as preached and attended on the sick and
needy. There’s Mrs. Fletcher as she talks of.”
A new light had broken in on Seth. He turned round, and laying his hand
on Adam’s shoulder, said, “Why, wouldst like her to marry _thee_,
brother?”
Adam looked doubtfully at Seth’s inquiring eyes and said, “Wouldst be
hurt if she was to be fonder o’ me than o’ thee?”
“Nay,” said Seth warmly, “how canst think it? Have I felt thy trouble
so little that I shouldna feel thy joy?”
There was silence a few moments as they walked on, and then Seth said,
“I’d no notion as thee’dst ever think of her for a wife.”
“But is it o’ any use to think of her?” said Adam. “What dost say?
Mother’s made me as I hardly know where I am, with what she’s been
saying to me this forenoon. She says she’s sure Dinah feels for me more
than common, and ’ud be willing t’ have me. But I’m afraid she speaks
without book. I want to know if thee’st seen anything.”
“It’s a nice point to speak about,” said Seth, “and I’m afraid o’ being
wrong; besides, we’ve no right t’ intermeddle with people’s feelings
when they wouldn’t tell ’em themselves.”
Seth paused.
“But thee mightst ask her,” he said presently. “She took no offence at
_me_ for asking, and thee’st more right than I had, only thee’t not in
the Society. But Dinah doesn’t hold wi’ them as are for keeping the
Society so strict to themselves. She doesn’t mind about making folks
enter the Society, so as they’re fit t’ enter the kingdom o’ God. Some
o’ the brethren at Treddles’on are displeased with her for that.”
“Where will she be the rest o’ the day?” said Adam.
“She said she shouldn’t leave the farm again to-day,” said Seth,
“because it’s her last Sabbath there, and she’s going t’ read out o’
the big Bible wi’ the children.”
Adam thought—but did not say—“Then I’ll go this afternoon; for if I go
to church, my thoughts ’ull be with her all the while. They must sing
th’ anthem without me to-day.”