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.”