mingle into one—you will no more think these things trivial than you will think the first-detected signs of coming spring trivial, though they be but a faint indescribable something in the air and in the song of the birds, and the tiniest perceptible budding on the hedge-row branches. Those slight words and looks and touches are part of the soul’s language; and the finest language, I believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as “light,” “sound,” “stars,” “music”—words really not worth looking at, or hearing, in themselves, any more than “chips” or “sawdust.” It is only that they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably great and beautiful. I am of opinion that love is a great and beautiful thing too, and if you agree with me, the smallest signs of it will not be chips and sawdust to you: they will rather be like those little words, “light” and “music,” stirring the long-winding fibres of your memory and enriching your present with your most precious past.
Chapter III.
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