 CHAPTER 53 The Harvest Supper As Adam was going homeward on Wednesday evening in the six o'clock sunlight, he saw in the distance the last load of barley winding its way towards the yard gate of the Hall Farm, and heard the chant of Harvest Home rising and sinking like a wave. Fainter and fainter and more musical through the glowing distance, the falling dying sound still reached him as he neared the willow brook. The low-westering sun shone right on the shoulders of the old Benton Hills, turning the unconscious sheep into bright spots of light, shone on the windows of the cottage too, and made them aflame with a glory beyond that of amber or amethyst. It was enough to make Adam feel that he was in a great temple, and that the distant chant was a sacred song. It's wonderful, he thought, how that sound goes to one's heart almost like a funeral bell. For all it tells is the joyfulest time of year, and the time when men are mostly the thankfulest. I suppose it's a bit hard to us to think anything's over and gone in our lives, and there's a parting at the root of all our joys. It's like what I feel about Dina. I should never have come to know, and that her love would be the greatest of blessings to me, if what I counted a blessing hadn't been wrenched and torn away from me, and left me with a greater need so as I could crave and hunger for a greater and better comfort. He expected to see Dina again this evening, and get leave to accompany her as far as Oakburn, and then he would ask her to fix some time when he might go to Snowfield, and learn whether the last best hope that had been born to him must be re-signed like the rest. The work he had to do at home, besides putting on his best clothes, made it seven before he was on his way again to Hall Farm, and it was questionable whether, with his longest and quickest strides, he should be there in time even for the roast beef which came after the plum pudding, for Mrs. Poiser's supper would be punctual. Great was the clatter of knives and pewter-plates and tin cans when Adam entered the house. But there was no hum of voices to this accompaniment. The eating of excellent roast beef provided free of expense, was too serious a business to those good farm-labours to be performed with a divided attention, even if they had had anything to say to each other, which they had not. And Mr. Poiser, at the head of the table, was too busy with his carving to listen to Bartle Massies or Mr. Craig's ready talk. Mr. Adam said Mrs. Poiser, who was standing and looking on to see that Molly and Nancy did their duty as waiters. Here's a place kept for you between Mr. Massie and the boys. It's a poor tale you couldn't come to see the pudding when it was whole. Adam looked anxiously round for a fourth woman's figure, but Dina was not there. He was almost afraid of asking about her. Besides, his attention was claimed by greetings, and there remained the hope that Dina was in the house, though perhaps disinclined to festivities on the eve of her departure. It was a goodly sight, that table, with Martin Poiser's good round-humoured face and large person at the end of it helping the servants to the fragrant roast beef and pleased when the empty plates came again. Martin, though usually blessed with a good appetite, really forgot to finish his own beef tonight. It was so pleasant to him to look on in the intervals of carving to see how the others enjoyed their supper. For were they not men who, on all the days of the year except Christmas day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner in a makeshift manner under the hedge-rose, and drank their beer out of wooden bottles, with relish certainly, but with their mouths towards the zenith, after a fashion more endurable to ducks than to human bipeds. Martin Poiser had some faint conception of the flavour such men must find in hot roast beef and fresh-drawn ale. He held his head on one side and screwed up his mouth, as he nudged Bartle massy, and watched the half-witted Tom Tholar, otherwise known as Tom Saft, receiving his second plate full of beef. A grin of delight broke over Tom's face as the plate was set down before him, between his knife and fork, which he held erect as if they had been sacred tapers. But the delight was too strong to continue smoldering in a grin. It burst out the next instant in a long-drawn, ha, ha, followed by a sudden collapse into utter gravity, as the knife and fork darted down on the prey. Martin Poiser's large person shook with his silent innocuous laugh. He turned towards Mrs. Poiser to see if she, too, had been observant of Tom, and the eyes of husband and wife met in a glance of good-natured amusement. Tom Saft was a great favourite on the farm, where he played the part of the old gesture and made up for his practical deficiencies by his success in repartee. His hits, I imagine, were those of the flail, which falls quite at random, but nevertheless smashes an insect now and then. They were much quoted at sheep shearing and hay-making times. But I refrain from recording them here, lest Tom's wit should prove to be like that of many other bygone gestures eminent in their day. They're of a temporary nature, not dealing with the deeper and more lasting relations of things. Tom accepted Martin Poiser had some pride in his servants and labourers, thinking with satisfaction that they were the best worth their pay of any set on the estate. There was Kester Bale, for example. Bale probably, if the truth were known, but he was called Bale, and was not conscious of any claim to a fifth letter. The old man with the clothes-leather cap and the network of wrinkles on his sun-brown face. Was there any man in Lohmshire who knew better the nature of all farming work? He was one of those invaluable labourers who could not only turn their hand to everything, but excel in everything they turned their hand to. It is true, Kester's knees were much bent outward by this time, and he walked with a perpetual curtsy, as if he were among the most reverent of men. And so he was, but I am obliged to admit that the object of his reverence was his worship. He always thatched the ricks, for if everything or his forte more than another it was thatching. And when the last touch had been put to the last beehive rick, Kester, whose home lay at some distance from the farm, would take a walk to the rickyard in his best clothes on a Sunday morning and stand in the lane, at a due distance, to contemplate his own thatching, walking about to get each rick from the proper point of view. As he curtsied along with his eyes upturned to the straw knobs imitative of golden globes at the summits of the beehive ricks, which indeed were gold of the best sort, you might have imagined him to be engaged in some pagan act of adoration. Kester was an old bachelor, and reputed to have stockings full of coin, concerning which his master cracked a joke with him every pay night. Not a new unseasoned joke, but a good old one, that had been tried many times before, and had worn well. The young master's a merry man, Kester frequently remarked, for having begun his career by frightening away the crows under the last martin-poiser but one, he could never cease to account the reigning martin a young master. I am not ashamed of commemorating, old Kester. You and I are indebted to the hard hands of such man, hands that have long ago mingled with the soil they tilled so faithfully, thriftfully making the best they could of the earth's spruits, and receiving the smallest share as their own wages. Then at the end of the table opposite his master there was Alec, the shepherd and head man, with the ruddy face and broad shoulders, not on the best of terms with old Kester. Indeed their intercourse was confined to an occasional snarl, for though they probably differed little concerning hedging and ditching and the treatment of hues, there was a profound difference of opinion between them as to their own respective merits. When Titoris and Malibius happen to be on the same farm, they are not sentimentally polite to each other. Alec, indeed, was not by any means a honeyed man. His speech had usually something of a snarl in it, and his broad shouldered aspect, something of the bulldog expression, don't you meddle with me, and I won't meddle with you. But he was honest, even to the splitting of an outgrain rather than he would take beyond his acknowledged chair, and as close fisted with his master's property as if it has been his own. Throwing very small handfuls of damaged barley to the chickens, because a large handful affected his imagination painfully with a sense of profusion. He tempered Tim, the wagoner, who loved his horses, had his grudge against Alec in the matter of corn. They rarely spoke to each other, and never looked at each other, even over their dish of cold potatoes. But then, as this was their usual motive behavior towards all mankind, it would be an unsafe conclusion that they had more than transient fits of unfriendliness. The bucolic character at Hayslope, you perceive, was not that entirely genial, merry, broad-grinning sort apparently observed in most districts visited by artists. The mild radiance of a smile was a rare sight on a field laborer's face, and there was seldom any gradation between bovine gravity and a laugh. Nor was every laborer so honest as our friend Alec. At this very table, among Mr. Poiser's men, there is that big bin tholloway, a very powerful thresher, but detected more than once in carrying away his master's corn in his pockets. An action which, as Ben was not a philosopher, could hardly be ascribed to absence of mind. However, his master had forgiven him and continued to employ him. For the tholloways had lived on the common time out of mind, and had always worked for the Poisers. And on the whole, I daresay, society was not much the worse because Ben had not six months of it at the treadmill, for his views of depredation were narrow, and the House of Correction might have enlarged them. As it was, Ben ate his roast beef tonight with a serene sense of having stolen nothing more than a few peas and beans accede for his garden since the last harvest supper, and felt warranted in thinking that Alec's suspicious eye, forever upon him, was an injury to his innocence. But now the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, leaving a fair large deal table for the bright drinking cans, and the foaming brown jugs, and the bright brass candle sticks pleasant to behold. Now the great ceremony of the evening was to begin, the harvest song in which every man must join. He might be in tune if he liked to be singular, but he must not sit with closed lips. The movement was obliged to be in triple time. The rest was ad libitum. As to the origin of this song, whether it came in its actual state from the brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually perfected by a school or succession of rapidists, I am ignorant. There is a stamp of unity, of individual genius upon it, which inclines me to the former hypothesis. Though I am not blind to the consideration that this unity may rather have arisen from that consensus of many minds, which was a condition of primitive thought, foreign to our modern consciousness. Some will perhaps think that they detect in the first quatrain an indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists, failing an imaginative vigor, have supplied by the feeble device of iteration. Others, however, may rather maintain that this very iteration is an original felicity, to which none but the most prosaic minds can be insensible. The ceremony connected with this song was a drinking ceremony. That is perhaps a painful fact, but then, you know, we cannot reform our forefathers. During the first and second quatrain, sung decidedly forte, no can was filled. Here's a health unto our master, the founder of the feast. Here's a health unto our master, and to our mistress. And may his doings prosper, whatever he takes in hand, for we are all his servants, and are at his command. But now, immediately before the third quatrain, or chorus, sung fortissimo, with emphatic raps of the table which gave the effective cymbals and drum together, Alex can was filled, and he was bound to empty it before the chorus ceased. Then drink, boys, drink, and see you do not spill, for if you do, you shall drink too, for tis our master's will. When Alex had gone successfully through this test of steady-handed manliness, it was the turn of old kester at his right hand, and so on, till every man had drunk his initiatory pint under the stimulus of the chorus. Tom saffed the rogue, took care to spill a little by accident, but Mrs. Poiser, too officiously, Tom thought, interfered to prevent the exaction of the penalty. To any listener outside the door it would have pinned the reverse of obvious why the drink, boys, drink, should have such an immediately and often repeated encore. But once entered he would have seen that all faces were at present sober, and most of them serious. It was the regular and respectable thing for those excellent farm labourers to do, as much as for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over their wine-glasses. Little Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive, had gone out to see what sort of evening it was at an early stage in the ceremony, and had not finished his contemplation until a silence of five minutes declared that, drink, boys, drink, was not likely to begin again for the next twelve-month. Much to the regret of the boys and Trottie, on them the stillness fell rather flat. After that glorious thumping of the table, towards which Trottie seated on her father's knee, contributed with her small might and her small fist. When Bartle re-entered, however, there appeared to be a general desire for solo music after the choral. Nancy declared that Tim the Wagoner knew a song and was always singing like a lark in the stable. Whereupon Mr. Poiser said encouragingly, Come, Tim lad, let's hear it. Tim looks sheepish, tucked down his head and said he couldn't sing. But this encouraging invitation of the masters was echoed all around the table. It was a conversational opportunity. Everybody could say, Come, Tim, except Alec, who never relaxed into the frivolity of unnecessary speech. At last Tim's next neighbor, Ben Thalloway, began to give emphasis to a speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing rather savage, said, Linealoon, will ye also sing a tune you and a like? A good-tempered Wagoner's patience has its limits, and Tim was not to be urged further. Well, then, David, you're the lad to sing, said Ben, willing to show that he was not discomforted by this check. Sing my loves arose without a thorn. The amatory David was a young man of unconscious abstracted expression, which was due, probably, to a squint of superior intensity rather than to any mental characteristic. For he was not indifferent to Ben's invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed his sleeve over his mouth in a way that was regarded as a symptom of yielding. And for some time the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire to hear David's song. But in vain the lyricism of the evening was in the cellar at present, and was not to be drawn from that retreat just yet. Meanwhile, the conversation at the head of the table had taken a political turn. Mr. Craig was not above talking politics occasionally, though he peaked himself rather on a wise insight than on specific information. He saw so far beyond the mere facts of the case that really it was superfluous to know them. I'm no reader of the paper myself, he observed tonight, as he filled his pipe. Though I might read it fast enough, if I liked, for there's Miss Liddy has him, and is done with him in no time. But there's Mills now, sits in the chimney corner and reads the paper pretty nigh from morning to night, and when he's got to the end Aunty's more atle-headed than he was at the beginning. He's full of this peace now, as they talk on. He's been reading and reading, and thinks he's got to the bottom on it. Why, Lord bless you, Mills, says I. You see no more end of this thing nor you can see into the middle of a potato. I'll tell you what it is. You think it'll be a fine thing for the country. And I'm not again it. Mark my words. I'm not again it. But it's my opinion, as there's them at the head of this country, or as worse enemies to us nor Bonnie and all the Monsours he's got at his back. For as for the Monsours, you may skewer half a dozen of them at once, as if they were frogs. I, I, says Martin Poiser, listening with an air of much intelligence and edification. They narrate a bit of beef in their lives, mostly salad, I reckon. And says I to Mills, continued Mr. Craig. Will you try to make me believe as ferners like them can do us half the harm that them ministers do with their bad government? If King George had turned them all away and governed by himself, he'd see everything righted. But I don't see myself what we'd want with anybody besides King and Parliament. It's that nest of ministers does the mischief, I tell you. Ah, that's fine talking, observed Mrs. Poiser, who is now seated near her husband with trotting on her lap. It's fine talking. It's hard work to tell which is old Harry when everybody's got boots on. As for this piece, said Mr. Poiser, turning his head on one side in a dubative manner and giving a precautionary puff to his pipe between each sentence. I don't know. The war is the fine thing for the country, and how you keep up prices without it. And then French are a wicked sort of folks by what I can make out. What can you do better than fight them? You're partly right there, Poiser, said Mr. Craig, but I'm not again the peace to make it a holiday for a bit. He can break it when we like, and I'm in no fear of Boney for all they talk so much of his cleverness. That's what I says to Mills this morning. Lord bless you. He sees no more through Boney. Why, I put him up to more in three minutes than he'd get from the paper all the year round. Says I. Am I a gardener as knows his business or ain't I, Mills? Answer me that. To be sure you are, Craig, says he. He's not a bad fellow, Mills, isn't, for a butler. But weak in the head. Well, says I. You talk of Boney's cleverness. Would it be any use my being a first-rate gardener if I'd not but a quagmire to work on? No, says he. Well, I says. That's just what it is with Boney. I'll not deny, but he may be a bit clever. He's no Frenchman born as I understand. But what's he got at his back with Monsours? Mr. Craig paused a moment with an emphatic stare after this triumphant specimen of Socratic argument. And then he added, thumping the table rather fiercely. Why, it's a sure thing, and there's them'll bear witness to it. As in one regiment where there was a man amissing, they put the regimentals on a big monkey, and they fit him as a shell fits a walnut, and you couldn't tell the monkey from the Monsours. Ah, think of that now, said Mr. Poiser, impressed at once with the political bearings of the fact, and its striking interest as an anecdote in natural history. Come, Craig, said Adam. That's a little too strong. You don't believe that. It's all nonsense about the French being such poor sticks. Mr. Irvine's seen him in their own country, and he says there's plenty of fine fellows among them. And as for knowledge and contrivances and manufacture, there's a many things we're a fine sight behind them in. It's poor foolishness to run down your enemies. Why, Nelson and the rest of them would have no merit in beating them if they were such awful as folks pretend. Mr. Poiser looked doubtfully at Mr. Craig, puzzled by this opposition of authorities. Mr. Irvine's testimony was not to be disputed, but on the other hand, Craig was a knowing fellow, and his view was less startling. Irvine had ever heard tell of the French being good for much. Mr. Craig had found no answer, but such was implied in taking a long draft of ale, and then looking down fixedly at the proportion of his own leg. Which he turned a little outward for that purpose. When Bartle Massie returned from the fireplace, where he had been smoking his first pipe in quiet, and broke the silence by saying, as he thrust his forefinger into the canister, Why, Adam, how happened you not to be at church on Sunday? Answer me that, you rascal. The anthem went limping without you. Are you going to disgrace your schoolmaster and his old age? No, Mr. Massie, said Adam. Mr. and Mrs. Poiser can tell you where I was. I was in no bad company. She's gone, Adam, gone to Snowfield, said Mr. Poiser, reminded of Dinah for the first time this evening. I thought you would have persuaded her better. Not at Holder, but she must go yesterday for noon. The Mrs. hardly got over it. I thought she'd had no spirit for the harvest supper. Mrs. Poiser had thought of Dinah several times since Adam had come in, but she had no heart to mention the bad news. What, said Bartle, with an air of disgust, there was a woman concerned? Then I give you up, Adam. But it's a woman you'd spoken well on, Bartle, said Mr. Poiser. Come now. You cannot draw back. You said once, as woman Woodna had been a bad invention if they'd all been like Dinah. I meant her voice, man. I meant her voice. That was all, said Bartle. I can bear to hear her speak without wanting to put wool in my ears. As for other things, I dare say she's like the rest of the women. Things too and too come to make five if she cries and bothers enough about it. I, I, said Mrs. Poiser, wanted to think and hear some folks talk as the men were cute enough to count the corns in a bag of wheat with only smelling at it. They can see through a barn door, they can. Perhaps that's the reason they can see so little on this side of it. Martin Poiser shook with delighted laughter and winked at Adam, as much as to say the schoolmaster was in for it now. Ah, said Bartle sneeringly. The women are quick enough. They are quick enough. They know the rites of a story before they hear it. They can tell a man what their thoughts are before he knows them himself. Like enough, said Mrs. Poiser, for the men are mostly so slow that their thoughts overrun them and they can only catch them by the tail. I can count a stalking top while a man's getting his tongue ready. And when he outs with his speech at last, there's little broth to be made on it. It's your dead chicks take the longest in hatching. However, I'm not denying the women are foolish. God Almighty made him to match the man. Match, said Bartle. Aye, as vinegar matches one's teeth, if a man says a word, his wife will match it with a contradiction. If he's a mind for hot meat, his wife will match it with cold bacon. If he laughs, she'll match him with a whimpering. She's such a match as the horse flies to the horse. She's got the right venom to sting him with, the right venom to sting him with. Yes, said Mrs. Poiser. I know what the man like. A poor soft as a zipper atom like the picture of the sun, whether they did right or wrong, and say thank you for a kick and pretend she didn't know which end stood uppermost till her husband told her. That's what a man wants and a wife mostly. He wants to make sure one fool tell him he's wise. But there's some men can do without that. They think so much of themselves already. And that's how it is, there's old bachelors. Come, Craig, said Mr. Poiser, jocklessly. You might get married pretty quick. Else you'll be set down for an old bachelor. And you see what the women'll think on ya. Well, said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate Mrs. Poiser in setting a high value on his own compliments. I'd like a cleverish woman, a woman of spirit, a managing woman. You're out there, Craig, said Bartle-Dreilly. You all are out there. You judge your garden stuff on a better plan than that. You pick the things for what they can excel in, for what they can excel in. You don't value your peas for their roots or your carrots for their flowers. Now that's the way you should choose women. Their cleverness will never come to much, never come to much. But they make excellent simpletons, ripe and strong-flavored. What does say to that? said Mr. Poiser, throwing himself back and looking merrily at his wife. Say, answers Mrs. Poiser, with a dangerous fire kindling in her eye. Why, I say, as some folks' tongues are like the clocks, is run on striking, not to tell you the time of day, but because there's some what wrong with her inside. Mrs. Poiser would probably have brought her rejoiner to a further climax if everyone's attention had not at this moment been called to the other end of the table, where the lyricism, which at first only manifested itself by David's sort of voice performance of My Love's a Rose Without a Thorn, had gradually assumed a rather deafening and complex character. Tim, thinking slightly of David's vocalization, was impelled to supersede that feeble buzz by a spirited commencement of three merry moors. But David was not to be put down so easily and showed himself capable of a copious crescendo, which was rendering it doubtful whether the rose would not predominate over the moors, when Old Caster was an entirely unmoved and immovable aspect, suddenly set up a quaver in trouble, as if he'd been an alarm and the time would come for him to go off. The company at Alex's end of the table took this form of vocal entertainment very much as a matter of course, being free from musical prejudices. But Bartle Massey laid down his pipe and put his fingers in his ears. And Adam, who'd been longing to go ever since he had heard Dina was not in the house, rose and said he must bid good night. I'll go with you, lad, said Bartle. I'll go with you before my ears are split. I'll go round by the common and see you home if you like, Mr. Massey, said Adam. Aye, aye, said Bartle. Then we can have a bit of a talk together. I never get hold of you now. Aye, it's a pity but you'd sit it out, said Martin Poiser. They'll all go soon, for the Mrs. never let some stay past ten. But Adam was resolute, so the good nights were said, and the two friends turned out on their starlight walk together. There's that poor, fool Vixen whimpering for me at home, said Bartle. I can never bring her here with me for fear she should be struck with Mrs. Poiser's eye, and the poor bitch might go limping forever after. I've never any need to drive Jim back, said Adam, laughing. He always turns back of his own head when he finds out I'm coming here. Aye, aye, said Bartle. A terrible woman, made of needles, made of needles. But I stick to Martin. I shall always stick to Martin. And he likes the needles. God help him. He's a cushion made on purpose for him. But she's a downright good-natured woman for all that, said Adam. And it's true as the daylight. She's a bit cross with the dogs when they offer to come in the house. But if they depended on her, she'd take care and have them well fed. If her tongue's keen, her heart's tender. I've seen that in times of trouble. She's one of those women as they're better than their word. Well, well, said Bartle. I don't say the apple isn't sound at the core, but it sets my teeth on edge. It sets my teeth on edge. End of Chapter 53. Chapter 54 of Adam Bede. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. Adam Bede by George Elliott. Chapter 54. The Meeting on the Hill. Adam understood Dynas' haste to go away and drew hope rather than discouragement from it. She was fearful lest the strength of her feelings toward him should hinder her from waiting and listening faithfully to the ultimate guiding voice from within. I wish I'd asked her to write to me, though, he thought. And yet, even that might disturb her a bit, perhaps. She wants to be quite quiet in her old way for a while, and I've no right to be impatient in interrupting her with my wishes. She's told me what her mind is, and she's not a woman to say one thing and mean another. I'll wait patiently. That was Adam's wise resolution, and it drove excellently for the first two or three weeks on the nourishment it got from the remembrance of Dynas' confession that Sunday afternoon. There is a wonderful amount of sustenance in the first few words of love, but towards the middle of October, the resolution began to dwindle perceptibly and showed dangerous symptoms of exhaustion. The weeks were unusually long. Dynas surely have had more than enough time to make up her mind. Let a woman say what she will after she has once told a man that she loves him. He is a little too flushed and exalted with that first draught that she offers him to care much about the taste of the second. He treads the earth with a very elastic step as he walks away from her and makes light of all difficulties. But that sort of glow dies out. Memory gets sadly deluded with time and is not strong enough to revive us. Adam was no longer so confident as he had been. He began to fear that perhaps Dynas' old life would have too strung a grasp upon her for any new feelings to triumph. If she had not felt this, she would surely have written to him to give him some comfort. But it appeared that she held it right to discourage him. As Adam's confidence waned, his patience waned with it and he thought he must write himself. He must ask Dynah not to leave him in painful doubt longer than was needful. He sat up late one night to write her a letter, but the next morning he burnt it, afraid of its effect. It would be worse to have a discouraging answer by letter than from her own lips for her presence reconciled him to her will. You perceive how it was. Adam was hungering for the sight of Dynah and when that sort of hunger reaches a certain stage, a lover is likely to still it, though he may have to put his future in pawn. But what harm could he do by going to Snowfield? Dynah could not be displeased with him for it. She had not forbidden him to go. She must surely expect that he would go before long. By the second Sunday in October, this view of the case had become so clear to Adam that he was already on his way to Snowfield on horseback this time, for his hours were precious now and he had borrowed Jonathan Burge's good nag for the journey. What king memories went along the road with him. He had often been to Oakburn and back since that first journey to Snowfield, but beyond Oakburn, the gray stone walls, the broken country, the meager trees, seemed to be telling him afresh the story of that painful past which he knew so well by heart, but no story is the same to us after a lapse of time or rather, we who read it are no longer the same interpreters and Adam this morning brought with him new thoughts through the gray country, thoughts which gave an altered significance to its story of the past. That is a base in selfish, even a blasphemous spirit which rejoices and is thankful over the past evil that is blighted or crushed another because it has been made a source of unforeseen good to ourselves. Adam could never cease to mourn over that mystery of human sorrow which had been brought so close to him. He could never thank God for another's misery. And if I were capable of that narrow-sighted joy in Adam's behalf, I should still know he was not the man to feel it for himself. He would have shaken his head at such a sentiment and said, evil's evil and sorrow's sorrow and you can't alter its nature by wrapping it up in other words. Other folks were not created for my sake that I should think all square when things turn out well for me, but it is not a noble to feel that the fuller life which a sad experience has brought us is worth our own personal share of pain. Surely it is not possible to feel otherwise any more than it would be possible for a man with cataract to forget the painful process by which his dim-blurred sight of men as trees walking had been exchanged for clear outline and effulgent day. The growth of higher feeling within us is like the growth of faculty. Bringing with it senses of added strength. We can no more wish to return to a narrower sympathy than a painter or a musician can wish to return to his cruder manner or philosopher to his less complete formula. Something like this sense of enlarged being was in Adam's mind this Sunday morning as he rode along in vivid recollection of the past. His feelings towards Dinah, the hope of passing his life with her, had been the distant unseen point toward which that hard journey from Snowfield 18 months ago had been leading him. Tender and deep as his love for Heady had been so deep that the roots of it would never be torn away, his love for Dinah was better and more precious to him, for it was the outgrowth of that fuller life which had come to him from his acquaintance with deep sorrow. It's like as if it was a new strength to me, he said to himself, to love her and know as she loves me. I shall look to her to help me see things right, for she's better than I am. There's less of herself in her and pride, and it's a feeling as gives you a sort of liberty as if you could walk more fearless when you've more trust in another than you have in yourself. I've always been thinking I knew better than them as belonged to me, and that's a poor sort of life when you can't look to them nearest to you to help you with a bit better thought than what you've got inside you already. It was more than two o'clock in the afternoon when Adam came inside of the gray town on the hillside and looked searchingly toward the green valley below for the first glimpse of this old thatched roof near the ugly red mill. The scene looked less harsh in the soft October sunshine than it had in the eager time of early spring, and the one grand charm it possessed in common with all wide-stretching woodless regions that it filled you with a new consciousness of the overarching sky had a milder, more soothing influence than usual on this almost cloudless day. Adam's doubts and fears melted under this influence as the delicate, web-like clouds had gradually melted away into the clear blue above him. He seemed to see Dinah's gentle face assuring him with its looks alone of all he longed to know. He did not expect Dinah to be at home at this hour, but he got down from his horse and tied it at the little gate that he might ask where she had gone today. He had set his mind on following her and bringing her home. She was gone to Slowman's End, a hamlet about three miles off over the hill, the old woman told him, had set off directly after the morning's chapel to preach in a cottage there as her habit was. Anybody at town would tell him the way to Slowman's End. So Adam got on his horse again and rode to the town, putting up at the old inn and taking a hasty dinner there in the company of the two chatty landlord, from whose friendly questions and reminiscence he was glad to escape as soon as possible and set out toward Slowman's End. With all his haste, it was nearly four o'clock before he could set off and he thought that Dinah had gone so early she would perhaps already be near returning. The little gray, desolate-looking hamlet, unscreened by sheltering trees, lay in sight long before he reached it, and as he came near, he could hear the sound of voices singing a hymn. Perhaps that's the last hymn before they come away, Adam thought. I'll walk back a bit and turn again to meet her, farther off the village. He walked back till he got nearly to the top of the hill again and seated himself on a loose stone, against the low wall, to watch till he should see the little black figure leaving the hamlet and winding up the hill. He chose this spot, almost at the top of the hill, because it was away from all eyes. No house, no cattle, not even a nibbling sheep near, no presence but the still lights and shadows and the great embracing sky. She was much longer coming than he expected. He waited an hour at least, watching for her and thinking of her, while the afternoon shadows lengthened and the light grew softer. At last he saw the little black figure coming from between the gray houses and gradually approaching the foot of the hill. Slowly, Adam thought, but Dina was really walking at her usual pace with a light, quiet step. Now she was beginning to wind along the path up the hill, but Adam would not move yet. He would not meet her too soon. He had set his heart on meeting her in this assured loneliness and now he began to fear lest he should startle her too much. Yet, he thought, she's not one to be over startled. She's always so calm and quiet as if she was prepared for anything. What was she thinking of as she wound up the hill? Perhaps she had found complete repose without him and had ceased to feel any need of his love. On the verge of a decision, we all tremble, hope pauses with fluttering wings. But now at last she was very near and Adam rose from the stone wall. It happened that just as he walked forward, Dina had paused and turned around to look back at the village. Who does not pause and look back in the mounting of a hill? Adam was glad, for with the fine instinct of a lover, he felt that it would be best for her to hear his voice before she saw him. He came within three paces of her and then said, Dina, she started without looking round as if she connected the sound with no place. Dina, Adam said again, and he knew quite well what was in her mind. She was so accustomed to think of impressions as purely spiritual munitions that she looked for no material, visible accompaniment of the voice. But the second time she looked round. What a look of yearning love it was that the mild gray eyes turned on the strong, dark-eyed man. She did not start again at the side of him. She said nothing, but moved towards him so that his arm could clasp her round. And they walked on so in silence. While the warm tears fell, Adam was content and said nothing. It was Dina who spoke first. Adam, she said, it is the divine will. My soul is so knit to yours that it is but a divided life I live without you. And this moment, now you are with me and I feel that our hearts are filled with the same love. I have a fullness of strength to bear and do our Heavenly Father's will that I had lost before. Adam paused and looked into her sincere eyes. Then we'll never part anymore, Dina, till death parts us. And they kissed each other with deep joy. What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined for life, to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting. End of chapter 54, reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. Chapter 55 of Adam Bede. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. Adam Bede by George Elliott. Chapter 55, Marriage Bells. In little more than a month after the meeting on the hill, on a rhyming morning in departing November, Adam and Dina were married. It was an event much thought of in the village. All Mr. Burge's men had a holiday and all Mr. Poisers, 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 the church to see Adam and Dina married or near the church door to greet them as they came forth. Mrs. Irvine 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 Donothorn at Bath, Mrs. Best, Mr. Mills and Mr. Craig had felt it incumbent upon 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 Dina when she preached on the green and no wonder they showed this eager interest on her marriage morning. For nothing like Dina and the history which had brought her and Adam be together had been known at Hayslope within the memory of man. Bessie Cranage in her neatest camp in frock was crying, though she did not exactly know why, for as her cousin, Wirie Ben, who stood near her judiciously suggested Dina was not going away, and if Bessie was in low spirits, the best thing for her to do was to follow Dina's example and marry an honest fellow who was ready to have her. Next to Bessie, just within the church door, there were the poiser children peeping round the corner of the pews to get a sight of the mysterious ceremony. Tottie's face wearing unusual air of anxiety at the idea of seeing cousin Dina come back looking rather old were in Tottie's experience. No married people were young. I envy them all the sight that they had when the marriage was fairly ended, and Adam led Dina out of the church. She was not in black this morning, and for her aunt poiser, who 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 gray, though in the usual Quaker form, for on this point Dina could not give way. So the lily face looked out with sweet gravity from under a gray 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 want 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. Dina knew it, and did not feel aggrieved. There were three other couples following the bride and bridegroom. First, Martin Poiser, looking as cheery as a bright fire on this rhymy morning, led quiet Mary Burge, the bridesmaid, then came Seth, serenely happy, with Mrs. Poiser 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. Poiser 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. Irvine, glad at heart over this good morning's work of joining Adam and Dina. 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, heady, starker soul, the strong, gentle love was to be Adam's companion and helper till death. There was much shaking of hands mingled with God bless you and other good wishes to the four couples at the churchyard gate. Mr. Poiser answering for the rest with unwanted at 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 and eye at a wedding. Even Mrs. Poiser could not trust herself to speak as the neighbor shook hands with her and Elizabeth began to cry in the face of the very first person who told her she was getting young again. Mr. Joshua Ran 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 cooperation from the clerk began to hum in his musical bass. Oh, what a joyful thing it is by way of prelooting 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. Irvine to his mother as they drove off, I shall write to him the first thing when we get home. End of chapter 55, reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. Adam Bede, epilogue. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Adam Bede, epilogue by George Elliott, read by Aaron Elliott, St. Louis, Missouri. Epilogue. It is near the end of June in 1807. The workshops have been shut up half an hour more in Adam Bede's timber yard, which used to be Jonathan Burges and the mellow evening light is falling on the pleasant house with the buff walls and the soft green 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 himself, Dynas 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 gray eyes, little more than four years old who ran out silently and put her hand into her mother's. Come, Uncle Seth, said Dyna. 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 my arm, Seth, said Dyna, looking fondly at the stout black-eyed fellow. He's troublesome to be so. Nay, nay, Adi likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry him so for a bit. A kindness which young Adi acknowledged by drumming his heels with promising force against Uncle Seth's chest. But to walk by Dyna's side and be tyrannized over by Dynas and Adam's children was Uncle Seth's earthly happiness. Where did 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 Dyna, I saw his hat in his shoulder. There he is again. Trust thee for catching sight of him if he's anywhere to be seen, said Seth smiling. Thief like poor mother used to be. She was always on the lookout for Adam and could see him sooner than other folks for all her eyes got dim. He's been longer than he expected, said Dyna, taking Arthur's watch from a small side pocket and looking at it. It's nine upon seven now. I, they'd have a deal to say to one another, said Seth, and the meeting had touched them both pretty close-ish. Why, it's getting on towards eight years since they parted. Yes, said Dyna. 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 he had he, said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm now and pointing. There's father coming at the far style. Dyna hastened her steps and little Lizbeth 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 Dyna 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 Eddie stretched out his arms ready with the usual baseness of infancy to give up his uncle Seth at once now that there was some rarer patronage at hand. It's cut me a good deal, Dyna, Adam said at last when they were walking on. Just find him greatly altered, said Dyna. Why, he's altered and yet not altered. I shouldn't know him anywhere, but his color changed and he looked sadly. However, the doctors say he'll soon be set right in his own country air. He's all sound on the 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 of look when he smiles. I've never seen him smile, poor young man, said Dyna. But the eat will see him smile tomorrow, said Adam. He asked after thee the first thing when he began to come around and we could talk to one another. I hope she hasn't altered, he said. I remember her face so well, I told him no. Adam continued, looking fondly at the eyes that were turned toward his. Only a bit plump, or it's the right to be after seven year. I may come and see her tomorrow, Mantai, he said. I long to tell her how I thought of her all these years. Didst tell him I'd always use the watch, said Dyna. I, and we talk to 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. I'll be talking to the people a bit in their houses. I, said Seth, who could not repress a comment on this point. And a sore pity it was a conference, and if Dyna had seen, as I did, we'd have left the Wesleyans and joined a body that had put no bonds on Christian liberty. Nay, lad, nay, said Adam. She was right, and thee was strong. There's no rules so wise, but what it's a pity for somebody or other. Most of the women do more harm, nor good with their preaching. They've not got Dyna's gift nor her spirit, and she's seen that, and she thought it right to set the example of submitting, for she's not held from other sorts of teaching. And I agree with her and approve of what she did. Seth was silent. This was a standing subject of difference rarely alluded to, and Dyna, wishing to quit it at once, said, just remember, Adam, to speak to Conal Dhanathorn, the words my unclean and entrusted to thee? Yes, and he's going to the Hall Farm with Mr. Irvine the day after tomorrow. Mr. Irvine came in while we were talking about it, and he would have it as the Colonel must see nobody but thee tomorrow. He said, and he's in the right of it, as I'll be bad for him to have his feeling 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. Irvine'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 Heddy till Mr. Irvine met him in London, for the letters missed him on his journey. The first thing he said to me when we'd got hold of 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. Poiser coming in at the yard gate, said Seth. So there is, said Dinah. Run, Lizbeth, run to meet Aunt Poiser. Come in, Adam, and rest. It has been a hard day for thee. The end. This concludes the reading of Adam Bede by George Elliott. This has been a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org.