ha’ been gone before now.”
He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was speaking.
“What art goin’ to do?” asked Lisbeth. “Set about thy feyther’s coffin?”
“No, mother,” said Adam; “we’re going to take the wood to the village and have it made there.”
“Nay, my lad, nay,” Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing tone; “thee wotna let nobody make thy feyther’s coffin but thysen? Who’d make it so well? An’ him as know’d what good work war, an’s got a son as is the head o’ the village an’ all Treddles’on too, for cleverness.”
“Very well, mother, if that’s thy wish, I’ll make the coffin at home; but I thought thee wouldstna like to hear the work going on.”
“An’ why shouldna I like ’t? It’s the right thing to be done. An’ what’s liking got to do wi’t? It’s choice o’ mislikings is all I’n got i’ this world. One morsel’s as good as another when your mouth’s out o’ taste. Thee mun set about it now this mornin’ fust thing. I wonna ha’ nobody to touch the coffin but thee.”
Adam’s eyes met Seth’s, which looked from Dinah to him rather wistfully.
“No, Mother,” he said, “I’ll not consent but Seth shall have a hand in it too, if it’s to be done at home. I’ll go to the village this forenoon, because Mr. Burge ’ull want to see me, and Seth shall stay at home and begin the coffin. I can come back at noon, and then he can go.”
“Nay, nay,” persisted Lisbeth, beginning to cry, “I’n set my heart on’t as thee shalt ma’ thy feyther’s coffin. Thee’t so stiff an’ masterful, thee’t ne’er do as thy mother wants thee. Thee wast often angered wi’ thy feyther when he war alive; thee must be the better to him now he’s gone. He’d ha’ thought nothin’ on’t for Seth to ma’s coffin.”
“Say no more, Adam, say no more,” said Seth, gently, though his voice told that he spoke with some effort; “Mother’s in the right. I’ll go to work, and do thee stay at home.”
He passed into the workshop immediately, followed by Adam; while Lisbeth, automatically obeying her old habits, began to put away the breakfast things, as if she did not mean Dinah to take her place any longer. Dinah said nothing, but presently used the opportunity of quietly joining the brothers in the workshop.
They had already got on their aprons and paper caps, and Adam was standing with his left hand on Seth’s shoulder, while he pointed with the hammer in his right to some boards which they were looking at. Their backs were turned towards the door by which Dinah entered, and she came in so gently that they were not aware of her presence till they heard her voice saying, “Seth Bede!” Seth started, and they both turned round. Dinah looked as if she did not see Adam, and fixed her eyes on Seth’s face, saying with calm kindness, “I won’t say farewell. I shall see you again when you come from work. So as I’m at the farm before dark, it will be quite soon enough.”
“Thank you, Dinah; I should like to walk home with you once more. It’ll perhaps be the last time.”
There was a little tremor in Seth’s voice. Dinah put out her hand and said, “You’ll have sweet peace in your mind to-day, Seth, for your tenderness and long-suffering towards your aged mother.”
She turned round and left the workshop as quickly and quietly as she had entered it. Adam had been observing her closely all the while, but she had not looked at him. As soon as she was gone, he said, “I don’t wonder at thee for loving her, Seth. She’s got a face like a lily.”
Seth’s soul rushed to his eyes and lips: he had never yet confessed his secret to Adam, but now he felt a delicious sense of disburdenment, as he answered, “Aye, Addy, I do love her—too much, I doubt. But she doesna love me, lad, only as one child o’ God loves another. She’ll never love any man as a husband—that’s my belief.”
“Nay, lad, there’s no telling; thee mustna lose heart. She’s made out o’ stuff with a finer grain than most o’ the women; I can see that clear enough. But if she’s better than they are in other things, I canna think she’ll fall short of ’em in loving.”
No more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam began his work on the coffin.
“God help the lad, and me too,” he thought, as he lifted the board. “We’re like enough to find life a tough job—hard work inside and out. It’s a strange thing to think of a man as can lift a chair with his teeth and walk fifty mile on end, trembling and turning hot and cold at only a look from one woman out of all the rest i’ the world. It’s a mystery we can give no account of; but no more we can of the sprouting o’ the seed, for that matter.”
Chapter XII.
In the Wood.
That same Thursday morning, as Arthur Donnithorne was moving about in his dressing-room seeing his well-looking British person reflected in the old-fashioned mirrors, and stared at, from a dingy olive-green piece of tapestry, by Pharaoh’s daughter and her maidens, who ought to have been minding the infant Moses, he was holding a discussion with himself, which, by the time his valet was tying the black silk sling over his shoulder, had issued in a distinct practical resolution.
“I mean to go to Eagledale and fish for a week or so,” he said aloud. “I shall take you with me, Pym, and set off this morning; so be ready by half-past eleven.”
The low whistle, which had assisted him in arriving at this resolution, here broke out into his loudest ringing tenor, and the corridor, as he hurried along it, echoed to his favourite song from the Beggar’s Opera, “When the heart of a man is oppressed with care.” Not an heroic strain; nevertheless Arthur felt himself very heroic as he strode towards the stables to give his orders about the horses. His own approbation was necessary to him, and it was not an approbation to be enjoyed quite gratuitously; it must be won by a fair amount of merit. He had never yet forfeited that approbation, and he had considerable reliance on his own virtues. No young man could confess his faults more candidly; candour was one of his favourite virtues; and how can a man’s candour be seen in all its lustre unless he has a few failings to talk of? But he had an agreeable confidence that his faults were all of a generous kind—impetuous, warm-blooded, leonine; never crawling, crafty, reptilian. It was not possible for Arthur Donnithorne to do anything mean, dastardly, or cruel. “No! I’m a devil of a fellow for getting myself into a hobble, but I always take care the load shall fall on my own shoulders.” Unhappily, there is no inherent poetical justice in hobbles, and they will sometimes obstinately refuse to inflict their worst consequences on the prime offender, in spite of his loudly expressed wish. It was entirely owing to this deficiency in the scheme of things that Arthur had ever brought any one into trouble besides himself. He was nothing if not good-natured; and all his pictures of the future, when he should come into the estate, were made up of a prosperous, contented tenantry, adoring their landlord, who would be the model of an English gentleman—mansion in first-rate order, all elegance and high taste—jolly housekeeping, finest stud in Loamshire—purse open to all public objects—in short, everything as different as possible from what was now associated with the name of Donnithorne. And one of the first good actions he would perform in that future should be to increase Irwine’s income for the vicarage of Hayslope, so that he might keep a carriage for his mother and sisters. His hearty affection for the rector dated from the age of frocks and trousers.
