Adam Bede

ss this brook a plank is thrown, and over this plank Adam Bede is passing with his undoubting step, followed close by Gyp with the bas

ly back under a pure linen cap with a black band round it; her broad chest is covered with a buff neckerchief, and below this you see a sort of short bedgown made of blue-checkered linen, tied round the waist and descending to the hips, from whence there is a considerable length of linsey- woolsey petticoat. For Lisbeth is tall, and in other points too there is a strong likeness between her and her son Adam. Her dark eyes are somewhat dim now — perhaps from too much

adence of our own uttering the thoughts we despise; we see eyes — ah, so like our mother’s!— averted from us in cold alienation; and our last darling child startles us with the air and gestures of the sister we parted from in bitterness long years ago. The father to whom we owe our best heritage — the mechanica

, it’s gone seven by th’ clock. Thee’t allays stay till the last child’s born. Thee wa

t no harm, mother,

to the room on the left hand, which was used as a workshop. “Hasn’t he done th

h she looked at her son very anxiously. “Eh, my lad, he went aff to Treddles’on thi

s face. He said nothing, but threw off his jack

ith a tone and look of alarm. “Thee wouldstna go

old of his arm, and said, in a tone of plaintive remonstrance, “Nay, my lad, my lad, thee munna go wi’out thy supper; there

s fine talking about having supper when here’s a coffin promised to be ready at Brox’on by seven o’clock tomorro

said Lisbeth. “Thee’t work thyself to de

t a coffin? I’d work my right hand off sooner than deceive people with lies i’ that way. It m

for the next hour. But one of the lessons a woman most rarely learns is never to talk to an angry or a drunken man. Lisbeth sat down

rkin’ i’ distant parts, an’ Seth belike gone arter thee, and thy feyther not able to hold a pen for’s hand shakin’, besides not knowin’ where thee art? Thee mun forgie thy feyther — thee munna be so bitter again’ him. He war a good feyther to thee afore he took to th’ drink. He’s a clever workman, an’ taught

wail, the most irritating of all sounds where real sorrows are

as I only think too much on every day? If I didna think on ’em, why should I do as I do, for the sake o’ keeping thi

feyther, Adam. Thee think’st nothing too much to do for Seth: thee snapp’st me up if iver

uff i’ th’ yard and spend it on drink. I know there’s a duty to be done by my father, but it isn’t my duty to encourage him in running headlong

brow and ears erect, puzzled at this unusual course of things; and though he glanced at Lisbeth when she called him, and moved his fore-paws uneasily, well knowing that she was inviting him to supper, he was in a divided state of mind, and remained seated on his haunches, again fixing his eyes anxiously

command; and Gyp, apparently satisfied that duty and p

y rainy day, he had not a vixen in his eye — a fury with long nails, acrid and selfish. Depend upon it, he meant a good creature, who had no joy but in the happiness of the loved ones whom she contributed to make uncomfortable, putting by all the tid-bits for them and spending nothing on herself. Such a woman as Lisbeth, for example — a

st he called for a light and a draught of water (beer was a thing only to be drunk on holidays), a

ally kind to his mother, he fell into his strongest native accent and dialect, with which at other times his speech was less d

Seth comes. He wonna

the days, and before it had struck ten the latch was lifted and Set

d, “how is it as Fath

anoof if thy head warna full o’ chapellin’— it’s thy brother as doe

by her awe of Adam. Seth had never in his life spoken a harsh word to his mother, and timid people always wreak their peevishness on t

looking up and casting one of his bright keen glances at his b

there was a look of deep d

orne, and can’t be helped. Why, the

w can wait,” said Adam

now, and do thee go

ry it to Brox’on when it’s done. I’ll call thee up at sunrise. Go and

not to be persuaded into meaning anything else. So he t

me he’s come,” said Lisbeth. “I reckon thee’st

id Seth, “I’ve ha

’ purpose for him. An’ he’s been a-threatenin’ to go away again,” she went on, whimpering, “an’ I’m fast sure he’ll go some dawnin’ afore I’m up, an’ niver let me know aforehand, an’ he’ll niver come back again when once he’s gone. A

use for being wrathful sometimes — but his heart ’ud never let him go. Think how he’s stood by us all when it’s been none so easy — paying his savings to free me from going for a soldier, an’ turnin’ his earnin’s into wood for father, w

. An’ to think as he might ha’ Mary Burge, an’ be took partners, an’ be a big man wi’ workmen under him, like Mester Burge — Dolly’s told me so o’er and o’er again — if it war

ha’ wished myself as Adam could ha’ made another choice, but I wouldn’t reproach him for what he can’t help. And I’m not sure but what he

hy prayin’. Thee wotna get double earnin’s o’ this side Yule. Th’ Methodies ’ll nive

very man according as He sees good. But thee mustna undervally prayer. Prayer mayna bring money, but it brings us what no money can buy — a power to keep from sin and be

be unaisy as thee’st nothin’ laid up again’ a rainy day. If Adam had been as aisy as thee, he’d niver ha’ had no money to pay for thee. Take

hould be idle. They mean we shouldn’t be overanxious and worreting ourselves ab

e morrow’ means all that. An’ when the Bible’s such a big book, an’ thee canst read all thro’t, an’ ha’ the pick o’ the texes, I canna think why thee dostna pick bet

up at the stall at Treddles’on. It was wrote by a knowing man, but overworldly, I doubt. How

ee’t hardly atin’ a bit o’ supper. Dostna mean to ha’ no more nor that bit o’ oat-c

ngry. I’ll just look in at Adam again, and

erly feeling now got the better of her “nattering” h

d by this touch of tenderness, he went on: “Let me pray a bit with thee for Fathe

nothin’ to s

had a vague sense that there was some comfort and safety in the fact of his piety, and tha

t home. And when he came to the petition that Adam might never be called to set up his tent in a far country, but that his mother m

Adam again and said, “Wilt only lie down for

e Mother go to bed

the gravy in them and bits of meat which she had cut and mixed among them. Those were dear times, when wheaten bread and fresh meat were delicacies to working peop

id Adam, kindly; “I’m

ock and the ringing of Adam’s tools. The night was very still: when Adam opened the door to look out at twe

so to-night with Adam. While his muscles were working lustily, his mind seemed as passive as a spectator at a diorama: s

ce — would sit down, looking older and more tottering than he had done the morning before, and hang down his head, examining the floor- quarries; while Lisbeth would ask him how he supposed t

wonderful pigeon-house at Broxton parsonage? Those were happy days, especially when Seth, who was three years the younger, began to go out working too, and Adam began to be a teacher as well as a learner. But then came the days of sadness, when Adam was someway on in his teens, and Thias began to loiter at the public-houses, and Lisbeth began to cry at home, and to pour forth her plaints in the hearing of her sons. Adam remembered well the night of shame and anguish when he first saw his father quite wild and foolish, shouting a song out fitfully among his drunken companions at the “Waggon Overthrown.” He had run away once when he was

he infirmities of those that are weak, and not to please themselves.’ There’s a text wants no candle to show’t; it shines by its own light. It’s plain enough you get into the wrong road i’ this life if you run after this and that only for the sake o’ making things easy and pleasant to yourself. A pig may poke his nose into the trough and think o’ nothing outside it; but if

ould not help a little shudder, as he remembered how often his mother had told him of just such a sound coming as a sign when some one was dying. Adam was not a man to be gratuitously superstitious, but he had the blood of the peasant in him as well as of the artisan, and a peasant can no more help believing in a traditional superstition than a horse can help trembling when he sees a camel. Besides, he had that mental combination which is at once humble in the region of mystery and keen in the region of knowledge: it was the depth of his reverence quite as much as his hard common sense which gave him his disinclination to doctrinal religion, and he often checked Seth’s argumentati

, that other sounds, if there were any, might well be overpowered. A pause came, however, when he had to take up his ruler, and now again came the strange rap, and again Gyp

at the “Waggon Overthrown.” Besides, to Adam, the conception of the future was so inseparable from the painful image of his father that the fear of any fatal accident to him was excluded by the deeply infixed fear of h

ld about us as we can’t see, but th’ ear’s quicker than the eye and catches a sound from’t now and then. Some people think they get a sight on’t too, but they’

hone on the brass nails that formed the initials on the lid of the coffin, any lingering foreboding from the sound of the willow wand was merged in satis

ne, and we can take it over to Brox’on, and be back again before hal

ak and elm. It was a strangely mingled picture — the fresh youth of the summer morning, with its Edenlike peace and loveliness, the stalwart strength of the two brothers in their rusty working clothes, and the long coffin on their shoulders. They paused for the last time before a small farmhouse outside the village of Broxton. By six o’clock the task was done the coffin nailed down, and Adam and Seth were on their way home. They chose a shorter way homewards, which would

have more rain. It’ll be a sore time for th’ haymaking if the meadows are flooded again. The brook’s

ey now, and had entered the past

se to his mouth: the vague anxiety about his father was changed into a great dread. He made no answer to

death! This was the first thought that flashed through Adam’s conscience, before he had time to seize the coat and drag out the tall heavy body. Seth was already by his side, helping him, and when they had it on the bank,

d, in a loud whisper. “I’ll

on the fire. Her kitchen always looked the pink of cleanliness, but this morning she was mo

oor Bob Tholer in’t. Howiver, I’ve made a drap more porridge nor common this mornin’. The feyther ’ull happen come in arter a bit. Not as he’ll ate much porridge. He swallers sixpenn’orth o’ ale, an’ saves a

urning quickly towards the door, she saw Adam enter, looking so pale and overwhe

’s tumbled into the water. Belike we may bring him round again. Seth and

here was no other way of repressing his mother’s impetuous wailing g

on the boys before whom Thias had lived to hang his head in shame. Seth’s chief feeling was awe and distress at this sudden snatching away of his father’s soul; but Adam’s