A new light had broken in on Seth. He turned round, and laying his hand on Adam’s shoulder, said, “Why, wouldst like her to marry thee, Brother?”
Adam looked doubtfully at Seth’s inquiring eyes and said, “Wouldst be hurt if she was to be fonder o’ me than o’ thee?”
“Nay,” said Seth warmly, “how canst think it? Have I felt thy trouble so little that I shouldna feel thy joy?”
There was silence a few moments as they walked on, and then Seth said, “I’d no notion as thee’dst ever think of her for a wife.”
“But is it o’ any use to think of her?” said Adam. “What dost say? Mother’s made me as I hardly know where I am, with what she’s been saying to me this forenoon. She says she’s sure Dinah feels for me more than common, and ’ud be willing t’ have me. But I’m afraid she speaks without book. I want to know if thee’st seen anything.”
“It’s a nice point to speak about,” said Seth, “and I’m afraid o’ being wrong; besides, we’ve no right t’ intermeddle with people’s feelings when they wouldn’t tell ’em themselves.”
Seth paused.
“But thee mightst ask her,” he said presently. “She took no offence at me for asking, and thee’st more right than I had, only thee’t not in the Society. But Dinah doesn’t hold wi’ them as are for keeping the Society so strict to themselves. She doesn’t mind about making folks enter the Society, so as they’re fit t’ enter the kingdom o’ God. Some o’ the brethren at Treddles’on are displeased with her for that.”
“Where will she be the rest o’ the day?” said Adam.
“She said she shouldn’t leave the farm again to-day,” said Seth, “because it’s her last Sabbath there, and she’s going t’ read out o’ the big Bible wi’ the children.”
Adam thought—but did not say—“Then I’ll go this afternoon; for if I go to church, my thoughts ’ull be with her all the while. They must sing th’ anthem without me to-day.”
Chapter IV.
Adam and Dinah.
It was about three o’clock when Adam entered the farmyard and roused Alick and the dogs from their Sunday dozing. Alick said everybody was gone to church “but th’ young missis”—so he called Dinah—but this did not disappoint Adam, although the “everybody” was so liberal as to include Nancy the dairymaid, whose works of necessity were not unfrequently incompatible with church-going.
There was perfect stillness about the house. The doors were all closed, and the very stones and tubs seemed quieter than usual. Adam heard the water gently dripping from the pump—that was the only sound—and he knocked at the house door rather softly, as was suitable in that stillness.
The door opened, and Dinah stood before him, colouring deeply with the great surprise of seeing Adam at this hour, when she knew it was his regular practice to be at church. Yesterday he would have said to her without any difficulty, “I came to see you, Dinah: I knew the rest were not at home.” But to-day something prevented him from saying that, and he put out his hand to her in silence. Neither of them spoke, and yet both wished they could speak, as Adam entered, and they sat down. Dinah took the chair she had just left; it was at the corner of the table near the window, and there was a book lying on the table, but it was not open. She had been sitting perfectly still, looking at the small bit of clear fire in the bright grate. Adam sat down opposite her, in Mr. Poyser’s three-cornered chair.
“Your mother is not ill again, I hope, Adam?” Dinah said, recovering herself. “Seth said she was well this morning.”
“No, she’s very hearty to-day,” said Adam, happy in the signs of Dinah’s feeling at the sight of him, but shy.
“There’s nobody at home, you see,” Dinah said; “but you’ll wait. You’ve been hindered from going to church to-day, doubtless.”
“Yes,” Adam said, and then paused, before he added, “I was thinking about you: that was the reason.”
This confession was very awkward and sudden, Adam felt, for he thought Dinah must understand all he meant. But the frankness of the words caused her immediately to interpret them into a renewal of his brotherly regrets that she was going away, and she answered calmly, “Do not be careful and troubled for me, Adam. I have all things and abound at Snowfield. And my mind is at rest, for I am not seeking my own will in going.”
“But if things were different, Dinah,” said Adam, hesitatingly. “If you knew things that perhaps you don’t know now….”
Dinah looked at him inquiringly, but instead of going on, he reached a chair and brought it near the corner of the table where she was sitting. She wondered, and was afraid—and the next moment her thoughts flew to the past: was it something about those distant unhappy ones that she didn’t know?
Adam looked at her. It was so sweet to look at her eyes, which had now a self-forgetful questioning in them—for a moment he forgot that he wanted to say anything, or that it was necessary to tell her what he meant.
“Dinah,” he said suddenly, taking both her hands between his, “I love you with my whole heart and soul. I love you next to God who made me.”
Dinah’s lips became pale, like her cheeks, and she trembled violently under the shock of painful joy. Her hands were cold as death between Adam’s. She could not draw them away, because he held them fast.
“Don’t tell me you can’t love me, Dinah. Don’t tell me we must part and pass our lives away from one another.”
The tears were trembling in Dinah’s eyes, and they fell before she could answer. But she spoke in a quiet low voice.
“Yes, dear Adam, we must submit to another Will. We must part.”
“Not if you love me, Dinah—not if you love me,” Adam said passionately. “Tell me—tell me if you can love me better than a brother?”
Dinah was too entirely reliant on the Supreme guidance to attempt to achieve any end by a deceptive concealment. She was recovering now from the first shock of emotion, and she looked at Adam with simple sincere eyes as she said, “Yes, Adam, my heart is drawn strongly towards you; and of my own will, if I had no clear showing to the contrary, I could find my happiness in being near you and ministering to you continually. I fear I should forget to rejoice and weep with others; nay, I fear I should forget the Divine presence, and seek no love but yours.”
Adam did not speak immediately. They sat looking at each other in delicious silence—for the first sense of mutual love excludes other feelings; it will have the soul all to itself.
“Then, Dinah,” Adam said at last, “how can there be anything contrary to what’s right in our belonging to one another and spending our lives together? Who put this great love into our hearts? Can anything be holier than that? For we can help one another in everything as is good. I’d never think o’ putting myself between you and God, and saying you oughtn’t to do this and you oughtn’t to do that. You’d follow your conscience as much as you do now.”
“Yes, Adam,” Dinah said, “I know marriage is a holy state for those who are truly called to it, and have no other drawing; but from my childhood upwards I have been led towards another path; all my peace and my joy have come from having no life of my own, no wants, no wishes for myself, and living only in God and those of his creatures whose sorrows and joys he has given me to know. Those have been very blessed years to me, and I feel that if I was to listen to any voice that would draw me aside from that path, I should be turning my back on the light that has shone upon