“I know thee couldst do better wi’out me, for thee couldst go where thee likedst an’ marry them as thee likedst. But I donna want to say thee nay, let thee bring home who thee wut; I’d ne’er open my lips to find faut, for when folks is old an’ o’ no use, they may think theirsens well off to get the bit an’ the sup, though they’n to swallow ill words wi’t. An’ if thee’st set thy heart on a lass as’ll bring thee nought and waste all, when thee mightst ha’ them as ’ud make a man on thee, I’ll say nought, now thy feyther’s dead an’ drownded, for I’m no better nor an old haft when the blade’s gone.”
Adam, unable to bear this any longer, rose silently from the bench and walked out of the workshop into the kitchen. But Lisbeth followed him.
“Thee wutna go upstairs an’ see thy feyther then? I’n done everythin’ now, an’ he’d like thee to go an’ look at him, for he war allays so pleased when thee wast mild to him.”
Adam turned round at once and said, “Yes, mother; let us go upstairs. Come, Seth, let us go together.”
They went upstairs, and for five minutes all was silence. Then the key was turned again, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. But Adam did not come down again; he was too weary and worn-out to encounter more of his mother’s querulous grief, and he went to rest on his bed. Lisbeth no sooner entered the kitchen and sat down than she threw her apron over her head, and began to cry and moan and rock herself as before. Seth thought, “She will be quieter by and by, now we have been upstairs”; and he went into the back kitchen again, to tend his little fire, hoping that he should presently induce her to have some tea.
Lisbeth had been rocking herself in this way for more than five minutes, giving a low moan with every forward movement of her body, when she suddenly felt a hand placed gently on hers, and a sweet treble voice said to her, “Dear sister, the Lord has sent me to see if I can be a comfort to you.”
Lisbeth paused, in a listening attitude, without removing her apron from her face. The voice was strange to her. Could it be her sister’s spirit come back to her from the dead after all those years? She trembled and dared not look.
Dinah, believing that this pause of wonder was in itself a relief for the sorrowing woman, said no more just yet, but quietly took off her bonnet, and then, motioning silence to Seth, who, on hearing her voice, had come in with a beating heart, laid one hand on the back of Lisbeth’s chair and leaned over her, that she might be aware of a friendly presence.
Slowly Lisbeth drew down her apron, and timidly she opened her dim dark eyes. She saw nothing at first but a face—a pure, pale face, with loving grey eyes, and it was quite unknown to her. Her wonder increased; perhaps it was an angel. But in the same instant Dinah had laid her hand on Lisbeth’s again, and the old woman looked down at it. It was a much smaller hand than her own, but it was not white and delicate, for Dinah had never worn a glove in her life, and her hand bore the traces of labour from her childhood upwards. Lisbeth looked earnestly at the hand for a moment, and then, fixing her eyes again on Dinah’s face, said, with something of restored courage, but in a tone of surprise, “Why, ye’re a workin’ woman!”
“Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and I work in the cotton-mill when I am at home.”
“Ah!” said Lisbeth slowly, still wondering; “ye comed in so light, like the shadow on the wall, an’ spoke i’ my ear, as I thought ye might be a sperrit. Ye’ve got a’most the face o’ one as is a-sittin’ on the grave i’ Adam’s new Bible.”
“I come from the Hall Farm now. You know Mrs. Poyser—she’s my aunt, and she has heard of your great affliction, and is very sorry; and I’m come to see if I can be any help to you in your trouble; for I know your sons Adam and Seth, and I know you have no daughter; and when the clergyman told me how the hand of God was heavy upon you, my heart went out towards you, and I felt a command to come and be to you in the place of a daughter in this grief, if you will let me.”
“Ah! I know who y’ are now; y’ are a Methody, like Seth; he’s tould me on you,” said Lisbeth fretfully, her overpowering sense of pain returning, now her wonder was gone. “Ye’ll make it out as trouble’s a good thing, like he allays does. But where’s the use o’ talkin’ to me a-that’n? Ye canna make the smart less wi’ talkin’. Ye’ll ne’er make me believe as it’s better for me not to ha’ my old man die in’s bed, if he must die, an’ ha’ the parson to pray by him, an’ me to sit by him, an’ tell him ne’er to mind th’ ill words I’ve gi’en him sometimes when I war angered, an’ to gi’ him a bit an’ a sup, as long as a bit an’ a sup he’d swallow. But eh! To die i’ the cold water, an’ us close to him, an’ ne’er to know; an’ me a-sleepin’, as if I ne’er belonged to him no more nor if he’d been a journeyman tramp from nobody knows where!”
Here Lisbeth began to cry and rock herself again; and Dinah said, “Yes, dear friend, your affliction is great. It would be hardness of heart to say that your trouble was not heavy to bear. God didn’t send me to you to make light of your sorrow, but to mourn with you, if you will let me. If you had a table spread for a feast, and was making merry with your friends, you would think it was kind to let me come and sit down and rejoice with you, because you’d think I should like to share those good things; but I should like better to share in your trouble and your labour, and it would seem harder to me if you denied me that. You won’t send me away? You’re not angry with me for coming?”
“Nay, nay; angered! who said I war angered? It war good on you to come. An’ Seth, why donna ye get her some tay? Ye war in a hurry to get some for me, as had no need, but ye donna think o’ gettin’ ’t for them as wants it. Sit ye down; sit ye down. I thank you kindly for comin’, for it’s little wage ye get by walkin’ through the wet fields to see an old woman like me….Nay, I’n got no daughter o’ my own—ne’er had one—an’ I warna sorry, for they’re poor queechy things, gells is; I allays wanted to ha’ lads, as could fend for theirsens. An’ the lads ’ull be marryin’—I shall ha’ daughters eno’, an’ too many. But now, do ye make the tay as ye like it, for I’n got no taste i’ my mouth this day—it’s all one what I swaller—it’s all got the taste o’ sorrow wi’t.”
Dinah took care not to betray that she had had her tea, and accepted Lisbeth’s invitation very readily, for the sake of persuading the old woman herself to take the food and drink she so much needed after a day of hard work and fasting.
Seth was so happy now Dinah was in the house that he could not help thinking her presence was worth purchasing with a life in which grief incessantly followed upon grief; but the next moment he reproached himself—it was almost as if he were rejoicing in his father’s sad death. Nevertheless the joy of being with Dinah would triumph—it was like the influence of climate, which no resistance can overcome. And the feeling even suffused itself over his face so as to attract his mother’s notice, while she was drinking her tea.
“Thee may’st well talk o’ trouble bein’ a good thing, Seth, for thee thriv’st on’t. Thee look’st as if thee know’dst no more o’ care an’ cumber nor when thee wast a babby a-lyin’ awake i’ th’ cradle. For thee’dst allays lie still wi’ thy eyes open, an’ Adam ne’er ’ud lie still a minute when he wakened. Thee wast allays like a bag o’ meal as can ne’er be bruised—though, for the matter o’ that, thy poor feyther war just such another. But ye’ve got the same look too” (here Lisbeth turned to Dinah). “I reckon it’s wi’ bein’ a Methody. Not as I’m a-findin’ faut wi’ ye for’t, for ye’ve no call to be frettin’, an’ somehow ye looken sorry too. Eh! Well, if the Methodies are fond o’ trouble, they’re like to thrive: it’s a pity they canna ha’t all, an’