Chapter XVII

by George Eliot

　　While Silas and Eppie were seated on the bank discoursing in thefleckered shade of the ash tree, Miss Priscilla Lammeter wasresisting her sister's arguments, that it would be better to taketea at the Red House, and let her father have a long nap, than drivehome to the Warrens so soon after dinner. The family party (of fouronly) were seated round the table in the dark wainscoted parlour,with the Sunday dessert before them, of fresh filberts, apples, andpears, duly ornamented with leaves by Nancy's own hand before thebells had rung for church.A great change has come over the dark wainscoted parlour since wesaw it in Godfrey's bachelor days, and under the wifeless reign ofthe old Squire. Now all is polish, on which no yesterday's dust isever allowed to rest, from the yard's width of oaken boards roundthe carpet, to the old Squire's gun and whips and walking-sticks,ranged on the stag's antlers above the mantelpiece. All other signsof sporting and outdoor occupation Nancy has removed to anotherroom; but she has brought into the Red House the habit of filialreverence, and preserves sacredly in a place of honour these relicsof her husband's departed father. The tankards are on theside-table still, but the bossed silver is undimmed by handling, andthere are no dregs to send forth unpleasant suggestions: the onlyprevailing scent is of the lavender and rose-leaves that fill thevases of Derbyshire spar. All is purity and order in this oncedreary room, for, fifteen years ago, it was entered by a newpresiding spirit."Now, father," said Nancy, "is there any call for you to gohome to tea? Mayn't you just as well stay with us?--such abeautiful evening as it's likely to be."The old gentleman had been talking with Godfrey about the increasingpoor-rate and the ruinous times, and had not heard the dialoguebetween his daughters."My dear, you must ask Priscilla," he said, in the once firmvoice, now become rather broken. "She manages me and the farmtoo.""And reason good as I should manage you, father," said Priscilla,"else you'd be giving yourself your death with rheumatism. And asfor the farm, if anything turns out wrong, as it can't but do inthese times, there's nothing kills a man so soon as having nobody tofind fault with but himself. It's a deal the best way o' beingmaster, to let somebody else do the ordering, and keep the blamingin your own hands. It 'ud save many a man a stroke, I believe.""Well, well, my dear," said her father, with a quiet laugh, "Ididn't say you don't manage for everybody's good.""Then manage so as you may stay tea, Priscilla," said Nancy,putting her hand on her sister's arm affectionately. "Come now;and we'll go round the garden while father has his nap.""My dear child, he'll have a beautiful nap in the gig, for I shalldrive. And as for staying tea, I can't hear of it; for there's thisdairymaid, now she knows she's to be married, turned Michaelmas,she'd as lief pour the new milk into the pig-trough as into thepans. That's the way with 'em all: it's as if they thought theworld 'ud be new-made because they're to be married. So come andlet me put my bonnet on, and there'll be time for us to walk roundthe garden while the horse is being put in."When the sisters were treading the neatly-swept garden-walks,between the bright turf that contrasted pleasantly with the darkcones and arches and wall-like hedges of yew, Priscilla said--"I'm as glad as anything at your husband's making that exchange o'land with cousin Osgood, and beginning the dairying. It's athousand pities you didn't do it before; for it'll give yousomething to fill your mind. There's nothing like a dairy if folkswant a bit o' worrit to make the days pass. For as for rubbingfurniture, when you can once see your face in a table there'snothing else to look for; but there's always something fresh withthe dairy; for even in the depths o' winter there's some pleasure inconquering the butter, and making it come whether or no. My dear,"added Priscilla, pressing her sister's hand affectionately as theywalked side by side, "you'll never be low when you've got adairy.""Ah, Priscilla," said Nancy, returning the pressure with agrateful glance of her clear eyes, "but it won't make up toGodfrey: a dairy's not so much to a man. And it's only what hecares for that ever makes me low. I'm contented with the blessingswe have, if he could be contented.""It drives me past patience," said Priscilla, impetuously, "thatway o' the men--always wanting and wanting, and never easy withwhat they've got: they can't sit comfortable in their chairs whenthey've neither ache nor pain, but either they must stick a pipe intheir mouths, to make 'em better than well, or else they must beswallowing something strong, though they're forced to make hastebefore the next meal comes in. But joyful be it spoken, our fatherwas never that sort o' man. And if it had pleased God to make youugly, like me, so as the men wouldn't ha' run after you, we mighthave kept to our own family, and had nothing to do with folks ashave got uneasy blood in their veins.""Oh, don't say so, Priscilla," said Nancy, repenting that she hadcalled forth this outburst; "nobody has any occasion to find faultwith Godfrey. It's natural he should be disappointed at not havingany children: every man likes to have somebody to work for and layby for, and he always counted so on making a fuss with 'em when theywere little. There's many another man 'ud hanker more than he does.He's the best of husbands.""Oh, I know," said Priscilla, smiling sarcastically, "I know theway o' wives; they set one on to abuse their husbands, and then theyturn round on one and praise 'em as if they wanted to sell 'em. Butfather'll be waiting for me; we must turn now."The large gig with the steady old grey was at the front door, andMr. Lammeter was already on the stone steps, passing the time inrecalling to Godfrey what very fine points Speckle had when hismaster used to ride him."I always would have a good horse, you know," said the oldgentleman, not liking that spirited time to be quite effaced fromthe memory of his juniors."Mind you bring Nancy to the Warrens before the week's out,Mr. Cass," was Priscilla's parting injunction, as she took thereins, and shook them gently, by way of friendly incitement toSpeckle."I shall just take a turn to the fields against the Stone-pits,Nancy, and look at the draining," said Godfrey."You'll be in again by tea-time, dear?""Oh, yes, I shall be back in an hour."It was Godfrey's custom on a Sunday afternoon to do a littlecontemplative farming in a leisurely walk. Nancy seldom accompaniedhim; for the women of her generation--unless, like Priscilla, theytook to outdoor management--were not given to much walking beyondtheir own house and garden, finding sufficient exercise in domesticduties. So, when Priscilla was not with her, she usually sat withMant's Bible before her, and after following the text with her eyesfor a little while, she would gradually permit them to wander as herthoughts had already insisted on wandering.But Nancy's Sunday thoughts were rarely quite out of keeping withthe devout and reverential intention implied by the book spread openbefore her. She was not theologically instructed enough to discernvery clearly the relation between the sacred documents of the pastwhich she opened without method, and her own obscure, simple life;but the spirit of rectitude, and the sense of responsibility for theeffect of her conduct on others, which were strong elements inNancy's character, had made it a habit with her to scrutinize herpast feelings and actions with self-questioning solicitude. Hermind not being courted by a great variety of subjects, she filledthe vacant moments by living inwardly, again and again, through allher remembered experience, especially through the fifteen years ofher married time, in which her life and its significance had beendoubled. She recalled the small details, the words, tones, andlooks, in the critical scenes which had opened a new epoch for herby giving her a deeper insight into the relations and trials oflife, or which had called on her for some little effort offorbearance, or of painful adherence to an imagined or real duty--asking herself continually whether she had been in any respectblamable. This excessive rumination and self-questioning is perhapsa morbid habit inevitable to a mind of much moral sensibility whenshut out from its due share of outward activity and of practicalclaims on its affections--inevitable to a noble-hearted, childlesswoman, when her lot is narrow. "I can do so little--have I doneit all well?" is the perpetually recurring thought; and there areno voices calling her away from that soliloquy, no peremptorydemands to divert energy from vain regret or superfluous scruple.There was one main thread of painful experience in Nancy's marriedlife, and on it hung certain deeply-felt scenes, which were theoftenest revived in retrospect. The short dialogue with Priscillain the garden had determined the current of retrospect in thatfrequent direction this particular Sunday afternoon. The firstwandering of her thought from the text, which she still attempteddutifully to follow with her eyes and silent lips, was into animaginary enlargement of the defence she had set up for her husbandagainst Priscilla's implied blame. The vindication of the lovedobject is the best balm affection can find for its wounds:--"Aman must have so much on his mind," is the belief by which a wifeoften supports a cheerful face under rough answers and unfeelingwords. And Nancy's deepest wounds had all come from the perceptionthat the absence of children from their hearth was dwelt on in herhusband's mind as a privation to which he could not reconcilehimself.Yet sweet Nancy might have been expected to feel still more keenlythe denial of a blessing to which she had looked forward with allthe varied expectations and preparations, solemn and prettilytrivial, which fill the mind of a loving woman when she expects tobecome a mother. Was there not a drawer filled with the neat workof her hands, all unworn and untouched, just as she had arranged itthere fourteen years ago--just, but for one little dress, whichhad been made the burial-dress? But under this immediate personaltrial Nancy was so firmly unmurmuring, that years ago she hadsuddenly renounced the habit of visiting this drawer, lest sheshould in this way be cherishing a longing for what was not given.Perhaps it was this very severity towards any indulgence of what sheheld to be sinful regret in herself, that made her shrink fromapplying her own standard to her husband. "It is very different--it is much worse for a man to be disappointed in that way: a womancan always be satisfied with devoting herself to her husband, but aman wants something that will make him look forward more--andsitting by the fire is so much duller to him than to a woman." Andalways, when Nancy reached this point in her meditations--trying,with predetermined sympathy, to see everything as Godfrey saw it--there came a renewal of self-questioning. Had she done everythingin her power to lighten Godfrey's privation? Had she really beenright in the resistance which had cost her so much pain six yearsago, and again four years ago--the resistance to her husband'swish that they should adopt a child? Adoption was more remote fromthe ideas and habits of that time than of our own; still Nancy hadher opinion on it. It was as necessary to her mind to have anopinion on all topics, not exclusively masculine, that had comeunder her notice, as for her to have a precisely marked place forevery article of her personal property: and her opinions were alwaysprinciples to be unwaveringly acted on. They were firm, not becauseof their basis, but because she held them with a tenacityinseparable from her mental action. On all the duties andproprieties of life, from filial behaviour to the arrangements ofthe evening toilette, pretty Nancy Lammeter, by the time she wasthree-and-twenty, had her unalterable little code, and had formedevery one of her habits in strict accordance with that code. Shecarried these decided judgments within her in the most unobtrusiveway: they rooted themselves in her mind, and grew there as quietlyas grass. Years ago, we know, she insisted on dressing likePriscilla, because "it was right for sisters to dress alike", andbecause "she would do what was right if she wore a gown dyed withcheese-colouring". That was a trivial but typical instance of themode in which Nancy's life was regulated.It was one of those rigid principles, and no petty egoistic feeling,which had been the ground of Nancy's difficult resistance to herhusband's wish. To adopt a child, because children of your own hadbeen denied you, was to try and choose your lot in spite ofProvidence: the adopted child, she was convinced, would never turnout well, and would be a curse to those who had wilfully andrebelliously sought what it was clear that, for some high reason,they were better without. When you saw a thing was not meant to be,said Nancy, it was a bounden duty to leave off so much as wishingfor it. And so far, perhaps, the wisest of men could scarcely makemore than a verbal improvement in her principle. But the conditionsunder which she held it apparent that a thing was not meant to be,depended on a more peculiar mode of thinking. She would have givenup making a purchase at a particular place if, on three successivetimes, rain, or some other cause of Heaven's sending, had formed anobstacle; and she would have anticipated a broken limb or otherheavy misfortune to any one who persisted in spite of suchindications."But why should you think the child would turn out ill?" saidGodfrey, in his remonstrances. "She has thriven as well as childcan do with the weaver; and he adopted her. There isn't such apretty little girl anywhere else in the parish, or one fitter forthe station we could give her. Where can be the likelihood of herbeing a curse to anybody?""Yes, my dear Godfrey," said Nancy, who was sitting with her handstightly clasped together, and with yearning, regretful affection inher eyes. "The child may not turn out ill with the weaver. But,then, he didn't go to seek her, as we should be doing. It will bewrong: I feel sure it will. Don't you remember what that lady wemet at the Royston Baths told us about the child her sister adopted?That was the only adopting I ever heard of: and the child wastransported when it was twenty-three. Dear Godfrey, don't ask me todo what I know is wrong: I should never be happy again. I know it'svery hard for you--it's easier for me--but it's the will ofProvidence."It might seem singular that Nancy--with her religious theorypieced together out of narrow social traditions, fragments of churchdoctrine imperfectly understood, and girlish reasonings on her smallexperience--should have arrived by herself at a way of thinking sonearly akin to that of many devout people, whose beliefs are held inthe shape of a system quite remote from her knowledge--singular,if we did not know that human beliefs, like all other naturalgrowths, elude the barriers of system.Godfrey had from the first specified Eppie, then about twelve yearsold, as a child suitable for them to adopt. It had never occurredto him that Silas would rather part with his life than with Eppie.Surely the weaver would wish the best to the child he had taken somuch trouble with, and would be glad that such good fortune shouldhappen to her: she would always be very grateful to him, and hewould be well provided for to the end of his life--provided for asthe excellent part he had done by the child deserved. Was it not anappropriate thing for people in a higher station to take a chargeoff the hands of a man in a lower? It seemed an eminentlyappropriate thing to Godfrey, for reasons that were known only tohimself; and by a common fallacy, he imagined the measure would beeasy because he had private motives for desiring it. This wasrather a coarse mode of estimating Silas's relation to Eppie; but wemust remember that many of the impressions which Godfrey was likelyto gather concerning the labouring people around him would favourthe idea that deep affections can hardly go along with callous palmsand scant means; and he had not had the opportunity, even if he hadhad the power, of entering intimately into all that was exceptionalin the weaver's experience. It was only the want of adequateknowledge that could have made it possible for Godfrey deliberatelyto entertain an unfeeling project: his natural kindness had outlivedthat blighting time of cruel wishes, and Nancy's praise of him as ahusband was not founded entirely on a wilful illusion."I was right," she said to herself, when she had recalled alltheir scenes of discussion--"I feel I was right to say him nay,though it hurt me more than anything; but how good Godfrey has beenabout it! Many men would have been very angry with me for standingout against their wishes; and they might have thrown out that they'dhad ill-luck in marrying me; but Godfrey has never been the man tosay me an unkind word. It's only what he can't hide: everythingseems so blank to him, I know; and the land--what a difference it'ud make to him, when he goes to see after things, if he'd childrengrowing up that he was doing it all for! But I won't murmur; andperhaps if he'd married a woman who'd have had children, she'd havevexed him in other ways."This possibility was Nancy's chief comfort; and to give it greaterstrength, she laboured to make it impossible that any other wifeshould have had more perfect tenderness. She had been forced tovex him by that one denial. Godfrey was not insensible to herloving effort, and did Nancy no injustice as to the motives of herobstinacy. It was impossible to have lived with her fifteen yearsand not be aware that an unselfish clinging to the right, and asincerity clear as the flower-born dew, were her maincharacteristics; indeed, Godfrey felt this so strongly, that his ownmore wavering nature, too averse to facing difficulty to beunvaryingly simple and truthful, was kept in a certain awe of thisgentle wife who watched his looks with a yearning to obey them. Itseemed to him impossible that he should ever confess to her thetruth about Eppie: she would never recover from the repulsion thestory of his earlier marriage would create, told to her now, afterthat long concealment. And the child, too, he thought, must becomean object of repulsion: the very sight of her would be painful. Theshock to Nancy's mingled pride and ignorance of the world's evilmight even be too much for her delicate frame. Since he had marriedher with that secret on his heart, he must keep it there to thelast. Whatever else he did, he could not make an irreparable breachbetween himself and this long-loved wife.Meanwhile, why could he not make up his mind to the absence ofchildren from a hearth brightened by such a wife? Why did his mindfly uneasily to that void, as if it were the sole reason why lifewas not thoroughly joyous to him? I suppose it is the way with allmen and women who reach middle age without the clear perception thatlife never can be thoroughly joyous: under the vague dullness ofthe grey hours, dissatisfaction seeks a definite object, and findsit in the privation of an untried good. Dissatisfaction seatedmusingly on a childless hearth, thinks with envy of the father whosereturn is greeted by young voices--seated at the meal where thelittle heads rise one above another like nursery plants, it sees ablack care hovering behind every one of them, and thinks theimpulses by which men abandon freedom, and seek for ties, are surelynothing but a brief madness. In Godfrey's case there were furtherreasons why his thoughts should be continually solicited by this onepoint in his lot: his conscience, never thoroughly easy about Eppie,now gave his childless home the aspect of a retribution; and as thetime passed on, under Nancy's refusal to adopt her, any retrieval ofhis error became more and more difficult.On this Sunday afternoon it was already four years since there hadbeen any allusion to the subject between them, and Nancy supposedthat it was for ever buried."I wonder if he'll mind it less or more as he gets older," shethought; "I'm afraid more. Aged people feel the miss of children:what would father do without Priscilla? And if I die, Godfrey willbe very lonely--not holding together with his brothers much. ButI won't be over-anxious, and trying to make things out beforehand: Imust do my best for the present."With that last thought Nancy roused herself from her reverie, andturned her eyes again towards the forsaken page. It had beenforsaken longer than she imagined, for she was presently surprisedby the appearance of the servant with the tea-things. It was, infact, a little before the usual time for tea; but Jane had herreasons."Is your master come into the yard, Jane?""No 'm, he isn't," said Jane, with a slight emphasis, of which,however, her mistress took no notice."I don't know whether you've seen 'em, 'm," continued Jane, aftera pause, "but there's folks making haste all one way, afore thefront window. I doubt something's happened. There's niver a man tobe seen i' the yard, else I'd send and see. I've been up into thetop attic, but there's no seeing anything for trees. I hopenobody's hurt, that's all.""Oh, no, I daresay there's nothing much the matter," said Nancy."It's perhaps Mr. Snell's bull got out again, as he did before.""I wish he mayn't gore anybody then, that's all," said Jane, notaltogether despising a hypothesis which covered a few imaginarycalamities."That girl is always terrifying me," thought Nancy; "I wishGodfrey would come in."She went to the front window and looked as far as she could seealong the road, with an uneasiness which she felt to be childish,for there were now no such signs of excitement as Jane had spokenof, and Godfrey would not be likely to return by the village road,but by the fields. She continued to stand, however, looking at theplacid churchyard with the long shadows of the gravestones acrossthe bright green hillocks, and at the glowing autumn colours of theRectory trees beyond. Before such calm external beauty the presenceof a vague fear is more distinctly felt--like a raven flapping itsslow wing across the sunny air. Nancy wished more and more thatGodfrey would come in.