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diff --git a/old/550-0.txt b/old/550-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 466a387..0000000 --- a/old/550-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7370 +0,0 @@ - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Silas Marner, by George Eliot - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Silas Marner - The Weaver of Raveloe - -Author: George Eliot - -Release Date: June, 1996 [EBook #550] -Last updated: November 12, 2019 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SILAS MARNER *** - -cover - - - - -Silas Marner - -The Weaver of Raveloe - -by George Eliot - -(Mary Anne Evans) - -1861 - -“A child, more than all other gifts -That earth can offer to declining man, -Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts.” -—WORDSWORTH. - -Contents - - PART ONE. - CHAPTER I. - CHAPTER II. - CHAPTER III. - CHAPTER IV. - CHAPTER V. - CHAPTER VI. - CHAPTER VII. - CHAPTER VIII. - CHAPTER IX. - CHAPTER X. - CHAPTER XI. - CHAPTER XII. - CHAPTER XIII. - CHAPTER XIV. - CHAPTER XV. - - PART TWO. - CHAPTER XVI. - CHAPTER XVII. - CHAPTER XVIII. - CHAPTER XIX. - CHAPTER XX. - CHAPTER XI. - CONCLUSION - - - - -PART I. - -CHAPTER I. - - -In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the -farmhouses—and even great ladies, clothed in silk and thread-lace, had -their toy spinning-wheels of polished oak—there might be seen in -districts far away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, -certain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the brawny -country-folk, looked like the remnants of a disinherited race. The -shepherd’s dog barked fiercely when one of these alien-looking men -appeared on the upland, dark against the early winter sunset; for what -dog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag?—and these pale men rarely -stirred abroad without that mysterious burden. The shepherd himself, -though he had good reason to believe that the bag held nothing but -flaxen thread, or else the long rolls of strong linen spun from that -thread, was not quite sure that this trade of weaving, indispensable -though it was, could be carried on entirely without the help of the -Evil One. In that far-off time superstition clung easily round every -person or thing that was at all unwonted, or even intermittent and -occasional merely, like the visits of the pedlar or the knife-grinder. -No one knew where wandering men had their homes or their origin; and -how was a man to be explained unless you at least knew somebody who -knew his father and mother? To the peasants of old times, the world -outside their own direct experience was a region of vagueness and -mystery: to their untravelled thought a state of wandering was a -conception as dim as the winter life of the swallows that came back -with the spring; and even a settler, if he came from distant parts, -hardly ever ceased to be viewed with a remnant of distrust, which would -have prevented any surprise if a long course of inoffensive conduct on -his part had ended in the commission of a crime; especially if he had -any reputation for knowledge, or showed any skill in handicraft. All -cleverness, whether in the rapid use of that difficult instrument the -tongue, or in some other art unfamiliar to villagers, was in itself -suspicious: honest folk, born and bred in a visible manner, were mostly -not overwise or clever—at least, not beyond such a matter as knowing -the signs of the weather; and the process by which rapidity and -dexterity of any kind were acquired was so wholly hidden, that they -partook of the nature of conjuring. In this way it came to pass that -those scattered linen-weavers—emigrants from the town into the -country—were to the last regarded as aliens by their rustic neighbours, -and usually contracted the eccentric habits which belong to a state of -loneliness. - -In the early years of this century, such a linen-weaver, named Silas -Marner, worked at his vocation in a stone cottage that stood among the -nutty hedgerows near the village of Raveloe, and not far from the edge -of a deserted stone-pit. The questionable sound of Silas’s loom, so -unlike the natural cheerful trotting of the winnowing-machine, or the -simpler rhythm of the flail, had a half-fearful fascination for the -Raveloe boys, who would often leave off their nutting or birds’-nesting -to peep in at the window of the stone cottage, counterbalancing a -certain awe at the mysterious action of the loom, by a pleasant sense -of scornful superiority, drawn from the mockery of its alternating -noises, along with the bent, tread-mill attitude of the weaver. But -sometimes it happened that Marner, pausing to adjust an irregularity in -his thread, became aware of the small scoundrels, and, though chary of -his time, he liked their intrusion so ill that he would descend from -his loom, and, opening the door, would fix on them a gaze that was -always enough to make them take to their legs in terror. For how was it -possible to believe that those large brown protuberant eyes in Silas -Marner’s pale face really saw nothing very distinctly that was not -close to them, and not rather that their dreadful stare could dart -cramp, or rickets, or a wry mouth at any boy who happened to be in the -rear? They had, perhaps, heard their fathers and mothers hint that -Silas Marner could cure folks’ rheumatism if he had a mind, and add, -still more darkly, that if you could only speak the devil fair enough, -he might save you the cost of the doctor. Such strange lingering echoes -of the old demon-worship might perhaps even now be caught by the -diligent listener among the grey-haired peasantry; for the rude mind -with difficulty associates the ideas of power and benignity. A shadowy -conception of power that by much persuasion can be induced to refrain -from inflicting harm, is the shape most easily taken by the sense of -the Invisible in the minds of men who have always been pressed close by -primitive wants, and to whom a life of hard toil has never been -illuminated by any enthusiastic religious faith. To them pain and -mishap present a far wider range of possibilities than gladness and -enjoyment: their imagination is almost barren of the images that feed -desire and hope, but is all overgrown by recollections that are a -perpetual pasture to fear. “Is there anything you can fancy that you -would like to eat?” I once said to an old labouring man, who was in his -last illness, and who had refused all the food his wife had offered -him. “No,” he answered, “I’ve never been used to nothing but common -victual, and I can’t eat that.” Experience had bred no fancies in him -that could raise the phantasm of appetite. - -And Raveloe was a village where many of the old echoes lingered, -undrowned by new voices. Not that it was one of those barren parishes -lying on the outskirts of civilization—inhabited by meagre sheep and -thinly-scattered shepherds: on the contrary, it lay in the rich central -plain of what we are pleased to call Merry England, and held farms -which, speaking from a spiritual point of view, paid highly-desirable -tithes. But it was nestled in a snug well-wooded hollow, quite an -hour’s journey on horseback from any turnpike, where it was never -reached by the vibrations of the coach-horn, or of public opinion. It -was an important-looking village, with a fine old church and large -churchyard in the heart of it, and two or three large brick-and-stone -homesteads, with well-walled orchards and ornamental weathercocks, -standing close upon the road, and lifting more imposing fronts than the -rectory, which peeped from among the trees on the other side of the -churchyard:—a village which showed at once the summits of its social -life, and told the practised eye that there was no great park and -manor-house in the vicinity, but that there were several chiefs in -Raveloe who could farm badly quite at their ease, drawing enough money -from their bad farming, in those war times, to live in a rollicking -fashion, and keep a jolly Christmas, Whitsun, and Easter tide. - -It was fifteen years since Silas Marner had first come to Raveloe; he -was then simply a pallid young man, with prominent short-sighted brown -eyes, whose appearance would have had nothing strange for people of -average culture and experience, but for the villagers near whom he had -come to settle it had mysterious peculiarities which corresponded with -the exceptional nature of his occupation, and his advent from an -unknown region called “North’ard”. So had his way of life:—he invited -no comer to step across his door-sill, and he never strolled into the -village to drink a pint at the Rainbow, or to gossip at the -wheelwright’s: he sought no man or woman, save for the purposes of his -calling, or in order to supply himself with necessaries; and it was -soon clear to the Raveloe lasses that he would never urge one of them -to accept him against her will—quite as if he had heard them declare -that they would never marry a dead man come to life again. This view of -Marner’s personality was not without another ground than his pale face -and unexampled eyes; for Jem Rodney, the mole-catcher, averred that one -evening as he was returning homeward, he saw Silas Marner leaning -against a stile with a heavy bag on his back, instead of resting the -bag on the stile as a man in his senses would have done; and that, on -coming up to him, he saw that Marner’s eyes were set like a dead man’s, -and he spoke to him, and shook him, and his limbs were stiff, and his -hands clutched the bag as if they’d been made of iron; but just as he -had made up his mind that the weaver was dead, he came all right again, -like, as you might say, in the winking of an eye, and said -“Good-night”, and walked off. All this Jem swore he had seen, more by -token that it was the very day he had been mole-catching on Squire -Cass’s land, down by the old saw-pit. Some said Marner must have been -in a “fit”, a word which seemed to explain things otherwise incredible; -but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk of the parish, shook his head, -and asked if anybody was ever known to go off in a fit and not fall -down. A fit was a stroke, wasn’t it? and it was in the nature of a -stroke to partly take away the use of a man’s limbs and throw him on -the parish, if he’d got no children to look to. No, no; it was no -stroke that would let a man stand on his legs, like a horse between the -shafts, and then walk off as soon as you can say “Gee!” But there might -be such a thing as a man’s soul being loose from his body, and going -out and in, like a bird out of its nest and back; and that was how -folks got over-wise, for they went to school in this shell-less state -to those who could teach them more than their neighbours could learn -with their five senses and the parson. And where did Master Marner get -his knowledge of herbs from—and charms too, if he liked to give them -away? Jem Rodney’s story was no more than what might have been expected -by anybody who had seen how Marner had cured Sally Oates, and made her -sleep like a baby, when her heart had been beating enough to burst her -body, for two months and more, while she had been under the doctor’s -care. He might cure more folks if he would; but he was worth speaking -fair, if it was only to keep him from doing you a mischief. - -It was partly to this vague fear that Marner was indebted for -protecting him from the persecution that his singularities might have -drawn upon him, but still more to the fact that, the old linen-weaver -in the neighbouring parish of Tarley being dead, his handicraft made -him a highly welcome settler to the richer housewives of the district, -and even to the more provident cottagers, who had their little stock of -yarn at the year’s end. Their sense of his usefulness would have -counteracted any repugnance or suspicion which was not confirmed by a -deficiency in the quality or the tale of the cloth he wove for them. -And the years had rolled on without producing any change in the -impressions of the neighbours concerning Marner, except the change from -novelty to habit. At the end of fifteen years the Raveloe men said just -the same things about Silas Marner as at the beginning: they did not -say them quite so often, but they believed them much more strongly when -they did say them. There was only one important addition which the -years had brought: it was, that Master Marner had laid by a fine sight -of money somewhere, and that he could buy up “bigger men” than himself. - -But while opinion concerning him had remained nearly stationary, and -his daily habits had presented scarcely any visible change, Marner’s -inward life had been a history and a metamorphosis, as that of every -fervid nature must be when it has fled, or been condemned, to solitude. -His life, before he came to Raveloe, had been filled with the movement, -the mental activity, and the close fellowship, which, in that day as in -this, marked the life of an artisan early incorporated in a narrow -religious sect, where the poorest layman has the chance of -distinguishing himself by gifts of speech, and has, at the very least, -the weight of a silent voter in the government of his community. Marner -was highly thought of in that little hidden world, known to itself as -the church assembling in Lantern Yard; he was believed to be a young -man of exemplary life and ardent faith; and a peculiar interest had -been centred in him ever since he had fallen, at a prayer-meeting, into -a mysterious rigidity and suspension of consciousness, which, lasting -for an hour or more, had been mistaken for death. To have sought a -medical explanation for this phenomenon would have been held by Silas -himself, as well as by his minister and fellow-members, a wilful -self-exclusion from the spiritual significance that might lie therein. -Silas was evidently a brother selected for a peculiar discipline; and -though the effort to interpret this discipline was discouraged by the -absence, on his part, of any spiritual vision during his outward -trance, yet it was believed by himself and others that its effect was -seen in an accession of light and fervour. A less truthful man than he -might have been tempted into the subsequent creation of a vision in the -form of resurgent memory; a less sane man might have believed in such a -creation; but Silas was both sane and honest, though, as with many -honest and fervent men, culture had not defined any channels for his -sense of mystery, and so it spread itself over the proper pathway of -inquiry and knowledge. He had inherited from his mother some -acquaintance with medicinal herbs and their preparation—a little store -of wisdom which she had imparted to him as a solemn bequest—but of late -years he had had doubts about the lawfulness of applying this -knowledge, believing that herbs could have no efficacy without prayer, -and that prayer might suffice without herbs; so that the inherited -delight he had in wandering in the fields in search of foxglove and -dandelion and coltsfoot, began to wear to him the character of a -temptation. - -Among the members of his church there was one young man, a little older -than himself, with whom he had long lived in such close friendship that -it was the custom of their Lantern Yard brethren to call them David and -Jonathan. The real name of the friend was William Dane, and he, too, -was regarded as a shining instance of youthful piety, though somewhat -given to over-severity towards weaker brethren, and to be so dazzled by -his own light as to hold himself wiser than his teachers. But whatever -blemishes others might discern in William, to his friend’s mind he was -faultless; for Marner had one of those impressible self-doubting -natures which, at an inexperienced age, admire imperativeness and lean -on contradiction. The expression of trusting simplicity in Marner’s -face, heightened by that absence of special observation, that -defenceless, deer-like gaze which belongs to large prominent eyes, was -strongly contrasted by the self-complacent suppression of inward -triumph that lurked in the narrow slanting eyes and compressed lips of -William Dane. One of the most frequent topics of conversation between -the two friends was Assurance of salvation: Silas confessed that he -could never arrive at anything higher than hope mingled with fear, and -listened with longing wonder when William declared that he had -possessed unshaken assurance ever since, in the period of his -conversion, he had dreamed that he saw the words “calling and election -sure” standing by themselves on a white page in the open Bible. Such -colloquies have occupied many a pair of pale-faced weavers, whose -unnurtured souls have been like young winged things, fluttering -forsaken in the twilight. - -It had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas that the friendship had -suffered no chill even from his formation of another attachment of a -closer kind. For some months he had been engaged to a young -servant-woman, waiting only for a little increase to their mutual -savings in order to their marriage; and it was a great delight to him -that Sarah did not object to William’s occasional presence in their -Sunday interviews. It was at this point in their history that Silas’s -cataleptic fit occurred during the prayer-meeting; and amidst the -various queries and expressions of interest addressed to him by his -fellow-members, William’s suggestion alone jarred with the general -sympathy towards a brother thus singled out for special dealings. He -observed that, to him, this trance looked more like a visitation of -Satan than a proof of divine favour, and exhorted his friend to see -that he hid no accursed thing within his soul. Silas, feeling bound to -accept rebuke and admonition as a brotherly office, felt no resentment, -but only pain, at his friend’s doubts concerning him; and to this was -soon added some anxiety at the perception that Sarah’s manner towards -him began to exhibit a strange fluctuation between an effort at an -increased manifestation of regard and involuntary signs of shrinking -and dislike. He asked her if she wished to break off their engagement; -but she denied this: their engagement was known to the church, and had -been recognized in the prayer-meetings; it could not be broken off -without strict investigation, and Sarah could render no reason that -would be sanctioned by the feeling of the community. At this time the -senior deacon was taken dangerously ill, and, being a childless -widower, he was tended night and day by some of the younger brethren or -sisters. Silas frequently took his turn in the night-watching with -William, the one relieving the other at two in the morning. The old -man, contrary to expectation, seemed to be on the way to recovery, when -one night Silas, sitting up by his bedside, observed that his usual -audible breathing had ceased. The candle was burning low, and he had to -lift it to see the patient’s face distinctly. Examination convinced him -that the deacon was dead—had been dead some time, for the limbs were -rigid. Silas asked himself if he had been asleep, and looked at the -clock: it was already four in the morning. How was it that William had -not come? In much anxiety he went to seek for help, and soon there were -several friends assembled in the house, the minister among them, while -Silas went away to his work, wishing he could have met William to know -the reason of his non-appearance. But at six o’clock, as he was -thinking of going to seek his friend, William came, and with him the -minister. They came to summon him to Lantern Yard, to meet the church -members there; and to his inquiry concerning the cause of the summons -the only reply was, “You will hear.” Nothing further was said until -Silas was seated in the vestry, in front of the minister, with the eyes -of those who to him represented God’s people fixed solemnly upon him. -Then the minister, taking out a pocket-knife, showed it to Silas, and -asked him if he knew where he had left that knife? Silas said, he did -not know that he had left it anywhere out of his own pocket—but he was -trembling at this strange interrogation. He was then exhorted not to -hide his sin, but to confess and repent. The knife had been found in -the bureau by the departed deacon’s bedside—found in the place where -the little bag of church money had lain, which the minister himself had -seen the day before. Some hand had removed that bag; and whose hand -could it be, if not that of the man to whom the knife belonged? For -some time Silas was mute with astonishment: then he said, “God will -clear me: I know nothing about the knife being there, or the money -being gone. Search me and my dwelling; you will find nothing but three -pound five of my own savings, which William Dane knows I have had these -six months.” At this William groaned, but the minister said, “The proof -is heavy against you, brother Marner. The money was taken in the night -last past, and no man was with our departed brother but you, for -William Dane declares to us that he was hindered by sudden sickness -from going to take his place as usual, and you yourself said that he -had not come; and, moreover, you neglected the dead body.” - -“I must have slept,” said Silas. Then, after a pause, he added, “Or I -must have had another visitation like that which you have all seen me -under, so that the thief must have come and gone while I was not in the -body, but out of the body. But, I say again, search me and my dwelling, -for I have been nowhere else.” - -The search was made, and it ended—in William Dane’s finding the -well-known bag, empty, tucked behind the chest of drawers in Silas’s -chamber! On this William exhorted his friend to confess, and not to -hide his sin any longer. Silas turned a look of keen reproach on him, -and said, “William, for nine years that we have gone in and out -together, have you ever known me tell a lie? But God will clear me.” - -“Brother,” said William, “how do I know what you may have done in the -secret chambers of your heart, to give Satan an advantage over you?” - -Silas was still looking at his friend. Suddenly a deep flush came over -his face, and he was about to speak impetuously, when he seemed checked -again by some inward shock, that sent the flush back and made him -tremble. But at last he spoke feebly, looking at William. - -“I remember now—the knife wasn’t in my pocket.” - -William said, “I know nothing of what you mean.” The other persons -present, however, began to inquire where Silas meant to say that the -knife was, but he would give no further explanation: he only said, “I -am sore stricken; I can say nothing. God will clear me.” - -On their return to the vestry there was further deliberation. Any -resort to legal measures for ascertaining the culprit was contrary to -the principles of the church in Lantern Yard, according to which -prosecution was forbidden to Christians, even had the case held less -scandal to the community. But the members were bound to take other -measures for finding out the truth, and they resolved on praying and -drawing lots. This resolution can be a ground of surprise only to those -who are unacquainted with that obscure religious life which has gone on -in the alleys of our towns. Silas knelt with his brethren, relying on -his own innocence being certified by immediate divine interference, but -feeling that there was sorrow and mourning behind for him even -then—that his trust in man had been cruelly bruised. _The lots declared -that Silas Marner was guilty._ He was solemnly suspended from -church-membership, and called upon to render up the stolen money: only -on confession, as the sign of repentance, could he be received once -more within the folds of the church. Marner listened in silence. At -last, when everyone rose to depart, he went towards William Dane and -said, in a voice shaken by agitation— - -“The last time I remember using my knife, was when I took it out to cut -a strap for you. I don’t remember putting it in my pocket again. _You_ -stole the money, and you have woven a plot to lay the sin at my door. -But you may prosper, for all that: there is no just God that governs -the earth righteously, but a God of lies, that bears witness against -the innocent.” - -There was a general shudder at this blasphemy. - -William said meekly, “I leave our brethren to judge whether this is the -voice of Satan or not. I can do nothing but pray for you, Silas.” - -Poor Marner went out with that despair in his soul—that shaken trust in -God and man, which is little short of madness to a loving nature. In -the bitterness of his wounded spirit, he said to himself, “_She_ will -cast me off too.” And he reflected that, if she did not believe the -testimony against him, her whole faith must be upset as his was. To -people accustomed to reason about the forms in which their religious -feeling has incorporated itself, it is difficult to enter into that -simple, untaught state of mind in which the form and the feeling have -never been severed by an act of reflection. We are apt to think it -inevitable that a man in Marner’s position should have begun to -question the validity of an appeal to the divine judgment by drawing -lots; but to him this would have been an effort of independent thought -such as he had never known; and he must have made the effort at a -moment when all his energies were turned into the anguish of -disappointed faith. If there is an angel who records the sorrows of men -as well as their sins, he knows how many and deep are the sorrows that -spring from false ideas for which no man is culpable. - -Marner went home, and for a whole day sat alone, stunned by despair, -without any impulse to go to Sarah and attempt to win her belief in his -innocence. The second day he took refuge from benumbing unbelief, by -getting into his loom and working away as usual; and before many hours -were past, the minister and one of the deacons came to him with the -message from Sarah, that she held her engagement to him at an end. -Silas received the message mutely, and then turned away from the -messengers to work at his loom again. In little more than a month from -that time, Sarah was married to William Dane; and not long afterwards -it was known to the brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had -departed from the town. - - - -CHAPTER II. - -Even people whose lives have been made various by learning, sometimes -find it hard to keep a fast hold on their habitual views of life, on -their faith in the Invisible, nay, on the sense that their past joys -and sorrows are a real experience, when they are suddenly transported -to a new land, where the beings around them know nothing of their -history, and share none of their ideas—where their mother earth shows -another lap, and human life has other forms than those on which their -souls have been nourished. Minds that have been unhinged from their old -faith and love, have perhaps sought this Lethean influence of exile, in -which the past becomes dreamy because its symbols have all vanished, -and the present too is dreamy because it is linked with no memories. -But even _their_ experience may hardly enable them thoroughly to -imagine what was the effect on a simple weaver like Silas Marner, when -he left his own country and people and came to settle in Raveloe. -Nothing could be more unlike his native town, set within sight of the -widespread hillsides, than this low, wooded region, where he felt -hidden even from the heavens by the screening trees and hedgerows. -There was nothing here, when he rose in the deep morning quiet and -looked out on the dewy brambles and rank tufted grass, that seemed to -have any relation with that life centring in Lantern Yard, which had -once been to him the altar-place of high dispensations. The whitewashed -walls; the little pews where well-known figures entered with a subdued -rustling, and where first one well-known voice and then another, -pitched in a peculiar key of petition, uttered phrases at once occult -and familiar, like the amulet worn on the heart; the pulpit where the -minister delivered unquestioned doctrine, and swayed to and fro, and -handled the book in a long accustomed manner; the very pauses between -the couplets of the hymn, as it was given out, and the recurrent swell -of voices in song: these things had been the channel of divine -influences to Marner—they were the fostering home of his religious -emotions—they were Christianity and God’s kingdom upon earth. A weaver -who finds hard words in his hymn-book knows nothing of abstractions; as -the little child knows nothing of parental love, but only knows one -face and one lap towards which it stretches its arms for refuge and -nurture. - -And what could be more unlike that Lantern Yard world than the world in -Raveloe?—orchards looking lazy with neglected plenty; the large church -in the wide churchyard, which men gazed at lounging at their own doors -in service-time; the purple-faced farmers jogging along the lanes or -turning in at the Rainbow; homesteads, where men supped heavily and -slept in the light of the evening hearth, and where women seemed to be -laying up a stock of linen for the life to come. There were no lips in -Raveloe from which a word could fall that would stir Silas Marner’s -benumbed faith to a sense of pain. In the early ages of the world, we -know, it was believed that each territory was inhabited and ruled by -its own divinities, so that a man could cross the bordering heights and -be out of the reach of his native gods, whose presence was confined to -the streams and the groves and the hills among which he had lived from -his birth. And poor Silas was vaguely conscious of something not unlike -the feeling of primitive men, when they fled thus, in fear or in -sullenness, from the face of an unpropitious deity. It seemed to him -that the Power he had vainly trusted in among the streets and at the -prayer-meetings, was very far away from this land in which he had taken -refuge, where men lived in careless abundance, knowing and needing -nothing of that trust, which, for him, had been turned to bitterness. -The little light he possessed spread its beams so narrowly, that -frustrated belief was a curtain broad enough to create for him the -blackness of night. - -His first movement after the shock had been to work in his loom; and he -went on with this unremittingly, never asking himself why, now he was -come to Raveloe, he worked far on into the night to finish the tale of -Mrs. Osgood’s table-linen sooner than she expected—without -contemplating beforehand the money she would put into his hand for the -work. He seemed to weave, like the spider, from pure impulse, without -reflection. Every man’s work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to -become an end in itself, and so to bridge over the loveless chasms of -his life. Silas’s hand satisfied itself with throwing the shuttle, and -his eye with seeing the little squares in the cloth complete themselves -under his effort. Then there were the calls of hunger; and Silas, in -his solitude, had to provide his own breakfast, dinner, and supper, to -fetch his own water from the well, and put his own kettle on the fire; -and all these immediate promptings helped, along with the weaving, to -reduce his life to the unquestioning activity of a spinning insect. He -hated the thought of the past; there was nothing that called out his -love and fellowship toward the strangers he had come amongst; and the -future was all dark, for there was no Unseen Love that cared for him. -Thought was arrested by utter bewilderment, now its old narrow pathway -was closed, and affection seemed to have died under the bruise that had -fallen on its keenest nerves. - -But at last Mrs. Osgood’s table-linen was finished, and Silas was paid -in gold. His earnings in his native town, where he worked for a -wholesale dealer, had been after a lower rate; he had been paid weekly, -and of his weekly earnings a large proportion had gone to objects of -piety and charity. Now, for the first time in his life, he had five -bright guineas put into his hand; no man expected a share of them, and -he loved no man that he should offer him a share. But what were the -guineas to him who saw no vista beyond countless days of weaving? It -was needless for him to ask that, for it was pleasant to him to feel -them in his palm, and look at their bright faces, which were all his -own: it was another element of life, like the weaving and the -satisfaction of hunger, subsisting quite aloof from the life of belief -and love from which he had been cut off. The weaver’s hand had known -the touch of hard-won money even before the palm had grown to its full -breadth; for twenty years, mysterious money had stood to him as the -symbol of earthly good, and the immediate object of toil. He had seemed -to love it little in the years when every penny had its purpose for -him; for he loved the _purpose_ then. But now, when all purpose was -gone, that habit of looking towards the money and grasping it with a -sense of fulfilled effort made a loam that was deep enough for the -seeds of desire; and as Silas walked homeward across the fields in the -twilight, he drew out the money and thought it was brighter in the -gathering gloom. - -About this time an incident happened which seemed to open a possibility -of some fellowship with his neighbours. One day, taking a pair of shoes -to be mended, he saw the cobbler’s wife seated by the fire, suffering -from the terrible symptoms of heart-disease and dropsy, which he had -witnessed as the precursors of his mother’s death. He felt a rush of -pity at the mingled sight and remembrance, and, recalling the relief -his mother had found from a simple preparation of foxglove, he promised -Sally Oates to bring her something that would ease her, since the -doctor did her no good. In this office of charity, Silas felt, for the -first time since he had come to Raveloe, a sense of unity between his -past and present life, which might have been the beginning of his -rescue from the insect-like existence into which his nature had shrunk. -But Sally Oates’s disease had raised her into a personage of much -interest and importance among the neighbours, and the fact of her -having found relief from drinking Silas Marner’s “stuff” became a -matter of general discourse. When Doctor Kimble gave physic, it was -natural that it should have an effect; but when a weaver, who came from -nobody knew where, worked wonders with a bottle of brown waters, the -occult character of the process was evident. Such a sort of thing had -not been known since the Wise Woman at Tarley died; and she had charms -as well as “stuff”: everybody went to her when their children had fits. -Silas Marner must be a person of the same sort, for how did he know -what would bring back Sally Oates’s breath, if he didn’t know a fine -sight more than that? The Wise Woman had words that she muttered to -herself, so that you couldn’t hear what they were, and if she tied a -bit of red thread round the child’s toe the while, it would keep off -the water in the head. There were women in Raveloe, at that present -time, who had worn one of the Wise Woman’s little bags round their -necks, and, in consequence, had never had an idiot child, as Ann -Coulter had. Silas Marner could very likely do as much, and more; and -now it was all clear how he should have come from unknown parts, and be -so “comical-looking”. But Sally Oates must mind and not tell the -doctor, for he would be sure to set his face against Marner: he was -always angry about the Wise Woman, and used to threaten those who went -to her that they should have none of his help any more. - -Silas now found himself and his cottage suddenly beset by mothers who -wanted him to charm away the whooping-cough, or bring back the milk, -and by men who wanted stuff against the rheumatics or the knots in the -hands; and, to secure themselves against a refusal, the applicants -brought silver in their palms. Silas might have driven a profitable -trade in charms as well as in his small list of drugs; but money on -this condition was no temptation to him: he had never known an impulse -towards falsity, and he drove one after another away with growing -irritation, for the news of him as a wise man had spread even to -Tarley, and it was long before people ceased to take long walks for the -sake of asking his aid. But the hope in his wisdom was at length -changed into dread, for no one believed him when he said he knew no -charms and could work no cures, and every man and woman who had an -accident or a new attack after applying to him, set the misfortune down -to Master Marner’s ill-will and irritated glances. Thus it came to pass -that his movement of pity towards Sally Oates, which had given him a -transient sense of brotherhood, heightened the repulsion between him -and his neighbours, and made his isolation more complete. - -Gradually the guineas, the crowns, and the half-crowns grew to a heap, -and Marner drew less and less for his own wants, trying to solve the -problem of keeping himself strong enough to work sixteen hours a-day on -as small an outlay as possible. Have not men, shut up in solitary -imprisonment, found an interest in marking the moments by straight -strokes of a certain length on the wall, until the growth of the sum of -straight strokes, arranged in triangles, has become a mastering -purpose? Do we not wile away moments of inanity or fatigued waiting by -repeating some trivial movement or sound, until the repetition has bred -a want, which is incipient habit? That will help us to understand how -the love of accumulating money grows an absorbing passion in men whose -imaginations, even in the very beginning of their hoard, showed them no -purpose beyond it. Marner wanted the heaps of ten to grow into a -square, and then into a larger square; and every added guinea, while it -was itself a satisfaction, bred a new desire. In this strange world, -made a hopeless riddle to him, he might, if he had had a less intense -nature, have sat weaving, weaving—looking towards the end of his -pattern, or towards the end of his web, till he forgot the riddle, and -everything else but his immediate sensations; but the money had come to -mark off his weaving into periods, and the money not only grew, but it -remained with him. He began to think it was conscious of him, as his -loom was, and he would on no account have exchanged those coins, which -had become his familiars, for other coins with unknown faces. He -handled them, he counted them, till their form and colour were like the -satisfaction of a thirst to him; but it was only in the night, when his -work was done, that he drew them out to enjoy their companionship. He -had taken up some bricks in his floor underneath his loom, and here he -had made a hole in which he set the iron pot that contained his guineas -and silver coins, covering the bricks with sand whenever he replaced -them. Not that the idea of being robbed presented itself often or -strongly to his mind: hoarding was common in country districts in those -days; there were old labourers in the parish of Raveloe who were known -to have their savings by them, probably inside their flock-beds; but -their rustic neighbours, though not all of them as honest as their -ancestors in the days of King Alfred, had not imaginations bold enough -to lay a plan of burglary. How could they have spent the money in their -own village without betraying themselves? They would be obliged to “run -away”—a course as dark and dubious as a balloon journey. - -So, year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this solitude, his -guineas rising in the iron pot, and his life narrowing and hardening -itself more and more into a mere pulsation of desire and satisfaction -that had no relation to any other being. His life had reduced itself to -the functions of weaving and hoarding, without any contemplation of an -end towards which the functions tended. The same sort of process has -perhaps been undergone by wiser men, when they have been cut off from -faith and love—only, instead of a loom and a heap of guineas, they have -had some erudite research, some ingenious project, or some well-knit -theory. Strangely Marner’s face and figure shrank and bent themselves -into a constant mechanical relation to the objects of his life, so that -he produced the same sort of impression as a handle or a crooked tube, -which has no meaning standing apart. The prominent eyes that used to -look trusting and dreamy, now looked as if they had been made to see -only one kind of thing that was very small, like tiny grain, for which -they hunted everywhere: and he was so withered and yellow, that, though -he was not yet forty, the children always called him “Old Master -Marner”. - -Yet even in this stage of withering a little incident happened, which -showed that the sap of affection was not all gone. It was one of his -daily tasks to fetch his water from a well a couple of fields off, and -for this purpose, ever since he came to Raveloe, he had had a brown -earthenware pot, which he held as his most precious utensil among the -very few conveniences he had granted himself. It had been his companion -for twelve years, always standing on the same spot, always lending its -handle to him in the early morning, so that its form had an expression -for him of willing helpfulness, and the impress of its handle on his -palm gave a satisfaction mingled with that of having the fresh clear -water. One day as he was returning from the well, he stumbled against -the step of the stile, and his brown pot, falling with force against -the stones that overarched the ditch below him, was broken in three -pieces. Silas picked up the pieces and carried them home with grief in -his heart. The brown pot could never be of use to him any more, but he -stuck the bits together and propped the ruin in its old place for a -memorial. - -This is the history of Silas Marner, until the fifteenth year after he -came to Raveloe. The livelong day he sat in his loom, his ear filled -with its monotony, his eyes bent close down on the slow growth of -sameness in the brownish web, his muscles moving with such even -repetition that their pause seemed almost as much a constraint as the -holding of his breath. But at night came his revelry: at night he -closed his shutters, and made fast his doors, and drew forth his gold. -Long ago the heap of coins had become too large for the iron pot to -hold them, and he had made for them two thick leather bags, which -wasted no room in their resting-place, but lent themselves flexibly to -every corner. How the guineas shone as they came pouring out of the -dark leather mouths! The silver bore no large proportion in amount to -the gold, because the long pieces of linen which formed his chief work -were always partly paid for in gold, and out of the silver he supplied -his own bodily wants, choosing always the shillings and sixpences to -spend in this way. He loved the guineas best, but he would not change -the silver—the crowns and half-crowns that were his own earnings, -begotten by his labour; he loved them all. He spread them out in heaps -and bathed his hands in them; then he counted them and set them up in -regular piles, and felt their rounded outline between his thumb and -fingers, and thought fondly of the guineas that were only half-earned -by the work in his loom, as if they had been unborn children—thought of -the guineas that were coming slowly through the coming years, through -all his life, which spread far away before him, the end quite hidden by -countless days of weaving. No wonder his thoughts were still with his -loom and his money when he made his journeys through the fields and the -lanes to fetch and carry home his work, so that his steps never -wandered to the hedge-banks and the lane-side in search of the once -familiar herbs: these too belonged to the past, from which his life had -shrunk away, like a rivulet that has sunk far down from the grassy -fringe of its old breadth into a little shivering thread, that cuts a -groove for itself in the barren sand. - -But about the Christmas of that fifteenth year, a second great change -came over Marner’s life, and his history became blent in a singular -manner with the life of his neighbours. - - - -CHAPTER III. - -The greatest man in Raveloe was Squire Cass, who lived in the large red -house with the handsome flight of stone steps in front and the high -stables behind it, nearly opposite the church. He was only one among -several landed parishioners, but he alone was honoured with the title -of Squire; for though Mr. Osgood’s family was also understood to be of -timeless origin—the Raveloe imagination having never ventured back to -that fearful blank when there were no Osgoods—still, he merely owned -the farm he occupied; whereas Squire Cass had a tenant or two, who -complained of the game to him quite as if he had been a lord. - -It was still that glorious war-time which was felt to be a peculiar -favour of Providence towards the landed interest, and the fall of -prices had not yet come to carry the race of small squires and yeomen -down that road to ruin for which extravagant habits and bad husbandry -were plentifully anointing their wheels. I am speaking now in relation -to Raveloe and the parishes that resembled it; for our old-fashioned -country life had many different aspects, as all life must have when it -is spread over a various surface, and breathed on variously by -multitudinous currents, from the winds of heaven to the thoughts of -men, which are for ever moving and crossing each other with -incalculable results. Raveloe lay low among the bushy trees and the -rutted lanes, aloof from the currents of industrial energy and Puritan -earnestness: the rich ate and drank freely, accepting gout and apoplexy -as things that ran mysteriously in respectable families, and the poor -thought that the rich were entirely in the right of it to lead a jolly -life; besides, their feasting caused a multiplication of orts, which -were the heirlooms of the poor. Betty Jay scented the boiling of Squire -Cass’s hams, but her longing was arrested by the unctuous liquor in -which they were boiled; and when the seasons brought round the great -merry-makings, they were regarded on all hands as a fine thing for the -poor. For the Raveloe feasts were like the rounds of beef and the -barrels of ale—they were on a large scale, and lasted a good while, -especially in the winter-time. After ladies had packed up their best -gowns and top-knots in bandboxes, and had incurred the risk of fording -streams on pillions with the precious burden in rainy or snowy weather, -when there was no knowing how high the water would rise, it was not to -be supposed that they looked forward to a brief pleasure. On this -ground it was always contrived in the dark seasons, when there was -little work to be done, and the hours were long, that several -neighbours should keep open house in succession. So soon as Squire -Cass’s standing dishes diminished in plenty and freshness, his guests -had nothing to do but to walk a little higher up the village to Mr. -Osgood’s, at the Orchards, and they found hams and chines uncut, -pork-pies with the scent of the fire in them, spun butter in all its -freshness—everything, in fact, that appetites at leisure could desire, -in perhaps greater perfection, though not in greater abundance, than at -Squire Cass’s. - -For the Squire’s wife had died long ago, and the Red House was without -that presence of the wife and mother which is the fountain of wholesome -love and fear in parlour and kitchen; and this helped to account not -only for there being more profusion than finished excellence in the -holiday provisions, but also for the frequency with which the proud -Squire condescended to preside in the parlour of the Rainbow rather -than under the shadow of his own dark wainscot; perhaps, also, for the -fact that his sons had turned out rather ill. Raveloe was not a place -where moral censure was severe, but it was thought a weakness in the -Squire that he had kept all his sons at home in idleness; and though -some licence was to be allowed to young men whose fathers could afford -it, people shook their heads at the courses of the second son, Dunstan, -commonly called Dunsey Cass, whose taste for swopping and betting might -turn out to be a sowing of something worse than wild oats. To be sure, -the neighbours said, it was no matter what became of Dunsey—a spiteful -jeering fellow, who seemed to enjoy his drink the more when other -people went dry—always provided that his doings did not bring trouble -on a family like Squire Cass’s, with a monument in the church, and -tankards older than King George. But it would be a thousand pities if -Mr. Godfrey, the eldest, a fine open-faced good-natured young man who -was to come into the land some day, should take to going along the same -road with his brother, as he had seemed to do of late. If he went on in -that way, he would lose Miss Nancy Lammeter; for it was well known that -she had looked very shyly on him ever since last Whitsuntide -twelvemonth, when there was so much talk about his being away from home -days and days together. There was something wrong, more than -common—that was quite clear; for Mr. Godfrey didn’t look half so -fresh-coloured and open as he used to do. At one time everybody was -saying, What a handsome couple he and Miss Nancy Lammeter would make! -and if she could come to be mistress at the Red House, there would be a -fine change, for the Lammeters had been brought up in that way, that -they never suffered a pinch of salt to be wasted, and yet everybody in -their household had of the best, according to his place. Such a -daughter-in-law would be a saving to the old Squire, if she never -brought a penny to her fortune; for it was to be feared that, -notwithstanding his incomings, there were more holes in his pocket than -the one where he put his own hand in. But if Mr. Godfrey didn’t turn -over a new leaf, he might say “Good-bye” to Miss Nancy Lammeter. - -It was the once hopeful Godfrey who was standing, with his hands in his -side-pockets and his back to the fire, in the dark wainscoted parlour, -one late November afternoon in that fifteenth year of Silas Marner’s -life at Raveloe. The fading grey light fell dimly on the walls -decorated with guns, whips, and foxes’ brushes, on coats and hats flung -on the chairs, on tankards sending forth a scent of flat ale, and on a -half-choked fire, with pipes propped up in the chimney-corners: signs -of a domestic life destitute of any hallowing charm, with which the -look of gloomy vexation on Godfrey’s blond face was in sad accordance. -He seemed to be waiting and listening for some one’s approach, and -presently the sound of a heavy step, with an accompanying whistle, was -heard across the large empty entrance-hall. - -The door opened, and a thick-set, heavy-looking young man entered, with -the flushed face and the gratuitously elated bearing which mark the -first stage of intoxication. It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him -Godfrey’s face parted with some of its gloom to take on the more active -expression of hatred. The handsome brown spaniel that lay on the hearth -retreated under the chair in the chimney-corner. - -“Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me?” said Dunsey, in a -mocking tone. “You’re my elders and betters, you know; I was obliged to -come when you sent for me.” - -“Why, this is what I want—and just shake yourself sober and listen, -will you?” said Godfrey, savagely. He had himself been drinking more -than was good for him, trying to turn his gloom into uncalculating -anger. “I want to tell you, I must hand over that rent of Fowler’s to -the Squire, or else tell him I gave it you; for he’s threatening to -distrain for it, and it’ll all be out soon, whether I tell him or not. -He said, just now, before he went out, he should send word to Cox to -distrain, if Fowler didn’t come and pay up his arrears this week. The -Squire’s short o’ cash, and in no humour to stand any nonsense; and you -know what he threatened, if ever he found you making away with his -money again. So, see and get the money, and pretty quickly, will you?” - -“Oh!” said Dunsey, sneeringly, coming nearer to his brother and looking -in his face. “Suppose, now, you get the money yourself, and save me the -trouble, eh? Since you was so kind as to hand it over to me, you’ll not -refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me: it was your brotherly -love made you do it, you know.” - -Godfrey bit his lips and clenched his fist. “Don’t come near me with -that look, else I’ll knock you down.” - -“Oh no, you won’t,” said Dunsey, turning away on his heel, however. -“Because I’m such a good-natured brother, you know. I might get you -turned out of house and home, and cut off with a shilling any day. I -might tell the Squire how his handsome son was married to that nice -young woman, Molly Farren, and was very unhappy because he couldn’t -live with his drunken wife, and I should slip into your place as -comfortable as could be. But you see, I don’t do it—I’m so easy and -good-natured. You’ll take any trouble for me. You’ll get the hundred -pounds for me—I know you will.” - -“How can I get the money?” said Godfrey, quivering. “I haven’t a -shilling to bless myself with. And it’s a lie that you’d slip into my -place: you’d get yourself turned out too, that’s all. For if you begin -telling tales, I’ll follow. Bob’s my father’s favourite—you know that -very well. He’d only think himself well rid of you.” - -“Never mind,” said Dunsey, nodding his head sideways as he looked out -of the window. “It ’ud be very pleasant to me to go in your -company—you’re such a handsome brother, and we’ve always been so fond -of quarrelling with one another, I shouldn’t know what to do without -you. But you’d like better for us both to stay at home together; I know -you would. So you’ll manage to get that little sum o’ money, and I’ll -bid you good-bye, though I’m sorry to part.” - -Dunstan was moving off, but Godfrey rushed after him and seized him by -the arm, saying, with an oath— - -“I tell you, I have no money: I can get no money.” - -“Borrow of old Kimble.” - -“I tell you, he won’t lend me any more, and I shan’t ask him.” - -“Well, then, sell Wildfire.” - -“Yes, that’s easy talking. I must have the money directly.” - -“Well, you’ve only got to ride him to the hunt to-morrow. There’ll be -Bryce and Keating there, for sure. You’ll get more bids than one.” - -“I daresay, and get back home at eight o’clock, splashed up to the -chin. I’m going to Mrs. Osgood’s birthday dance.” - -“Oho!” said Dunsey, turning his head on one side, and trying to speak -in a small mincing treble. “And there’s sweet Miss Nancy coming; and we -shall dance with her, and promise never to be naughty again, and be -taken into favour, and—” - -“Hold your tongue about Miss Nancy, you fool,” said Godfrey, turning -red, “else I’ll throttle you.” - -“What for?” said Dunsey, still in an artificial tone, but taking a whip -from the table and beating the butt-end of it on his palm. “You’ve a -very good chance. I’d advise you to creep up her sleeve again: it ’ud -be saving time, if Molly should happen to take a drop too much laudanum -some day, and make a widower of you. Miss Nancy wouldn’t mind being a -second, if she didn’t know it. And you’ve got a good-natured brother, -who’ll keep your secret well, because you’ll be so very obliging to -him.” - -“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Godfrey, quivering, and pale again, -“my patience is pretty near at an end. If you’d a little more sharpness -in you, you might know that you may urge a man a bit too far, and make -one leap as easy as another. I don’t know but what it is so now: I may -as well tell the Squire everything myself—I should get you off my back, -if I got nothing else. And, after all, he’ll know some time. She’s been -threatening to come herself and tell him. So, don’t flatter yourself -that your secrecy’s worth any price you choose to ask. You drain me of -money till I have got nothing to pacify _her_ with, and she’ll do as -she threatens some day. It’s all one. I’ll tell my father everything -myself, and you may go to the devil.” - -Dunsey perceived that he had overshot his mark, and that there was a -point at which even the hesitating Godfrey might be driven into -decision. But he said, with an air of unconcern— - -“As you please; but I’ll have a draught of ale first.” And ringing the -bell, he threw himself across two chairs, and began to rap the -window-seat with the handle of his whip. - -Godfrey stood, still with his back to the fire, uneasily moving his -fingers among the contents of his side-pockets, and looking at the -floor. That big muscular frame of his held plenty of animal courage, -but helped him to no decision when the dangers to be braved were such -as could neither be knocked down nor throttled. His natural -irresolution and moral cowardice were exaggerated by a position in -which dreaded consequences seemed to press equally on all sides, and -his irritation had no sooner provoked him to defy Dunstan and -anticipate all possible betrayals, than the miseries he must bring on -himself by such a step seemed more unendurable to him than the present -evil. The results of confession were not contingent, they were certain; -whereas betrayal was not certain. From the near vision of that -certainty he fell back on suspense and vacillation with a sense of -repose. The disinherited son of a small squire, equally disinclined to -dig and to beg, was almost as helpless as an uprooted tree, which, by -the favour of earth and sky, has grown to a handsome bulk on the spot -where it first shot upward. Perhaps it would have been possible to -think of digging with some cheerfulness if Nancy Lammeter were to be -won on those terms; but, since he must irrevocably lose _her_ as well -as the inheritance, and must break every tie but the one that degraded -him and left him without motive for trying to recover his better self, -he could imagine no future for himself on the other side of confession -but that of “’listing for a soldier”—the most desperate step, short of -suicide, in the eyes of respectable families. No! he would rather trust -to casualties than to his own resolve—rather go on sitting at the -feast, and sipping the wine he loved, though with the sword hanging -over him and terror in his heart, than rush away into the cold darkness -where there was no pleasure left. The utmost concession to Dunstan -about the horse began to seem easy, compared with the fulfilment of his -own threat. But his pride would not let him recommence the conversation -otherwise than by continuing the quarrel. Dunstan was waiting for this, -and took his ale in shorter draughts than usual. - -“It’s just like you,” Godfrey burst out, in a bitter tone, “to talk -about my selling Wildfire in that cool way—the last thing I’ve got to -call my own, and the best bit of horse-flesh I ever had in my life. And -if you’d got a spark of pride in you, you’d be ashamed to see the -stables emptied, and everybody sneering about it. But it’s my belief -you’d sell yourself, if it was only for the pleasure of making somebody -feel he’d got a bad bargain.” - -“Aye, aye,” said Dunstan, very placably, “you do me justice, I see. You -know I’m a jewel for ’ticing people into bargains. For which reason I -advise you to let _me_ sell Wildfire. I’d ride him to the hunt -to-morrow for you, with pleasure. I shouldn’t look so handsome as you -in the saddle, but it’s the horse they’ll bid for, and not the rider.” - -“Yes, I daresay—trust my horse to you!” - -“As you please,” said Dunstan, rapping the window-seat again with an -air of great unconcern. “It’s _you_ have got to pay Fowler’s money; -it’s none of my business. You received the money from him when you went -to Bramcote, and _you_ told the Squire it wasn’t paid. I’d nothing to -do with that; you chose to be so obliging as to give it me, that was -all. If you don’t want to pay the money, let it alone; it’s all one to -me. But I was willing to accommodate you by undertaking to sell the -horse, seeing it’s not convenient to you to go so far to-morrow.” - -Godfrey was silent for some moments. He would have liked to spring on -Dunstan, wrench the whip from his hand, and flog him to within an inch -of his life; and no bodily fear could have deterred him; but he was -mastered by another sort of fear, which was fed by feelings stronger -even than his resentment. When he spoke again, it was in a -half-conciliatory tone. - -“Well, you mean no nonsense about the horse, eh? You’ll sell him all -fair, and hand over the money? If you don’t, you know, everything ’ull -go to smash, for I’ve got nothing else to trust to. And you’ll have -less pleasure in pulling the house over my head, when your own skull’s -to be broken too.” - -“Aye, aye,” said Dunstan, rising; “all right. I thought you’d come -round. I’m the fellow to bring old Bryce up to the scratch. I’ll get -you a hundred and twenty for him, if I get you a penny.” - -“But it’ll perhaps rain cats and dogs to-morrow, as it did yesterday, -and then you can’t go,” said Godfrey, hardly knowing whether he wished -for that obstacle or not. - -“Not _it_,” said Dunstan. “I’m always lucky in my weather. It might -rain if you wanted to go yourself. You never hold trumps, you know—I -always do. You’ve got the beauty, you see, and I’ve got the luck, so -you must keep me by you for your crooked sixpence; you’ll _ne_-ver get -along without me.” - -“Confound you, hold your tongue!” said Godfrey, impetuously. “And take -care to keep sober to-morrow, else you’ll get pitched on your head -coming home, and Wildfire might be the worse for it.” - -“Make your tender heart easy,” said Dunstan, opening the door. “You -never knew me see double when I’d got a bargain to make; it ’ud spoil -the fun. Besides, whenever I fall, I’m warranted to fall on my legs.” - -With that, Dunstan slammed the door behind him, and left Godfrey to -that bitter rumination on his personal circumstances which was now -unbroken from day to day save by the excitement of sporting, drinking, -card-playing, or the rarer and less oblivious pleasure of seeing Miss -Nancy Lammeter. The subtle and varied pains springing from the higher -sensibility that accompanies higher culture, are perhaps less pitiable -than that dreary absence of impersonal enjoyment and consolation which -leaves ruder minds to the perpetual urgent companionship of their own -griefs and discontents. The lives of those rural forefathers, whom we -are apt to think very prosaic figures—men whose only work was to ride -round their land, getting heavier and heavier in their saddles, and who -passed the rest of their days in the half-listless gratification of -senses dulled by monotony—had a certain pathos in them nevertheless. -Calamities came to _them_ too, and their early errors carried hard -consequences: perhaps the love of some sweet maiden, the image of -purity, order, and calm, had opened their eyes to the vision of a life -in which the days would not seem too long, even without rioting; but -the maiden was lost, and the vision passed away, and then what was left -to them, especially when they had become too heavy for the hunt, or for -carrying a gun over the furrows, but to drink and get merry, or to -drink and get angry, so that they might be independent of variety, and -say over again with eager emphasis the things they had said already any -time that twelvemonth? Assuredly, among these flushed and dull-eyed men -there were some whom—thanks to their native human-kindness—even riot -could never drive into brutality; men who, when their cheeks were -fresh, had felt the keen point of sorrow or remorse, had been pierced -by the reeds they leaned on, or had lightly put their limbs in fetters -from which no struggle could loose them; and under these sad -circumstances, common to us all, their thoughts could find no -resting-place outside the ever-trodden round of their own petty -history. - -That, at least, was the condition of Godfrey Cass in this -six-and-twentieth year of his life. A movement of compunction, helped -by those small indefinable influences which every personal relation -exerts on a pliant nature, had urged him into a secret marriage, which -was a blight on his life. It was an ugly story of low passion, -delusion, and waking from delusion, which needs not to be dragged from -the privacy of Godfrey’s bitter memory. He had long known that the -delusion was partly due to a trap laid for him by Dunstan, who saw in -his brother’s degrading marriage the means of gratifying at once his -jealous hate and his cupidity. And if Godfrey could have felt himself -simply a victim, the iron bit that destiny had put into his mouth would -have chafed him less intolerably. If the curses he muttered half aloud -when he was alone had had no other object than Dunstan’s diabolical -cunning, he might have shrunk less from the consequences of avowal. But -he had something else to curse—his own vicious folly, which now seemed -as mad and unaccountable to him as almost all our follies and vices do -when their promptings have long passed away. For four years he had -thought of Nancy Lammeter, and wooed her with tacit patient worship, as -the woman who made him think of the future with joy: she would be his -wife, and would make home lovely to him, as his father’s home had never -been; and it would be easy, when she was always near, to shake off -those foolish habits that were no pleasures, but only a feverish way of -annulling vacancy. Godfrey’s was an essentially domestic nature, bred -up in a home where the hearth had no smiles, and where the daily habits -were not chastised by the presence of household order. His easy -disposition made him fall in unresistingly with the family courses, but -the need of some tender permanent affection, the longing for some -influence that would make the good he preferred easy to pursue, caused -the neatness, purity, and liberal orderliness of the Lammeter -household, sunned by the smile of Nancy, to seem like those fresh -bright hours of the morning when temptations go to sleep and leave the -ear open to the voice of the good angel, inviting to industry, -sobriety, and peace. And yet the hope of this paradise had not been -enough to save him from a course which shut him out of it for ever. -Instead of keeping fast hold of the strong silken rope by which Nancy -would have drawn him safe to the green banks where it was easy to step -firmly, he had let himself be dragged back into mud and slime, in which -it was useless to struggle. He had made ties for himself which robbed -him of all wholesome motive, and were a constant exasperation. - -Still, there was one position worse than the present: it was the -position he would be in when the ugly secret was disclosed; and the -desire that continually triumphed over every other was that of warding -off the evil day, when he would have to bear the consequences of his -father’s violent resentment for the wound inflicted on his family -pride—would have, perhaps, to turn his back on that hereditary ease and -dignity which, after all, was a sort of reason for living, and would -carry with him the certainty that he was banished for ever from the -sight and esteem of Nancy Lammeter. The longer the interval, the more -chance there was of deliverance from some, at least, of the hateful -consequences to which he had sold himself; the more opportunities -remained for him to snatch the strange gratification of seeing Nancy, -and gathering some faint indications of her lingering regard. Towards -this gratification he was impelled, fitfully, every now and then, after -having passed weeks in which he had avoided her as the far-off -bright-winged prize that only made him spring forward and find his -chain all the more galling. One of those fits of yearning was on him -now, and it would have been strong enough to have persuaded him to -trust Wildfire to Dunstan rather than disappoint the yearning, even if -he had not had another reason for his disinclination towards the -morrow’s hunt. That other reason was the fact that the morning’s meet -was near Batherley, the market-town where the unhappy woman lived, -whose image became more odious to him every day; and to his thought the -whole vicinage was haunted by her. The yoke a man creates for himself -by wrong-doing will breed hate in the kindliest nature; and the -good-humoured, affectionate-hearted Godfrey Cass was fast becoming a -bitter man, visited by cruel wishes, that seemed to enter, and depart, -and enter again, like demons who had found in him a ready-garnished -home. - -What was he to do this evening to pass the time? He might as well go to -the Rainbow, and hear the talk about the cock-fighting: everybody was -there, and what else was there to be done? Though, for his own part, he -did not care a button for cock-fighting. Snuff, the brown spaniel, who -had placed herself in front of him, and had been watching him for some -time, now jumped up in impatience for the expected caress. But Godfrey -thrust her away without looking at her, and left the room, followed -humbly by the unresenting Snuff—perhaps because she saw no other career -open to her. - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -Dunstan Cass, setting off in the raw morning, at the judiciously quiet -pace of a man who is obliged to ride to cover on his hunter, had to -take his way along the lane which, at its farther extremity, passed by -the piece of unenclosed ground called the Stone-pit, where stood the -cottage, once a stone-cutter’s shed, now for fifteen years inhabited by -Silas Marner. The spot looked very dreary at this season, with the -moist trodden clay about it, and the red, muddy water high up in the -deserted quarry. That was Dunstan’s first thought as he approached it; -the second was, that the old fool of a weaver, whose loom he heard -rattling already, had a great deal of money hidden somewhere. How was -it that he, Dunstan Cass, who had often heard talk of Marner’s -miserliness, had never thought of suggesting to Godfrey that he should -frighten or persuade the old fellow into lending the money on the -excellent security of the young Squire’s prospects? The resource -occurred to him now as so easy and agreeable, especially as Marner’s -hoard was likely to be large enough to leave Godfrey a handsome surplus -beyond his immediate needs, and enable him to accommodate his faithful -brother, that he had almost turned the horse’s head towards home again. -Godfrey would be ready enough to accept the suggestion: he would snatch -eagerly at a plan that might save him from parting with Wildfire. But -when Dunstan’s meditation reached this point, the inclination to go on -grew strong and prevailed. He didn’t want to give Godfrey that -pleasure: he preferred that Master Godfrey should be vexed. Moreover, -Dunstan enjoyed the self-important consciousness of having a horse to -sell, and the opportunity of driving a bargain, swaggering, and -possibly taking somebody in. He might have all the satisfaction -attendant on selling his brother’s horse, and not the less have the -further satisfaction of setting Godfrey to borrow Marner’s money. So he -rode on to cover. - -Bryce and Keating were there, as Dunstan was quite sure they would -be—he was such a lucky fellow. - -“Heyday!” said Bryce, who had long had his eye on Wildfire, “you’re on -your brother’s horse to-day: how’s that?” - -“Oh, I’ve swopped with him,” said Dunstan, whose delight in lying, -grandly independent of utility, was not to be diminished by the -likelihood that his hearer would not believe him—“Wildfire’s mine now.” - -“What! has he swopped with you for that big-boned hack of yours?” said -Bryce, quite aware that he should get another lie in answer. - -“Oh, there was a little account between us,” said Dunsey, carelessly, -“and Wildfire made it even. I accommodated him by taking the horse, -though it was against my will, for I’d got an itch for a mare o’ -Jortin’s—as rare a bit o’ blood as ever you threw your leg across. But -I shall keep Wildfire, now I’ve got him, though I’d a bid of a hundred -and fifty for him the other day, from a man over at Flitton—he’s buying -for Lord Cromleck—a fellow with a cast in his eye, and a green -waistcoat. But I mean to stick to Wildfire: I shan’t get a better at a -fence in a hurry. The mare’s got more blood, but she’s a bit too weak -in the hind-quarters.” - -Bryce of course divined that Dunstan wanted to sell the horse, and -Dunstan knew that he divined it (horse-dealing is only one of many -human transactions carried on in this ingenious manner); and they both -considered that the bargain was in its first stage, when Bryce replied -ironically— - -“I wonder at that now; I wonder you mean to keep him; for I never heard -of a man who didn’t want to sell his horse getting a bid of half as -much again as the horse was worth. You’ll be lucky if you get a -hundred.” - -Keating rode up now, and the transaction became more complicated. It -ended in the purchase of the horse by Bryce for a hundred and twenty, -to be paid on the delivery of Wildfire, safe and sound, at the -Batherley stables. It did occur to Dunsey that it might be wise for him -to give up the day’s hunting, proceed at once to Batherley, and, having -waited for Bryce’s return, hire a horse to carry him home with the -money in his pocket. But the inclination for a run, encouraged by -confidence in his luck, and by a draught of brandy from his -pocket-pistol at the conclusion of the bargain, was not easy to -overcome, especially with a horse under him that would take the fences -to the admiration of the field. Dunstan, however, took one fence too -many, and got his horse pierced with a hedge-stake. His own -ill-favoured person, which was quite unmarketable, escaped without -injury; but poor Wildfire, unconscious of his price, turned on his -flank and painfully panted his last. It happened that Dunstan, a short -time before, having had to get down to arrange his stirrup, had -muttered a good many curses at this interruption, which had thrown him -in the rear of the hunt near the moment of glory, and under this -exasperation had taken the fences more blindly. He would soon have been -up with the hounds again, when the fatal accident happened; and hence -he was between eager riders in advance, not troubling themselves about -what happened behind them, and far-off stragglers, who were as likely -as not to pass quite aloof from the line of road in which Wildfire had -fallen. Dunstan, whose nature it was to care more for immediate -annoyances than for remote consequences, no sooner recovered his legs, -and saw that it was all over with Wildfire, than he felt a satisfaction -at the absence of witnesses to a position which no swaggering could -make enviable. Reinforcing himself, after his shake, with a little -brandy and much swearing, he walked as fast as he could to a coppice on -his right hand, through which it occurred to him that he could make his -way to Batherley without danger of encountering any member of the hunt. -His first intention was to hire a horse there and ride home forthwith, -for to walk many miles without a gun in his hand, and along an ordinary -road, was as much out of the question to him as to other spirited young -men of his kind. He did not much mind about taking the bad news to -Godfrey, for he had to offer him at the same time the resource of -Marner’s money; and if Godfrey kicked, as he always did, at the notion -of making a fresh debt from which he himself got the smallest share of -advantage, why, he wouldn’t kick long: Dunstan felt sure he could worry -Godfrey into anything. The idea of Marner’s money kept growing in -vividness, now the want of it had become immediate; the prospect of -having to make his appearance with the muddy boots of a pedestrian at -Batherley, and to encounter the grinning queries of stablemen, stood -unpleasantly in the way of his impatience to be back at Raveloe and -carry out his felicitous plan; and a casual visitation of his -waistcoat-pocket, as he was ruminating, awakened his memory to the fact -that the two or three small coins his forefinger encountered there were -of too pale a colour to cover that small debt, without payment of which -the stable-keeper had declared he would never do any more business with -Dunsey Cass. After all, according to the direction in which the run had -brought him, he was not so very much farther from home than he was from -Batherley; but Dunsey, not being remarkable for clearness of head, was -only led to this conclusion by the gradual perception that there were -other reasons for choosing the unprecedented course of walking home. It -was now nearly four o’clock, and a mist was gathering: the sooner he -got into the road the better. He remembered having crossed the road and -seen the finger-post only a little while before Wildfire broke down; -so, buttoning his coat, twisting the lash of his hunting-whip compactly -round the handle, and rapping the tops of his boots with a -self-possessed air, as if to assure himself that he was not at all -taken by surprise, he set off with the sense that he was undertaking a -remarkable feat of bodily exertion, which somehow and at some time he -should be able to dress up and magnify to the admiration of a select -circle at the Rainbow. When a young gentleman like Dunsey is reduced to -so exceptional a mode of locomotion as walking, a whip in his hand is a -desirable corrective to a too bewildering dreamy sense of unwontedness -in his position; and Dunstan, as he went along through the gathering -mist, was always rapping his whip somewhere. It was Godfrey’s whip, -which he had chosen to take without leave because it had a gold handle; -of course no one could see, when Dunstan held it, that the name -_Godfrey Cass_ was cut in deep letters on that gold handle—they could -only see that it was a very handsome whip. Dunsey was not without fear -that he might meet some acquaintance in whose eyes he would cut a -pitiable figure, for mist is no screen when people get close to each -other; but when he at last found himself in the well-known Raveloe -lanes without having met a soul, he silently remarked that that was -part of his usual good luck. But now the mist, helped by the evening -darkness, was more of a screen than he desired, for it hid the ruts -into which his feet were liable to slip—hid everything, so that he had -to guide his steps by dragging his whip along the low bushes in advance -of the hedgerow. He must soon, he thought, be getting near the opening -at the Stone-pits: he should find it out by the break in the hedgerow. -He found it out, however, by another circumstance which he had not -expected—namely, by certain gleams of light, which he presently guessed -to proceed from Silas Marner’s cottage. That cottage and the money -hidden within it had been in his mind continually during his walk, and -he had been imagining ways of cajoling and tempting the weaver to part -with the immediate possession of his money for the sake of receiving -interest. Dunstan felt as if there must be a little frightening added -to the cajolery, for his own arithmetical convictions were not clear -enough to afford him any forcible demonstration as to the advantages of -interest; and as for security, he regarded it vaguely as a means of -cheating a man by making him believe that he would be paid. Altogether, -the operation on the miser’s mind was a task that Godfrey would be sure -to hand over to his more daring and cunning brother: Dunstan had made -up his mind to that; and by the time he saw the light gleaming through -the chinks of Marner’s shutters, the idea of a dialogue with the weaver -had become so familiar to him, that it occurred to him as quite a -natural thing to make the acquaintance forthwith. There might be -several conveniences attending this course: the weaver had possibly got -a lantern, and Dunstan was tired of feeling his way. He was still -nearly three-quarters of a mile from home, and the lane was becoming -unpleasantly slippery, for the mist was passing into rain. He turned up -the bank, not without some fear lest he might miss the right way, since -he was not certain whether the light were in front or on the side of -the cottage. But he felt the ground before him cautiously with his -whip-handle, and at last arrived safely at the door. He knocked loudly, -rather enjoying the idea that the old fellow would be frightened at the -sudden noise. He heard no movement in reply: all was silence in the -cottage. Was the weaver gone to bed, then? If so, why had he left a -light? That was a strange forgetfulness in a miser. Dunstan knocked -still more loudly, and, without pausing for a reply, pushed his fingers -through the latch-hole, intending to shake the door and pull the -latch-string up and down, not doubting that the door was fastened. But, -to his surprise, at this double motion the door opened, and he found -himself in front of a bright fire which lit up every corner of the -cottage—the bed, the loom, the three chairs, and the table—and showed -him that Marner was not there. - -Nothing at that moment could be much more inviting to Dunsey than the -bright fire on the brick hearth: he walked in and seated himself by it -at once. There was something in front of the fire, too, that would have -been inviting to a hungry man, if it had been in a different stage of -cooking. It was a small bit of pork suspended from the kettle-hanger by -a string passed through a large door-key, in a way known to primitive -housekeepers unpossessed of jacks. But the pork had been hung at the -farthest extremity of the hanger, apparently to prevent the roasting -from proceeding too rapidly during the owner’s absence. The old staring -simpleton had hot meat for his supper, then? thought Dunstan. People -had always said he lived on mouldy bread, on purpose to check his -appetite. But where could he be at this time, and on such an evening, -leaving his supper in this stage of preparation, and his door -unfastened? Dunstan’s own recent difficulty in making his way suggested -to him that the weaver had perhaps gone outside his cottage to fetch in -fuel, or for some such brief purpose, and had slipped into the -Stone-pit. That was an interesting idea to Dunstan, carrying -consequences of entire novelty. If the weaver was dead, who had a right -to his money? Who would know where his money was hidden? _Who would -know that anybody had come to take it away?_ He went no farther into -the subtleties of evidence: the pressing question, “Where _is_ the -money?” now took such entire possession of him as to make him quite -forget that the weaver’s death was not a certainty. A dull mind, once -arriving at an inference that flatters a desire, is rarely able to -retain the impression that the notion from which the inference started -was purely problematic. And Dunstan’s mind was as dull as the mind of a -possible felon usually is. There were only three hiding-places where he -had ever heard of cottagers’ hoards being found: the thatch, the bed, -and a hole in the floor. Marner’s cottage had no thatch; and Dunstan’s -first act, after a train of thought made rapid by the stimulus of -cupidity, was to go up to the bed; but while he did so, his eyes -travelled eagerly over the floor, where the bricks, distinct in the -fire-light, were discernible under the sprinkling of sand. But not -everywhere; for there was one spot, and one only, which was quite -covered with sand, and sand showing the marks of fingers, which had -apparently been careful to spread it over a given space. It was near -the treddles of the loom. In an instant Dunstan darted to that spot, -swept away the sand with his whip, and, inserting the thin end of the -hook between the bricks, found that they were loose. In haste he lifted -up two bricks, and saw what he had no doubt was the object of his -search; for what could there be but money in those two leathern bags? -And, from their weight, they must be filled with guineas. Dunstan felt -round the hole, to be certain that it held no more; then hastily -replaced the bricks, and spread the sand over them. Hardly more than -five minutes had passed since he entered the cottage, but it seemed to -Dunstan like a long while; and though he was without any distinct -recognition of the possibility that Marner might be alive, and might -re-enter the cottage at any moment, he felt an undefinable dread laying -hold on him, as he rose to his feet with the bags in his hand. He would -hasten out into the darkness, and then consider what he should do with -the bags. He closed the door behind him immediately, that he might shut -in the stream of light: a few steps would be enough to carry him beyond -betrayal by the gleams from the shutter-chinks and the latch-hole. The -rain and darkness had got thicker, and he was glad of it; though it was -awkward walking with both hands filled, so that it was as much as he -could do to grasp his whip along with one of the bags. But when he had -gone a yard or two, he might take his time. So he stepped forward into -the darkness. - - - -CHAPTER V. - -When Dunstan Cass turned his back on the cottage, Silas Marner was not -more than a hundred yards away from it, plodding along from the village -with a sack thrown round his shoulders as an overcoat, and with a horn -lantern in his hand. His legs were weary, but his mind was at ease, -free from the presentiment of change. The sense of security more -frequently springs from habit than from conviction, and for this reason -it often subsists after such a change in the conditions as might have -been expected to suggest alarm. The lapse of time during which a given -event has not happened, is, in this logic of habit, constantly alleged -as a reason why the event should never happen, even when the lapse of -time is precisely the added condition which makes the event imminent. A -man will tell you that he has worked in a mine for forty years unhurt -by an accident as a reason why he should apprehend no danger, though -the roof is beginning to sink; and it is often observable, that the -older a man gets, the more difficult it is to him to retain a believing -conception of his own death. This influence of habit was necessarily -strong in a man whose life was so monotonous as Marner’s—who saw no new -people and heard of no new events to keep alive in him the idea of the -unexpected and the changeful; and it explains simply enough, why his -mind could be at ease, though he had left his house and his treasure -more defenceless than usual. Silas was thinking with double complacency -of his supper: first, because it would be hot and savoury; and -secondly, because it would cost him nothing. For the little bit of pork -was a present from that excellent housewife, Miss Priscilla Lammeter, -to whom he had this day carried home a handsome piece of linen; and it -was only on occasion of a present like this, that Silas indulged -himself with roast-meat. Supper was his favourite meal, because it came -at his time of revelry, when his heart warmed over his gold; whenever -he had roast-meat, he always chose to have it for supper. But this -evening, he had no sooner ingeniously knotted his string fast round his -bit of pork, twisted the string according to rule over his door-key, -passed it through the handle, and made it fast on the hanger, than he -remembered that a piece of very fine twine was indispensable to his -“setting up” a new piece of work in his loom early in the morning. It -had slipped his memory, because, in coming from Mr. Lammeter’s, he had -not had to pass through the village; but to lose time by going on -errands in the morning was out of the question. It was a nasty fog to -turn out into, but there were things Silas loved better than his own -comfort; so, drawing his pork to the extremity of the hanger, and -arming himself with his lantern and his old sack, he set out on what, -in ordinary weather, would have been a twenty minutes’ errand. He could -not have locked his door without undoing his well-knotted string and -retarding his supper; it was not worth his while to make that -sacrifice. What thief would find his way to the Stone-pits on such a -night as this? and why should he come on this particular night, when he -had never come through all the fifteen years before? These questions -were not distinctly present in Silas’s mind; they merely serve to -represent the vaguely-felt foundation of his freedom from anxiety. - -He reached his door in much satisfaction that his errand was done: he -opened it, and to his short-sighted eyes everything remained as he had -left it, except that the fire sent out a welcome increase of heat. He -trod about the floor while putting by his lantern and throwing aside -his hat and sack, so as to merge the marks of Dunstan’s feet on the -sand in the marks of his own nailed boots. Then he moved his pork -nearer to the fire, and sat down to the agreeable business of tending -the meat and warming himself at the same time. - -Any one who had looked at him as the red light shone upon his pale -face, strange straining eyes, and meagre form, would perhaps have -understood the mixture of contemptuous pity, dread, and suspicion with -which he was regarded by his neighbours in Raveloe. Yet few men could -be more harmless than poor Marner. In his truthful simple soul, not -even the growing greed and worship of gold could beget any vice -directly injurious to others. The light of his faith quite put out, and -his affections made desolate, he had clung with all the force of his -nature to his work and his money; and like all objects to which a man -devotes himself, they had fashioned him into correspondence with -themselves. His loom, as he wrought in it without ceasing, had in its -turn wrought on him, and confirmed more and more the monotonous craving -for its monotonous response. His gold, as he hung over it and saw it -grow, gathered his power of loving together into a hard isolation like -its own. - -As soon as he was warm he began to think it would be a long while to -wait till after supper before he drew out his guineas, and it would be -pleasant to see them on the table before him as he ate his unwonted -feast. For joy is the best of wine, and Silas’s guineas were a golden -wine of that sort. - -He rose and placed his candle unsuspectingly on the floor near his -loom, swept away the sand without noticing any change, and removed the -bricks. The sight of the empty hole made his heart leap violently, but -the belief that his gold was gone could not come at once—only terror, -and the eager effort to put an end to the terror. He passed his -trembling hand all about the hole, trying to think it possible that his -eyes had deceived him; then he held the candle in the hole and examined -it curiously, trembling more and more. At last he shook so violently -that he let fall the candle, and lifted his hands to his head, trying -to steady himself, that he might think. Had he put his gold somewhere -else, by a sudden resolution last night, and then forgotten it? A man -falling into dark waters seeks a momentary footing even on sliding -stones; and Silas, by acting as if he believed in false hopes, warded -off the moment of despair. He searched in every corner, he turned his -bed over, and shook it, and kneaded it; he looked in his brick oven -where he laid his sticks. When there was no other place to be searched, -he kneeled down again and felt once more all round the hole. There was -no untried refuge left for a moment’s shelter from the terrible truth. - -Yes, there was a sort of refuge which always comes with the prostration -of thought under an overpowering passion: it was that expectation of -impossibilities, that belief in contradictory images, which is still -distinct from madness, because it is capable of being dissipated by the -external fact. Silas got up from his knees trembling, and looked round -at the table: didn’t the gold lie there after all? The table was bare. -Then he turned and looked behind him—looked all round his dwelling, -seeming to strain his brown eyes after some possible appearance of the -bags where he had already sought them in vain. He could see every -object in his cottage—and his gold was not there. - -Again he put his trembling hands to his head, and gave a wild ringing -scream, the cry of desolation. For a few moments after, he stood -motionless; but the cry had relieved him from the first maddening -pressure of the truth. He turned, and tottered towards his loom, and -got into the seat where he worked, instinctively seeking this as the -strongest assurance of reality. - -And now that all the false hopes had vanished, and the first shock of -certainty was past, the idea of a thief began to present itself, and he -entertained it eagerly, because a thief might be caught and made to -restore the gold. The thought brought some new strength with it, and he -started from his loom to the door. As he opened it the rain beat in -upon him, for it was falling more and more heavily. There were no -footsteps to be tracked on such a night—footsteps? When had the thief -come? During Silas’s absence in the daytime the door had been locked, -and there had been no marks of any inroad on his return by daylight. -And in the evening, too, he said to himself, everything was the same as -when he had left it. The sand and bricks looked as if they had not been -moved. _Was_ it a thief who had taken the bags? or was it a cruel power -that no hands could reach, which had delighted in making him a second -time desolate? He shrank from this vaguer dread, and fixed his mind -with struggling effort on the robber with hands, who could be reached -by hands. His thoughts glanced at all the neighbours who had made any -remarks, or asked any questions which he might now regard as a ground -of suspicion. There was Jem Rodney, a known poacher, and otherwise -disreputable: he had often met Marner in his journeys across the -fields, and had said something jestingly about the weaver’s money; nay, -he had once irritated Marner, by lingering at the fire when he called -to light his pipe, instead of going about his business. Jem Rodney was -the man—there was ease in the thought. Jem could be found and made to -restore the money: Marner did not want to punish him, but only to get -back his gold which had gone from him, and left his soul like a forlorn -traveller on an unknown desert. The robber must be laid hold of. -Marner’s ideas of legal authority were confused, but he felt that he -must go and proclaim his loss; and the great people in the village—the -clergyman, the constable, and Squire Cass—would make Jem Rodney, or -somebody else, deliver up the stolen money. He rushed out in the rain, -under the stimulus of this hope, forgetting to cover his head, not -caring to fasten his door; for he felt as if he had nothing left to -lose. He ran swiftly, till want of breath compelled him to slacken his -pace as he was entering the village at the turning close to the -Rainbow. - -The Rainbow, in Marner’s view, was a place of luxurious resort for rich -and stout husbands, whose wives had superfluous stores of linen; it was -the place where he was likely to find the powers and dignities of -Raveloe, and where he could most speedily make his loss public. He -lifted the latch, and turned into the bright bar or kitchen on the -right hand, where the less lofty customers of the house were in the -habit of assembling, the parlour on the left being reserved for the -more select society in which Squire Cass frequently enjoyed the double -pleasure of conviviality and condescension. But the parlour was dark -to-night, the chief personages who ornamented its circle being all at -Mrs. Osgood’s birthday dance, as Godfrey Cass was. And in consequence -of this, the party on the high-screened seats in the kitchen was more -numerous than usual; several personages, who would otherwise have been -admitted into the parlour and enlarged the opportunity of hectoring and -condescension for their betters, being content this evening to vary -their enjoyment by taking their spirits-and-water where they could -themselves hector and condescend in company that called for beer. - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -The conversation, which was at a high pitch of animation when Silas -approached the door of the Rainbow, had, as usual, been slow and -intermittent when the company first assembled. The pipes began to be -puffed in a silence which had an air of severity; the more important -customers, who drank spirits and sat nearest the fire, staring at each -other as if a bet were depending on the first man who winked; while the -beer-drinkers, chiefly men in fustian jackets and smock-frocks, kept -their eyelids down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, as if -their draughts of beer were a funereal duty attended with embarrassing -sadness. At last Mr. Snell, the landlord, a man of a neutral -disposition, accustomed to stand aloof from human differences as those -of beings who were all alike in need of liquor, broke silence, by -saying in a doubtful tone to his cousin the butcher— - -“Some folks ’ud say that was a fine beast you druv in yesterday, Bob?” - -The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was not disposed to -answer rashly. He gave a few puffs before he spat and replied, “And -they wouldn’t be fur wrong, John.” - -After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as severely as -before. - -“Was it a red Durham?” said the farrier, taking up the thread of -discourse after the lapse of a few minutes. - -The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord looked at the -butcher, as the person who must take the responsibility of answering. - -“Red it was,” said the butcher, in his good-humoured husky treble—“and -a Durham it was.” - -“Then you needn’t tell _me_ who you bought it of,” said the farrier, -looking round with some triumph; “I know who it is has got the red -Durhams o’ this country-side. And she’d a white star on her brow, I’ll -bet a penny?” The farrier leaned forward with his hands on his knees as -he put this question, and his eyes twinkled knowingly. - -“Well; yes—she might,” said the butcher, slowly, considering that he -was giving a decided affirmative. “I don’t say contrairy.” - -“I knew that very well,” said the farrier, throwing himself backward -again, and speaking defiantly; “if _I_ don’t know Mr. Lammeter’s cows, -I should like to know who does—that’s all. And as for the cow you’ve -bought, bargain or no bargain, I’ve been at the drenching of -her—contradick me who will.” - -The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher’s conversational spirit -was roused a little. - -“I’m not for contradicking no man,” he said; “I’m for peace and -quietness. Some are for cutting long ribs—I’m for cutting ’em short -myself; but _I_ don’t quarrel with ’em. All I say is, it’s a lovely -carkiss—and anybody as was reasonable, it ’ud bring tears into their -eyes to look at it.” - -“Well, it’s the cow as I drenched, whatever it is,” pursued the -farrier, angrily; “and it was Mr. Lammeter’s cow, else you told a lie -when you said it was a red Durham.” - -“I tell no lies,” said the butcher, with the same mild huskiness as -before, “and I contradick none—not if a man was to swear himself black: -he’s no meat o’ mine, nor none o’ my bargains. All I say is, it’s a -lovely carkiss. And what I say, I’ll stick to; but I’ll quarrel wi’ no -man.” - -“No,” said the farrier, with bitter sarcasm, looking at the company -generally; “and p’rhaps you aren’t pig-headed; and p’rhaps you didn’t -say the cow was a red Durham; and p’rhaps you didn’t say she’d got a -star on her brow—stick to that, now you’re at it.” - -“Come, come,” said the landlord; “let the cow alone. The truth lies -atween you: you’re both right and both wrong, as I allays say. And as -for the cow’s being Mr. Lammeter’s, I say nothing to that; but this I -say, as the Rainbow’s the Rainbow. And for the matter o’ that, if the -talk is to be o’ the Lammeters, _you_ know the most upo’ that head, eh, -Mr. Macey? You remember when first Mr. Lammeter’s father come into -these parts, and took the Warrens?” - -Mr. Macey, tailor and parish-clerk, the latter of which functions -rheumatism had of late obliged him to share with a small-featured young -man who sat opposite him, held his white head on one side, and twirled -his thumbs with an air of complacency, slightly seasoned with -criticism. He smiled pityingly, in answer to the landlord’s appeal, and -said— - -“Aye, aye; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk. I’ve laid by -now, and gev up to the young uns. Ask them as have been to school at -Tarley: they’ve learnt pernouncing; that’s come up since my day.” - -“If you’re pointing at me, Mr. Macey,” said the deputy clerk, with an -air of anxious propriety, “I’m nowise a man to speak out of my place. -As the psalm says— - -“I know what’s right, nor only so, -But also practise what I know.” - - -“Well, then, I wish you’d keep hold o’ the tune, when it’s set for you; -if you’re for prac_tis_ing, I wish you’d prac_tise_ that,” said a large -jocose-looking man, an excellent wheelwright in his week-day capacity, -but on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as he spoke, at two of -the company, who were known officially as the “bassoon” and the -“key-bugle”, in the confidence that he was expressing the sense of the -musical profession in Raveloe. - -Mr. Tookey, the deputy-clerk, who shared the unpopularity common to -deputies, turned very red, but replied, with careful moderation—“Mr. -Winthrop, if you’ll bring me any proof as I’m in the wrong, I’m not the -man to say I won’t alter. But there’s people set up their own ears for -a standard, and expect the whole choir to follow ’em. There may be two -opinions, I hope.” - -“Aye, aye,” said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied with this -attack on youthful presumption; “you’re right there, Tookey: there’s -allays two ’pinions; there’s the ’pinion a man has of himsen, and -there’s the ’pinion other folks have on him. There’d be two ’pinions -about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear itself.” - -“Well, Mr. Macey,” said poor Tookey, serious amidst the general -laughter, “I undertook to partially fill up the office of parish-clerk -by Mr. Crackenthorp’s desire, whenever your infirmities should make you -unfitting; and it’s one of the rights thereof to sing in the choir—else -why have you done the same yourself?” - -“Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks,” said Ben Winthrop. -“The old gentleman’s got a gift. Why, the Squire used to invite him to -take a glass, only to hear him sing the “Red Rovier”; didn’t he, Mr. -Macey? It’s a nat’ral gift. There’s my little lad Aaron, he’s got a -gift—he can sing a tune off straight, like a throstle. But as for you, -Master Tookey, you’d better stick to your “Amens”: your voice is well -enough when you keep it up in your nose. It’s your inside as isn’t -right made for music: it’s no better nor a hollow stalk.” - -This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant form of joke to -the company at the Rainbow, and Ben Winthrop’s insult was felt by -everybody to have capped Mr. Macey’s epigram. - -“I see what it is plain enough,” said Mr. Tookey, unable to keep cool -any longer. “There’s a consperacy to turn me out o’ the choir, as I -shouldn’t share the Christmas money—that’s where it is. But I shall -speak to Mr. Crackenthorp; I’ll not be put upon by no man.” - -“Nay, nay, Tookey,” said Ben Winthrop. “We’ll pay you your share to -keep out of it—that’s what we’ll do. There’s things folks ’ud pay to be -rid on, besides varmin.” - -“Come, come,” said the landlord, who felt that paying people for their -absence was a principle dangerous to society; “a joke’s a joke. We’re -all good friends here, I hope. We must give and take. You’re both right -and you’re both wrong, as I say. I agree wi’ Mr. Macey here, as there’s -two opinions; and if mine was asked, I should say they’re both right. -Tookey’s right and Winthrop’s right, and they’ve only got to split the -difference and make themselves even.” - -The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in some contempt at -this trivial discussion. He had no ear for music himself, and never -went to church, as being of the medical profession, and likely to be in -requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher, having music in his -soul, had listened with a divided desire for Tookey’s defeat and for -the preservation of the peace. - -“To be sure,” he said, following up the landlord’s conciliatory view, -“we’re fond of our old clerk; it’s nat’ral, and him used to be such a -singer, and got a brother as is known for the first fiddler in this -country-side. Eh, it’s a pity but what Solomon lived in our village, -and could give us a tune when we liked; eh, Mr. Macey? I’d keep him in -liver and lights for nothing—that I would.” - -“Aye, aye,” said Mr. Macey, in the height of complacency; “our family’s -been known for musicianers as far back as anybody can tell. But them -things are dying out, as I tell Solomon every time he comes round; -there’s no voices like what there used to be, and there’s nobody -remembers what we remember, if it isn’t the old crows.” - -“Aye, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter’s father come into these -parts, don’t you, Mr. Macey?” said the landlord. - -“I should think I did,” said the old man, who had now gone through that -complimentary process necessary to bring him up to the point of -narration; “and a fine old gentleman he was—as fine, and finer nor the -Mr. Lammeter as now is. He came from a bit north’ard, so far as I could -ever make out. But there’s nobody rightly knows about those parts: only -it couldn’t be far north’ard, nor much different from this country, for -he brought a fine breed o’ sheep with him, so there must be pastures -there, and everything reasonable. We heared tell as he’d sold his own -land to come and take the Warrens, and that seemed odd for a man as had -land of his own, to come and rent a farm in a strange place. But they -said it was along of his wife’s dying; though there’s reasons in things -as nobody knows on—that’s pretty much what I’ve made out; yet some -folks are so wise, they’ll find you fifty reasons straight off, and all -the while the real reason’s winking at ’em in the corner, and they -niver see’t. Howsomever, it was soon seen as we’d got a new parish’ner -as know’d the rights and customs o’ things, and kep a good house, and -was well looked on by everybody. And the young man—that’s the Mr. -Lammeter as now is, for he’d niver a sister—soon begun to court Miss -Osgood, that’s the sister o’ the Mr. Osgood as now is, and a fine -handsome lass she was—eh, you can’t think—they pretend this young lass -is like her, but that’s the way wi’ people as don’t know what come -before ’em. _I_ should know, for I helped the old rector, Mr. Drumlow -as was, I helped him marry ’em.” - -Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative in instalments, -expecting to be questioned according to precedent. - -“Aye, and a partic’lar thing happened, didn’t it, Mr. Macey, so as you -were likely to remember that marriage?” said the landlord, in a -congratulatory tone. - -“I should think there did—a _very_ partic’lar thing,” said Mr. Macey, -nodding sideways. “For Mr. Drumlow—poor old gentleman, I was fond on -him, though he’d got a bit confused in his head, what wi’ age and wi’ -taking a drop o’ summat warm when the service come of a cold morning. -And young Mr. Lammeter, he’d have no way but he must be married in -Janiwary, which, to be sure, ’s a unreasonable time to be married in, -for it isn’t like a christening or a burying, as you can’t help; and so -Mr. Drumlow—poor old gentleman, I was fond on him—but when he come to -put the questions, he put ’em by the rule o’ contrairy, like, and he -says, “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded wife?” says he, and then -he says, “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded husband?” says he. -But the partic’larest thing of all is, as nobody took any notice on it -but me, and they answered straight off “yes”, like as if it had been me -saying “Amen” i’ the right place, without listening to what went -before.” - -“But _you_ knew what was going on well enough, didn’t you, Mr. Macey? -You were live enough, eh?” said the butcher. - -“Lor bless you!” said Mr. Macey, pausing, and smiling in pity at the -impotence of his hearer’s imagination—“why, I was all of a tremble: it -was as if I’d been a coat pulled by the two tails, like; for I couldn’t -stop the parson, I couldn’t take upon me to do that; and yet I said to -myself, I says, “Suppose they shouldn’t be fast married, ’cause the -words are contrairy?” and my head went working like a mill, for I was -allays uncommon for turning things over and seeing all round ’em; and I -says to myself, “Is’t the meanin’ or the words as makes folks fast i’ -wedlock?” For the parson meant right, and the bride and bridegroom -meant right. But then, when I come to think on it, meanin’ goes but a -little way i’ most things, for you may mean to stick things together -and your glue may be bad, and then where are you? And so I says to -mysen, “It isn’t the meanin’, it’s the glue.” And I was worreted as if -I’d got three bells to pull at once, when we went into the vestry, and -they begun to sign their names. But where’s the use o’ talking?—you -can’t think what goes on in a ’cute man’s inside.” - -“But you held in for all that, didn’t you, Mr. Macey?” said the -landlord. - -“Aye, I held in tight till I was by mysen wi’ Mr. Drumlow, and then I -out wi’ everything, but respectful, as I allays did. And he made light -on it, and he says, “Pooh, pooh, Macey, make yourself easy,” he says; -“it’s neither the meaning nor the words—it’s the re_ges_ter does -it—that’s the glue.” So you see he settled it easy; for parsons and -doctors know everything by heart, like, so as they aren’t worreted wi’ -thinking what’s the rights and wrongs o’ things, as I’n been many and -many’s the time. And sure enough the wedding turned out all right, on’y -poor Mrs. Lammeter—that’s Miss Osgood as was—died afore the lasses was -growed up; but for prosperity and everything respectable, there’s no -family more looked on.” - -Every one of Mr. Macey’s audience had heard this story many times, but -it was listened to as if it had been a favourite tune, and at certain -points the puffing of the pipes was momentarily suspended, that the -listeners might give their whole minds to the expected words. But there -was more to come; and Mr. Snell, the landlord, duly put the leading -question. - -“Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn’t they say, when he -come into these parts?” - -“Well, yes,” said Mr. Macey; “but I daresay it’s as much as this Mr. -Lammeter’s done to keep it whole. For there was allays a talk as nobody -could get rich on the Warrens: though he holds it cheap, for it’s what -they call Charity Land.” - -“Aye, and there’s few folks know so well as you how it come to be -Charity Land, eh, Mr. Macey?” said the butcher. - -“How should they?” said the old clerk, with some contempt. “Why, my -grandfather made the grooms’ livery for that Mr. Cliff as came and -built the big stables at the Warrens. Why, they’re stables four times -as big as Squire Cass’s, for he thought o’ nothing but hosses and -hunting, Cliff didn’t—a Lunnon tailor, some folks said, as had gone mad -wi’ cheating. For he couldn’t ride; lor bless you! they said he’d got -no more grip o’ the hoss than if his legs had been cross-sticks: my -grandfather heared old Squire Cass say so many and many a time. But -ride he would, as if Old Harry had been a-driving him; and he’d a son, -a lad o’ sixteen; and nothing would his father have him do, but he must -ride and ride—though the lad was frighted, they said. And it was a -common saying as the father wanted to ride the tailor out o’ the lad, -and make a gentleman on him—not but what I’m a tailor myself, but in -respect as God made me such, I’m proud on it, for “Macey, tailor”, ’s -been wrote up over our door since afore the Queen’s heads went out on -the shillings. But Cliff, he was ashamed o’ being called a tailor, and -he was sore vexed as his riding was laughed at, and nobody o’ the -gentlefolks hereabout could abide him. Howsomever, the poor lad got -sickly and died, and the father didn’t live long after him, for he got -queerer nor ever, and they said he used to go out i’ the dead o’ the -night, wi’ a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o’ -lights burning, for he got as he couldn’t sleep; and there he’d stand, -cracking his whip and looking at his hosses; and they said it was a -mercy as the stables didn’t get burnt down wi’ the poor dumb creaturs -in ’em. But at last he died raving, and they found as he’d left all his -property, Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity, and that’s how the -Warrens come to be Charity Land; though, as for the stables, Mr. -Lammeter never uses ’em—they’re out o’ all charicter—lor bless you! if -you was to set the doors a-banging in ’em, it ’ud sound like thunder -half o’er the parish.” - -“Aye, but there’s more going on in the stables than what folks see by -daylight, eh, Mr. Macey?” said the landlord. - -“Aye, aye; go that way of a dark night, that’s all,” said Mr. Macey, -winking mysteriously, “and then make believe, if you like, as you -didn’t see lights i’ the stables, nor hear the stamping o’ the hosses, -nor the cracking o’ the whips, and howling, too, if it’s tow’rt -daybreak. “Cliff’s Holiday” has been the name of it ever sin’ I were a -boy; that’s to say, some said as it was the holiday Old Harry gev him -from roasting, like. That’s what my father told me, and he was a -reasonable man, though there’s folks nowadays know what happened afore -they were born better nor they know their own business.” - -“What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas?” said the landlord, turning to -the farrier, who was swelling with impatience for his cue. “There’s a -nut for _you_ to crack.” - -Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, and was proud of his -position. - -“Say? I say what a man _should_ say as doesn’t shut his eyes to look at -a finger-post. I say, as I’m ready to wager any man ten pound, if he’ll -stand out wi’ me any dry night in the pasture before the Warren -stables, as we shall neither see lights nor hear noises, if it isn’t -the blowing of our own noses. That’s what I say, and I’ve said it many -a time; but there’s nobody ’ull ventur a ten-pun’ note on their ghos’es -as they make so sure of.” - -“Why, Dowlas, that’s easy betting, that is,” said Ben Winthrop. “You -might as well bet a man as he wouldn’t catch the rheumatise if he stood -up to ’s neck in the pool of a frosty night. It ’ud be fine fun for a -man to win his bet as he’d catch the rheumatise. Folks as believe in -Cliff’s Holiday aren’t agoing to ventur near it for a matter o’ ten -pound.” - -“If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it,” said Mr. Macey, with -a sarcastic smile, tapping his thumbs together, “he’s no call to lay -any bet—let him go and stan’ by himself—there’s nobody ’ull hinder him; -and then he can let the parish’ners know if they’re wrong.” - -“Thank you! I’m obliged to you,” said the farrier, with a snort of -scorn. “If folks are fools, it’s no business o’ mine. _I_ don’t want to -make out the truth about ghos’es: I know it a’ready. But I’m not -against a bet—everything fair and open. Let any man bet me ten pound as -I shall see Cliff’s Holiday, and I’ll go and stand by myself. I want no -company. I’d as lief do it as I’d fill this pipe.” - -“Ah, but who’s to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do it? That’s no fair -bet,” said the butcher. - -“No fair bet?” replied Mr. Dowlas, angrily. “I should like to hear any -man stand up and say I want to bet unfair. Come now, Master Lundy, I -should like to hear you say it.” - -“Very like you would,” said the butcher. “But it’s no business o’ mine. -You’re none o’ my bargains, and I aren’t a-going to try and ’bate your -price. If anybody ’ll bid for you at your own vallying, let him. I’m -for peace and quietness, I am.” - -“Yes, that’s what every yapping cur is, when you hold a stick up at -him,” said the farrier. “But I’m afraid o’ neither man nor ghost, and -I’m ready to lay a fair bet. _I_ aren’t a turn-tail cur.” - -“Aye, but there’s this in it, Dowlas,” said the landlord, speaking in a -tone of much candour and tolerance. “There’s folks, i’ my opinion, they -can’t see ghos’es, not if they stood as plain as a pike-staff before -’em. And there’s reason i’ that. For there’s my wife, now, can’t smell, -not if she’d the strongest o’ cheese under her nose. I never see’d a -ghost myself; but then I says to myself, “Very like I haven’t got the -smell for ’em.” I mean, putting a ghost for a smell, or else -contrairiways. And so, I’m for holding with both sides; for, as I say, -the truth lies between ’em. And if Dowlas was to go and stand, and say -he’d never seen a wink o’ Cliff’s Holiday all the night through, I’d -back him; and if anybody said as Cliff’s Holiday was certain sure, for -all that, I’d back _him_ too. For the smell’s what I go by.” - -The landlord’s analogical argument was not well received by the -farrier—a man intensely opposed to compromise. - -“Tut, tut,” he said, setting down his glass with refreshed irritation; -“what’s the smell got to do with it? Did ever a ghost give a man a -black eye? That’s what I should like to know. If ghos’es want me to -believe in ’em, let ’em leave off skulking i’ the dark and i’ lone -places—let ’em come where there’s company and candles.” - -“As if ghos’es ’ud want to be believed in by anybody so ignirant!” said -Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at the farrier’s crass incompetence to -apprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena. - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -Yet the next moment there seemed to be some evidence that ghosts had a -more condescending disposition than Mr. Macey attributed to them; for -the pale thin figure of Silas Marner was suddenly seen standing in the -warm light, uttering no word, but looking round at the company with his -strange unearthly eyes. The long pipes gave a simultaneous movement, -like the antennae of startled insects, and every man present, not -excepting even the sceptical farrier, had an impression that he saw, -not Silas Marner in the flesh, but an apparition; for the door by which -Silas had entered was hidden by the high-screened seats, and no one had -noticed his approach. Mr. Macey, sitting a long way off the ghost, -might be supposed to have felt an argumentative triumph, which would -tend to neutralize his share of the general alarm. Had he not always -said that when Silas Marner was in that strange trance of his, his soul -went loose from his body? Here was the demonstration: nevertheless, on -the whole, he would have been as well contented without it. For a few -moments there was a dead silence, Marner’s want of breath and agitation -not allowing him to speak. The landlord, under the habitual sense that -he was bound to keep his house open to all company, and confident in -the protection of his unbroken neutrality, at last took on himself the -task of adjuring the ghost. - -“Master Marner,” he said, in a conciliatory tone, “what’s lacking to -you? What’s your business here?” - -“Robbed!” said Silas, gaspingly. “I’ve been robbed! I want the -constable—and the Justice—and Squire Cass—and Mr. Crackenthorp.” - -“Lay hold on him, Jem Rodney,” said the landlord, the idea of a ghost -subsiding; “he’s off his head, I doubt. He’s wet through.” - -Jem Rodney was the outermost man, and sat conveniently near Marner’s -standing-place; but he declined to give his services. - -“Come and lay hold on him yourself, Mr. Snell, if you’ve a mind,” said -Jem, rather sullenly. “He’s been robbed, and murdered too, for what I -know,” he added, in a muttering tone. - -“Jem Rodney!” said Silas, turning and fixing his strange eyes on the -suspected man. - -“Aye, Master Marner, what do you want wi’ me?” said Jem, trembling a -little, and seizing his drinking-can as a defensive weapon. - -“If it was you stole my money,” said Silas, clasping his hands -entreatingly, and raising his voice to a cry, “give it me back—and I -won’t meddle with you. I won’t set the constable on you. Give it me -back, and I’ll let you—I’ll let you have a guinea.” - -“Me stole your money!” said Jem, angrily. “I’ll pitch this can at your -eye if you talk o’ _my_ stealing your money.” - -“Come, come, Master Marner,” said the landlord, now rising resolutely, -and seizing Marner by the shoulder, “if you’ve got any information to -lay, speak it out sensible, and show as you’re in your right mind, if -you expect anybody to listen to you. You’re as wet as a drownded rat. -Sit down and dry yourself, and speak straight forrard.” - -“Ah, to be sure, man,” said the farrier, who began to feel that he had -not been quite on a par with himself and the occasion. “Let’s have no -more staring and screaming, else we’ll have you strapped for a madman. -That was why I didn’t speak at the first—thinks I, the man’s run mad.” - -“Aye, aye, make him sit down,” said several voices at once, well -pleased that the reality of ghosts remained still an open question. - -The landlord forced Marner to take off his coat, and then to sit down -on a chair aloof from every one else, in the centre of the circle and -in the direct rays of the fire. The weaver, too feeble to have any -distinct purpose beyond that of getting help to recover his money, -submitted unresistingly. The transient fears of the company were now -forgotten in their strong curiosity, and all faces were turned towards -Silas, when the landlord, having seated himself again, said— - -“Now then, Master Marner, what’s this you’ve got to say—as you’ve been -robbed? Speak out.” - -“He’d better not say again as it was me robbed him,” cried Jem Rodney, -hastily. “What could I ha’ done with his money? I could as easy steal -the parson’s surplice, and wear it.” - -“Hold your tongue, Jem, and let’s hear what he’s got to say,” said the -landlord. “Now then, Master Marner.” - -Silas now told his story, under frequent questioning as the mysterious -character of the robbery became evident. - -This strangely novel situation of opening his trouble to his Raveloe -neighbours, of sitting in the warmth of a hearth not his own, and -feeling the presence of faces and voices which were his nearest promise -of help, had doubtless its influence on Marner, in spite of his -passionate preoccupation with his loss. Our consciousness rarely -registers the beginning of a growth within us any more than without us: -there have been many circulations of the sap before we detect the -smallest sign of the bud. - -The slight suspicion with which his hearers at first listened to him, -gradually melted away before the convincing simplicity of his distress: -it was impossible for the neighbours to doubt that Marner was telling -the truth, not because they were capable of arguing at once from the -nature of his statements to the absence of any motive for making them -falsely, but because, as Mr. Macey observed, “Folks as had the devil to -back ’em were not likely to be so mushed” as poor Silas was. Rather, -from the strange fact that the robber had left no traces, and had -happened to know the nick of time, utterly incalculable by mortal -agents, when Silas would go away from home without locking his door, -the more probable conclusion seemed to be, that his disreputable -intimacy in that quarter, if it ever existed, had been broken up, and -that, in consequence, this ill turn had been done to Marner by somebody -it was quite in vain to set the constable after. Why this preternatural -felon should be obliged to wait till the door was left unlocked, was a -question which did not present itself. - -“It isn’t Jem Rodney as has done this work, Master Marner,” said the -landlord. “You mustn’t be a-casting your eye at poor Jem. There may be -a bit of a reckoning against Jem for the matter of a hare or so, if -anybody was bound to keep their eyes staring open, and niver to wink; -but Jem’s been a-sitting here drinking his can, like the decentest man -i’ the parish, since before you left your house, Master Marner, by your -own account.” - -“Aye, aye,” said Mr. Macey; “let’s have no accusing o’ the innicent. -That isn’t the law. There must be folks to swear again’ a man before he -can be ta’en up. Let’s have no accusing o’ the innicent, Master -Marner.” - -Memory was not so utterly torpid in Silas that it could not be awakened -by these words. With a movement of compunction as new and strange to -him as everything else within the last hour, he started from his chair -and went close up to Jem, looking at him as if he wanted to assure -himself of the expression in his face. - -“I was wrong,” he said—“yes, yes—I ought to have thought. There’s -nothing to witness against you, Jem. Only you’d been into my house -oftener than anybody else, and so you came into my head. I don’t accuse -you—I won’t accuse anybody—only,” he added, lifting up his hands to his -head, and turning away with bewildered misery, “I try—I try to think -where my guineas can be.” - -“Aye, aye, they’re gone where it’s hot enough to melt ’em, I doubt,” -said Mr. Macey. - -“Tchuh!” said the farrier. And then he asked, with a cross-examining -air, “How much money might there be in the bags, Master Marner?” - -“Two hundred and seventy-two pounds, twelve and sixpence, last night -when I counted it,” said Silas, seating himself again, with a groan. - -“Pooh! why, they’d be none so heavy to carry. Some tramp’s been in, -that’s all; and as for the no footmarks, and the bricks and the sand -being all right—why, your eyes are pretty much like a insect’s, Master -Marner; they’re obliged to look so close, you can’t see much at a time. -It’s my opinion as, if I’d been you, or you’d been me—for it comes to -the same thing—you wouldn’t have thought you’d found everything as you -left it. But what I vote is, as two of the sensiblest o’ the company -should go with you to Master Kench, the constable’s—he’s ill i’ bed, I -know that much—and get him to appoint one of us his deppity; for that’s -the law, and I don’t think anybody ’ull take upon him to contradick me -there. It isn’t much of a walk to Kench’s; and then, if it’s me as is -deppity, I’ll go back with you, Master Marner, and examine your -premises; and if anybody’s got any fault to find with that, I’ll thank -him to stand up and say it out like a man.” - -By this pregnant speech the farrier had re-established his -self-complacency, and waited with confidence to hear himself named as -one of the superlatively sensible men. - -“Let us see how the night is, though,” said the landlord, who also -considered himself personally concerned in this proposition. “Why, it -rains heavy still,” he said, returning from the door. - -“Well, I’m not the man to be afraid o’ the rain,” said the farrier. -“For it’ll look bad when Justice Malam hears as respectable men like us -had a information laid before ’em and took no steps.” - -The landlord agreed with this view, and after taking the sense of the -company, and duly rehearsing a small ceremony known in high -ecclesiastical life as the _nolo episcopari_, he consented to take on -himself the chill dignity of going to Kench’s. But to the farrier’s -strong disgust, Mr. Macey now started an objection to his proposing -himself as a deputy-constable; for that oracular old gentleman, -claiming to know the law, stated, as a fact delivered to him by his -father, that no doctor could be a constable. - -“And you’re a doctor, I reckon, though you’re only a cow-doctor—for a -fly’s a fly, though it may be a hoss-fly,” concluded Mr. Macey, -wondering a little at his own “’cuteness”. - -There was a hot debate upon this, the farrier being of course -indisposed to renounce the quality of doctor, but contending that a -doctor could be a constable if he liked—the law meant, he needn’t be -one if he didn’t like. Mr. Macey thought this was nonsense, since the -law was not likely to be fonder of doctors than of other folks. -Moreover, if it was in the nature of doctors more than of other men not -to like being constables, how came Mr. Dowlas to be so eager to act in -that capacity? - -“_I_ don’t want to act the constable,” said the farrier, driven into a -corner by this merciless reasoning; “and there’s no man can say it of -me, if he’d tell the truth. But if there’s to be any jealousy and -en_vy_ing about going to Kench’s in the rain, let them go as like -it—you won’t get me to go, I can tell you.” - -By the landlord’s intervention, however, the dispute was accommodated. -Mr. Dowlas consented to go as a second person disinclined to act -officially; and so poor Silas, furnished with some old coverings, -turned out with his two companions into the rain again, thinking of the -long night-hours before him, not as those do who long to rest, but as -those who expect to “watch for the morning”. - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -When Godfrey Cass returned from Mrs. Osgood’s party at midnight, he was -not much surprised to learn that Dunsey had not come home. Perhaps he -had not sold Wildfire, and was waiting for another chance—perhaps, on -that foggy afternoon, he had preferred housing himself at the Red Lion -at Batherley for the night, if the run had kept him in that -neighbourhood; for he was not likely to feel much concern about leaving -his brother in suspense. Godfrey’s mind was too full of Nancy -Lammeter’s looks and behaviour, too full of the exasperation against -himself and his lot, which the sight of her always produced in him, for -him to give much thought to Wildfire, or to the probabilities of -Dunstan’s conduct. - -The next morning the whole village was excited by the story of the -robbery, and Godfrey, like every one else, was occupied in gathering -and discussing news about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits. The rain -had washed away all possibility of distinguishing foot-marks, but a -close investigation of the spot had disclosed, in the direction -opposite to the village, a tinder-box, with a flint and steel, half -sunk in the mud. It was not Silas’s tinder-box, for the only one he had -ever had was still standing on his shelf; and the inference generally -accepted was, that the tinder-box in the ditch was somehow connected -with the robbery. A small minority shook their heads, and intimated -their opinion that it was not a robbery to have much light thrown on it -by tinder-boxes, that Master Marner’s tale had a queer look with it, -and that such things had been known as a man’s doing himself a -mischief, and then setting the justice to look for the doer. But when -questioned closely as to their grounds for this opinion, and what -Master Marner had to gain by such false pretences, they only shook -their heads as before, and observed that there was no knowing what some -folks counted gain; moreover, that everybody had a right to their own -opinions, grounds or no grounds, and that the weaver, as everybody -knew, was partly crazy. Mr. Macey, though he joined in the defence of -Marner against all suspicions of deceit, also pooh-poohed the -tinder-box; indeed, repudiated it as a rather impious suggestion, -tending to imply that everything must be done by human hands, and that -there was no power which could make away with the guineas without -moving the bricks. Nevertheless, he turned round rather sharply on Mr. -Tookey, when the zealous deputy, feeling that this was a view of the -case peculiarly suited to a parish-clerk, carried it still farther, and -doubted whether it was right to inquire into a robbery at all when the -circumstances were so mysterious. - -“As if,” concluded Mr. Tookey—“as if there was nothing but what could -be made out by justices and constables.” - -“Now, don’t you be for overshooting the mark, Tookey,” said Mr. Macey, -nodding his head aside admonishingly. “That’s what you’re allays at; if -I throw a stone and hit, you think there’s summat better than hitting, -and you try to throw a stone beyond. What I said was against the -tinder-box: I said nothing against justices and constables, for they’re -o’ King George’s making, and it ’ud be ill-becoming a man in a parish -office to fly out again’ King George.” - -While these discussions were going on amongst the group outside the -Rainbow, a higher consultation was being carried on within, under the -presidency of Mr. Crackenthorp, the rector, assisted by Squire Cass and -other substantial parishioners. It had just occurred to Mr. Snell, the -landlord—he being, as he observed, a man accustomed to put two and two -together—to connect with the tinder-box, which, as deputy-constable, he -himself had had the honourable distinction of finding, certain -recollections of a pedlar who had called to drink at the house about a -month before, and had actually stated that he carried a tinder-box -about with him to light his pipe. Here, surely, was a clue to be -followed out. And as memory, when duly impregnated with ascertained -facts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile, Mr. Snell gradually recovered -a vivid impression of the effect produced on him by the pedlar’s -countenance and conversation. He had a “look with his eye” which fell -unpleasantly on Mr. Snell’s sensitive organism. To be sure, he didn’t -say anything particular—no, except that about the tinder-box—but it -isn’t what a man says, it’s the way he says it. Moreover, he had a -swarthy foreignness of complexion which boded little honesty. - -“Did he wear ear-rings?” Mr. Crackenthorp wished to know, having some -acquaintance with foreign customs. - -“Well—stay—let me see,” said Mr. Snell, like a docile clairvoyante, who -would really not make a mistake if she could help it. After stretching -the corners of his mouth and contracting his eyes, as if he were trying -to see the ear-rings, he appeared to give up the effort, and said, -“Well, he’d got ear-rings in his box to sell, so it’s nat’ral to -suppose he might wear ’em. But he called at every house, a’most, in the -village; there’s somebody else, mayhap, saw ’em in his ears, though I -can’t take upon me rightly to say.” - -Mr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that somebody else would remember -the pedlar’s ear-rings. For on the spread of inquiry among the -villagers it was stated with gathering emphasis, that the parson had -wanted to know whether the pedlar wore ear-rings in his ears, and an -impression was created that a great deal depended on the eliciting of -this fact. Of course, every one who heard the question, not having any -distinct image of the pedlar as _without_ ear-rings, immediately had an -image of him _with_ ear-rings, larger or smaller, as the case might be; -and the image was presently taken for a vivid recollection, so that the -glazier’s wife, a well-intentioned woman, not given to lying, and whose -house was among the cleanest in the village, was ready to declare, as -sure as ever she meant to take the sacrament the very next Christmas -that was ever coming, that she had seen big ear-rings, in the shape of -the young moon, in the pedlar’s two ears; while Jinny Oates, the -cobbler’s daughter, being a more imaginative person, stated not only -that she had seen them too, but that they had made her blood creep, as -it did at that very moment while there she stood. - -Also, by way of throwing further light on this clue of the tinder-box, -a collection was made of all the articles purchased from the pedlar at -various houses, and carried to the Rainbow to be exhibited there. In -fact, there was a general feeling in the village, that for the -clearing-up of this robbery there must be a great deal done at the -Rainbow, and that no man need offer his wife an excuse for going there -while it was the scene of severe public duties. - -Some disappointment was felt, and perhaps a little indignation also, -when it became known that Silas Marner, on being questioned by the -Squire and the parson, had retained no other recollection of the pedlar -than that he had called at his door, but had not entered his house, -having turned away at once when Silas, holding the door ajar, had said -that he wanted nothing. This had been Silas’s testimony, though he -clutched strongly at the idea of the pedlar’s being the culprit, if -only because it gave him a definite image of a whereabout for his gold -after it had been taken away from its hiding-place: he could see it now -in the pedlar’s box. But it was observed with some irritation in the -village, that anybody but a “blind creatur” like Marner would have seen -the man prowling about, for how came he to leave his tinder-box in the -ditch close by, if he hadn’t been lingering there? Doubtless, he had -made his observations when he saw Marner at the door. Anybody might -know—and only look at him—that the weaver was a half-crazy miser. It -was a wonder the pedlar hadn’t murdered him; men of that sort, with -rings in their ears, had been known for murderers often and often; -there had been one tried at the ’sizes, not so long ago but what there -were people living who remembered it. - -Godfrey Cass, indeed, entering the Rainbow during one of Mr. Snell’s -frequently repeated recitals of his testimony, had treated it lightly, -stating that he himself had bought a pen-knife of the pedlar, and -thought him a merry grinning fellow enough; it was all nonsense, he -said, about the man’s evil looks. But this was spoken of in the village -as the random talk of youth, “as if it was only Mr. Snell who had seen -something odd about the pedlar!” On the contrary, there were at least -half-a-dozen who were ready to go before Justice Malam, and give in -much more striking testimony than any the landlord could furnish. It -was to be hoped Mr. Godfrey would not go to Tarley and throw cold water -on what Mr. Snell said there, and so prevent the justice from drawing -up a warrant. He was suspected of intending this, when, after mid-day, -he was seen setting off on horseback in the direction of Tarley. - -But by this time Godfrey’s interest in the robbery had faded before his -growing anxiety about Dunstan and Wildfire, and he was going, not to -Tarley, but to Batherley, unable to rest in uncertainty about them any -longer. The possibility that Dunstan had played him the ugly trick of -riding away with Wildfire, to return at the end of a month, when he had -gambled away or otherwise squandered the price of the horse, was a fear -that urged itself upon him more, even, than the thought of an -accidental injury; and now that the dance at Mrs. Osgood’s was past, he -was irritated with himself that he had trusted his horse to Dunstan. -Instead of trying to still his fears, he encouraged them, with that -superstitious impression which clings to us all, that if we expect evil -very strongly it is the less likely to come; and when he heard a horse -approaching at a trot, and saw a hat rising above a hedge beyond an -angle of the lane, he felt as if his conjuration had succeeded. But no -sooner did the horse come within sight, than his heart sank again. It -was not Wildfire; and in a few moments more he discerned that the rider -was not Dunstan, but Bryce, who pulled up to speak, with a face that -implied something disagreeable. - -“Well, Mr. Godfrey, that’s a lucky brother of yours, that Master -Dunsey, isn’t he?” - -“What do you mean?” said Godfrey, hastily. - -“Why, hasn’t he been home yet?” said Bryce. - -“Home? no. What has happened? Be quick. What has he done with my -horse?” - -“Ah, I thought it was yours, though he pretended you had parted with it -to him.” - -“Has he thrown him down and broken his knees?” said Godfrey, flushed -with exasperation. - -“Worse than that,” said Bryce. “You see, I’d made a bargain with him to -buy the horse for a hundred and twenty—a swinging price, but I always -liked the horse. And what does he do but go and stake him—fly at a -hedge with stakes in it, atop of a bank with a ditch before it. The -horse had been dead a pretty good while when he was found. So he hasn’t -been home since, has he?” - -“Home? no,” said Godfrey, “and he’d better keep away. Confound me for a -fool! I might have known this would be the end of it.” - -“Well, to tell you the truth,” said Bryce, “after I’d bargained for the -horse, it did come into my head that he might be riding and selling the -horse without your knowledge, for I didn’t believe it was his own. I -knew Master Dunsey was up to his tricks sometimes. But where can he be -gone? He’s never been seen at Batherley. He couldn’t have been hurt, -for he must have walked off.” - -“Hurt?” said Godfrey, bitterly. “He’ll never be hurt—he’s made to hurt -other people.” - -“And so you _did_ give him leave to sell the horse, eh?” said Bryce. - -“Yes; I wanted to part with the horse—he was always a little too hard -in the mouth for me,” said Godfrey; his pride making him wince under -the idea that Bryce guessed the sale to be a matter of necessity. “I -was going to see after him—I thought some mischief had happened. I’ll -go back now,” he added, turning the horse’s head, and wishing he could -get rid of Bryce; for he felt that the long-dreaded crisis in his life -was close upon him. “You’re coming on to Raveloe, aren’t you?” - -“Well, no, not now,” said Bryce. “I _was_ coming round there, for I had -to go to Flitton, and I thought I might as well take you in my way, and -just let you know all I knew myself about the horse. I suppose Master -Dunsey didn’t like to show himself till the ill news had blown over a -bit. He’s perhaps gone to pay a visit at the Three Crowns, by -Whitbridge—I know he’s fond of the house.” - -“Perhaps he is,” said Godfrey, rather absently. Then rousing himself, -he said, with an effort at carelessness, “We shall hear of him soon -enough, I’ll be bound.” - -“Well, here’s my turning,” said Bryce, not surprised to perceive that -Godfrey was rather “down”; “so I’ll bid you good-day, and wish I may -bring you better news another time.” - -Godfrey rode along slowly, representing to himself the scene of -confession to his father from which he felt that there was now no -longer any escape. The revelation about the money must be made the very -next morning; and if he withheld the rest, Dunstan would be sure to -come back shortly, and, finding that he must bear the brunt of his -father’s anger, would tell the whole story out of spite, even though he -had nothing to gain by it. There was one step, perhaps, by which he -might still win Dunstan’s silence and put off the evil day: he might -tell his father that he had himself spent the money paid to him by -Fowler; and as he had never been guilty of such an offence before, the -affair would blow over after a little storming. But Godfrey could not -bend himself to this. He felt that in letting Dunstan have the money, -he had already been guilty of a breach of trust hardly less culpable -than that of spending the money directly for his own behoof; and yet -there was a distinction between the two acts which made him feel that -the one was so much more blackening than the other as to be intolerable -to him. - -“I don’t pretend to be a good fellow,” he said to himself; “but I’m not -a scoundrel—at least, I’ll stop short somewhere. I’ll bear the -consequences of what I _have_ done sooner than make believe I’ve done -what I never would have done. I’d never have spent the money for my own -pleasure—I was tortured into it.” - -Through the remainder of this day Godfrey, with only occasional -fluctuations, kept his will bent in the direction of a complete avowal -to his father, and he withheld the story of Wildfire’s loss till the -next morning, that it might serve him as an introduction to heavier -matter. The old Squire was accustomed to his son’s frequent absence -from home, and thought neither Dunstan’s nor Wildfire’s non-appearance -a matter calling for remark. Godfrey said to himself again and again, -that if he let slip this one opportunity of confession, he might never -have another; the revelation might be made even in a more odious way -than by Dunstan’s malignity: _she_ might come as she had threatened to -do. And then he tried to make the scene easier to himself by rehearsal: -he made up his mind how he would pass from the admission of his -weakness in letting Dunstan have the money to the fact that Dunstan had -a hold on him which he had been unable to shake off, and how he would -work up his father to expect something very bad before he told him the -fact. The old Squire was an implacable man: he made resolutions in -violent anger, and he was not to be moved from them after his anger had -subsided—as fiery volcanic matters cool and harden into rock. Like many -violent and implacable men, he allowed evils to grow under favour of -his own heedlessness, till they pressed upon him with exasperating -force, and then he turned round with fierce severity and became -unrelentingly hard. This was his system with his tenants: he allowed -them to get into arrears, neglect their fences, reduce their stock, -sell their straw, and otherwise go the wrong way,—and then, when he -became short of money in consequence of this indulgence, he took the -hardest measures and would listen to no appeal. Godfrey knew all this, -and felt it with the greater force because he had constantly suffered -annoyance from witnessing his father’s sudden fits of unrelentingness, -for which his own habitual irresolution deprived him of all sympathy. -(He was not critical on the faulty indulgence which preceded these -fits; _that_ seemed to him natural enough.) Still there was just the -chance, Godfrey thought, that his father’s pride might see this -marriage in a light that would induce him to hush it up, rather than -turn his son out and make the family the talk of the country for ten -miles round. - -This was the view of the case that Godfrey managed to keep before him -pretty closely till midnight, and he went to sleep thinking that he had -done with inward debating. But when he awoke in the still morning -darkness he found it impossible to reawaken his evening thoughts; it -was as if they had been tired out and were not to be roused to further -work. Instead of arguments for confession, he could now feel the -presence of nothing but its evil consequences: the old dread of -disgrace came back—the old shrinking from the thought of raising a -hopeless barrier between himself and Nancy—the old disposition to rely -on chances which might be favourable to him, and save him from -betrayal. Why, after all, should he cut off the hope of them by his own -act? He had seen the matter in a wrong light yesterday. He had been in -a rage with Dunstan, and had thought of nothing but a thorough break-up -of their mutual understanding; but what it would be really wisest for -him to do, was to try and soften his father’s anger against Dunsey, and -keep things as nearly as possible in their old condition. If Dunsey did -not come back for a few days (and Godfrey did not know but that the -rascal had enough money in his pocket to enable him to keep away still -longer), everything might blow over. - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -Godfrey rose and took his own breakfast earlier than usual, but -lingered in the wainscoted parlour till his younger brothers had -finished their meal and gone out; awaiting his father, who always took -a walk with his managing-man before breakfast. Every one breakfasted at -a different hour in the Red House, and the Squire was always the -latest, giving a long chance to a rather feeble morning appetite before -he tried it. The table had been spread with substantial eatables nearly -two hours before he presented himself—a tall, stout man of sixty, with -a face in which the knit brow and rather hard glance seemed -contradicted by the slack and feeble mouth. His person showed marks of -habitual neglect, his dress was slovenly; and yet there was something -in the presence of the old Squire distinguishable from that of the -ordinary farmers in the parish, who were perhaps every whit as refined -as he, but, having slouched their way through life with a consciousness -of being in the vicinity of their “betters”, wanted that -self-possession and authoritativeness of voice and carriage which -belonged to a man who thought of superiors as remote existences with -whom he had personally little more to do than with America or the -stars. The Squire had been used to parish homage all his life, used to -the presupposition that his family, his tankards, and everything that -was his, were the oldest and best; and as he never associated with any -gentry higher than himself, his opinion was not disturbed by -comparison. - -He glanced at his son as he entered the room, and said, “What, sir! -haven’t _you_ had your breakfast yet?” but there was no pleasant -morning greeting between them; not because of any unfriendliness, but -because the sweet flower of courtesy is not a growth of such homes as -the Red House. - -“Yes, sir,” said Godfrey, “I’ve had my breakfast, but I was waiting to -speak to you.” - -“Ah! well,” said the Squire, throwing himself indifferently into his -chair, and speaking in a ponderous coughing fashion, which was felt in -Raveloe to be a sort of privilege of his rank, while he cut a piece of -beef, and held it up before the deer-hound that had come in with him. -“Ring the bell for my ale, will you? You youngsters’ business is your -own pleasure, mostly. There’s no hurry about it for anybody but -yourselves.” - -The Squire’s life was quite as idle as his sons’, but it was a fiction -kept up by himself and his contemporaries in Raveloe that youth was -exclusively the period of folly, and that their aged wisdom was -constantly in a state of endurance mitigated by sarcasm. Godfrey -waited, before he spoke again, until the ale had been brought and the -door closed—an interval during which Fleet, the deer-hound, had -consumed enough bits of beef to make a poor man’s holiday dinner. - -“There’s been a cursed piece of ill-luck with Wildfire,” he began; -“happened the day before yesterday.” - -“What! broke his knees?” said the Squire, after taking a draught of -ale. “I thought you knew how to ride better than that, sir. I never -threw a horse down in my life. If I had, I might ha’ whistled for -another, for _my_ father wasn’t quite so ready to unstring as some -other fathers I know of. But they must turn over a new leaf—_they_ -must. What with mortgages and arrears, I’m as short o’ cash as a -roadside pauper. And that fool Kimble says the newspaper’s talking -about peace. Why, the country wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Prices -’ud run down like a jack, and I should never get my arrears, not if I -sold all the fellows up. And there’s that damned Fowler, I won’t put up -with him any longer; I’ve told Winthrop to go to Cox this very day. The -lying scoundrel told me he’d be sure to pay me a hundred last month. He -takes advantage because he’s on that outlying farm, and thinks I shall -forget him.” - -The Squire had delivered this speech in a coughing and interrupted -manner, but with no pause long enough for Godfrey to make it a pretext -for taking up the word again. He felt that his father meant to ward off -any request for money on the ground of the misfortune with Wildfire, -and that the emphasis he had thus been led to lay on his shortness of -cash and his arrears was likely to produce an attitude of mind the -utmost unfavourable for his own disclosure. But he must go on, now he -had begun. - -“It’s worse than breaking the horse’s knees—he’s been staked and -killed,” he said, as soon as his father was silent, and had begun to -cut his meat. “But I wasn’t thinking of asking you to buy me another -horse; I was only thinking I’d lost the means of paying you with the -price of Wildfire, as I’d meant to do. Dunsey took him to the hunt to -sell him for me the other day, and after he’d made a bargain for a -hundred and twenty with Bryce, he went after the hounds, and took some -fool’s leap or other that did for the horse at once. If it hadn’t been -for that, I should have paid you a hundred pounds this morning.” - -The Squire had laid down his knife and fork, and was staring at his son -in amazement, not being sufficiently quick of brain to form a probable -guess as to what could have caused so strange an inversion of the -paternal and filial relations as this proposition of his son to pay him -a hundred pounds. - -“The truth is, sir—I’m very sorry—I was quite to blame,” said Godfrey. -“Fowler did pay that hundred pounds. He paid it to me, when I was over -there one day last month. And Dunsey bothered me for the money, and I -let him have it, because I hoped I should be able to pay it you before -this.” - -The Squire was purple with anger before his son had done speaking, and -found utterance difficult. “You let Dunsey have it, sir? And how long -have you been so thick with Dunsey that you must _collogue_ with him to -embezzle my money? Are you turning out a scamp? I tell you I won’t have -it. I’ll turn the whole pack of you out of the house together, and -marry again. I’d have you to remember, sir, my property’s got no entail -on it;—since my grandfather’s time the Casses can do as they like with -their land. Remember that, sir. Let Dunsey have the money! Why should -you let Dunsey have the money? There’s some lie at the bottom of it.” - -“There’s no lie, sir,” said Godfrey. “I wouldn’t have spent the money -myself, but Dunsey bothered me, and I was a fool, and let him have it. -But I meant to pay it, whether he did or not. That’s the whole story. I -never meant to embezzle money, and I’m not the man to do it. You never -knew me do a dishonest trick, sir.” - -“Where’s Dunsey, then? What do you stand talking there for? Go and -fetch Dunsey, as I tell you, and let him give account of what he wanted -the money for, and what he’s done with it. He shall repent it. I’ll -turn him out. I said I would, and I’ll do it. He shan’t brave me. Go -and fetch him.” - -“Dunsey isn’t come back, sir.” - -“What! did he break his own neck, then?” said the Squire, with some -disgust at the idea that, in that case, he could not fulfil his threat. - -“No, he wasn’t hurt, I believe, for the horse was found dead, and -Dunsey must have walked off. I daresay we shall see him again -by-and-by. I don’t know where he is.” - -“And what must you be letting him have my money for? Answer me that,” -said the Squire, attacking Godfrey again, since Dunsey was not within -reach. - -“Well, sir, I don’t know,” said Godfrey, hesitatingly. That was a -feeble evasion, but Godfrey was not fond of lying, and, not being -sufficiently aware that no sort of duplicity can long flourish without -the help of vocal falsehoods, he was quite unprepared with invented -motives. - -“You don’t know? I tell you what it is, sir. You’ve been up to some -trick, and you’ve been bribing him not to tell,” said the Squire, with -a sudden acuteness which startled Godfrey, who felt his heart beat -violently at the nearness of his father’s guess. The sudden alarm -pushed him on to take the next step—a very slight impulse suffices for -that on a downward road. - -“Why, sir,” he said, trying to speak with careless ease, “it was a -little affair between me and Dunsey; it’s no matter to anybody else. -It’s hardly worth while to pry into young men’s fooleries: it wouldn’t -have made any difference to you, sir, if I’d not had the bad luck to -lose Wildfire. I should have paid you the money.” - -“Fooleries! Pshaw! it’s time you’d done with fooleries. And I’d have -you know, sir, you _must_ ha’ done with ’em,” said the Squire, frowning -and casting an angry glance at his son. “Your goings-on are not what I -shall find money for any longer. There’s my grandfather had his stables -full o’ horses, and kept a good house, too, and in worse times, by what -I can make out; and so might I, if I hadn’t four good-for-nothing -fellows to hang on me like horse-leeches. I’ve been too good a father -to you all—that’s what it is. But I shall pull up, sir.” - -Godfrey was silent. He was not likely to be very penetrating in his -judgments, but he had always had a sense that his father’s indulgence -had not been kindness, and had had a vague longing for some discipline -that would have checked his own errant weakness and helped his better -will. The Squire ate his bread and meat hastily, took a deep draught of -ale, then turned his chair from the table, and began to speak again. - -“It’ll be all the worse for you, you know—you’d need try and help me -keep things together.” - -“Well, sir, I’ve often offered to take the management of things, but -you know you’ve taken it ill always, and seemed to think I wanted to -push you out of your place.” - -“I know nothing o’ your offering or o’ my taking it ill,” said the -Squire, whose memory consisted in certain strong impressions unmodified -by detail; “but I know, one while you seemed to be thinking o’ -marrying, and I didn’t offer to put any obstacles in your way, as some -fathers would. I’d as lieve you married Lammeter’s daughter as anybody. -I suppose, if I’d said you nay, you’d ha’ kept on with it; but, for -want o’ contradiction, you’ve changed your mind. You’re a shilly-shally -fellow: you take after your poor mother. She never had a will of her -own; a woman has no call for one, if she’s got a proper man for her -husband. But _your_ wife had need have one, for you hardly know your -own mind enough to make both your legs walk one way. The lass hasn’t -said downright she won’t have you, has she?” - -“No,” said Godfrey, feeling very hot and uncomfortable; “but I don’t -think she will.” - -“Think! why haven’t you the courage to ask her? Do you stick to it, you -want to have _her_—that’s the thing?” - -“There’s no other woman I want to marry,” said Godfrey, evasively. - -“Well, then, let me make the offer for you, that’s all, if you haven’t -the pluck to do it yourself. Lammeter isn’t likely to be loath for his -daughter to marry into _my_ family, I should think. And as for the -pretty lass, she wouldn’t have her cousin—and there’s nobody else, as I -see, could ha’ stood in your way.” - -“I’d rather let it be, please sir, at present,” said Godfrey, in alarm. -“I think she’s a little offended with me just now, and I should like to -speak for myself. A man must manage these things for himself.” - -“Well, speak, then, and manage it, and see if you can’t turn over a new -leaf. That’s what a man must do when he thinks o’ marrying.” - -“I don’t see how I can think of it at present, sir. You wouldn’t like -to settle me on one of the farms, I suppose, and I don’t think she’d -come to live in this house with all my brothers. It’s a different sort -of life to what she’s been used to.” - -“Not come to live in this house? Don’t tell me. You ask her, that’s -all,” said the Squire, with a short, scornful laugh. - -“I’d rather let the thing be, at present, sir,” said Godfrey. “I hope -you won’t try to hurry it on by saying anything.” - -“I shall do what I choose,” said the Squire, “and I shall let you know -I’m master; else you may turn out and find an estate to drop into -somewhere else. Go out and tell Winthrop not to go to Cox’s, but wait -for me. And tell ’em to get my horse saddled. And stop: look out and -get that hack o’ Dunsey’s sold, and hand me the money, will you? He’ll -keep no more hacks at my expense. And if you know where he’s sneaking—I -daresay you do—you may tell him to spare himself the journey o’ coming -back home. Let him turn ostler, and keep himself. He shan’t hang on me -any more.” - -“I don’t know where he is, sir; and if I did, it isn’t my place to tell -him to keep away,” said Godfrey, moving towards the door. - -“Confound it, sir, don’t stay arguing, but go and order my horse,” said -the Squire, taking up a pipe. - -Godfrey left the room, hardly knowing whether he were more relieved by -the sense that the interview was ended without having made any change -in his position, or more uneasy that he had entangled himself still -further in prevarication and deceit. What had passed about his -proposing to Nancy had raised a new alarm, lest by some after-dinner -words of his father’s to Mr. Lammeter he should be thrown into the -embarrassment of being obliged absolutely to decline her when she -seemed to be within his reach. He fled to his usual refuge, that of -hoping for some unforeseen turn of fortune, some favourable chance -which would save him from unpleasant consequences—perhaps even justify -his insincerity by manifesting its prudence. And in this point of -trusting to some throw of fortune’s dice, Godfrey can hardly be called -specially old-fashioned. Favourable Chance, I fancy, is the god of all -men who follow their own devices instead of obeying a law they believe -in. Let even a polished man of these days get into a position he is -ashamed to avow, and his mind will be bent on all the possible issues -that may deliver him from the calculable results of that position. Let -him live outside his income, or shirk the resolute honest work that -brings wages, and he will presently find himself dreaming of a possible -benefactor, a possible simpleton who may be cajoled into using his -interest, a possible state of mind in some possible person not yet -forthcoming. Let him neglect the responsibilities of his office, and he -will inevitably anchor himself on the chance that the thing left undone -may turn out not to be of the supposed importance. Let him betray his -friend’s confidence, and he will adore that same cunning complexity -called Chance, which gives him the hope that his friend will never -know. Let him forsake a decent craft that he may pursue the gentilities -of a profession to which nature never called him, and his religion will -infallibly be the worship of blessed Chance, which he will believe in -as the mighty creator of success. The evil principle deprecated in that -religion is the orderly sequence by which the seed brings forth a crop -after its kind. - - - -CHAPTER X. - -Justice Malam was naturally regarded in Tarley and Raveloe as a man of -capacious mind, seeing that he could draw much wider conclusions -without evidence than could be expected of his neighbours who were not -on the Commission of the Peace. Such a man was not likely to neglect -the clue of the tinder-box, and an inquiry was set on foot concerning a -pedlar, name unknown, with curly black hair and a foreign complexion, -carrying a box of cutlery and jewellery, and wearing large rings in his -ears. But either because inquiry was too slow-footed to overtake him, -or because the description applied to so many pedlars that inquiry did -not know how to choose among them, weeks passed away, and there was no -other result concerning the robbery than a gradual cessation of the -excitement it had caused in Raveloe. Dunstan Cass’s absence was hardly -a subject of remark: he had once before had a quarrel with his father, -and had gone off, nobody knew whither, to return at the end of six -weeks, take up his old quarters unforbidden, and swagger as usual. His -own family, who equally expected this issue, with the sole difference -that the Squire was determined this time to forbid him the old -quarters, never mentioned his absence; and when his uncle Kimble or Mr. -Osgood noticed it, the story of his having killed Wildfire, and -committed some offence against his father, was enough to prevent -surprise. To connect the fact of Dunsey’s disappearance with that of -the robbery occurring on the same day, lay quite away from the track of -every one’s thought—even Godfrey’s, who had better reason than any one -else to know what his brother was capable of. He remembered no mention -of the weaver between them since the time, twelve years ago, when it -was their boyish sport to deride him; and, besides, his imagination -constantly created an _alibi_ for Dunstan: he saw him continually in -some congenial haunt, to which he had walked off on leaving -Wildfire—saw him sponging on chance acquaintances, and meditating a -return home to the old amusement of tormenting his elder brother. Even -if any brain in Raveloe had put the said two facts together, I doubt -whether a combination so injurious to the prescriptive respectability -of a family with a mural monument and venerable tankards, would not -have been suppressed as of unsound tendency. But Christmas puddings, -brawn, and abundance of spirituous liquors, throwing the mental -originality into the channel of nightmare, are great preservatives -against a dangerous spontaneity of waking thought. - -When the robbery was talked of at the Rainbow and elsewhere, in good -company, the balance continued to waver between the rational -explanation founded on the tinder-box, and the theory of an -impenetrable mystery that mocked investigation. The advocates of the -tinder-box-and-pedlar view considered the other side a muddle-headed -and credulous set, who, because they themselves were wall-eyed, -supposed everybody else to have the same blank outlook; and the -adherents of the inexplicable more than hinted that their antagonists -were animals inclined to crow before they had found any corn—mere -skimming-dishes in point of depth—whose clear-sightedness consisted in -supposing there was nothing behind a barn-door because they couldn’t -see through it; so that, though their controversy did not serve to -elicit the fact concerning the robbery, it elicited some true opinions -of collateral importance. - -But while poor Silas’s loss served thus to brush the slow current of -Raveloe conversation, Silas himself was feeling the withering -desolation of that bereavement about which his neighbours were arguing -at their ease. To any one who had observed him before he lost his gold, -it might have seemed that so withered and shrunken a life as his could -hardly be susceptible of a bruise, could hardly endure any subtraction -but such as would put an end to it altogether. But in reality it had -been an eager life, filled with immediate purpose which fenced him in -from the wide, cheerless unknown. It had been a clinging life; and -though the object round which its fibres had clung was a dead disrupted -thing, it satisfied the need for clinging. But now the fence was broken -down—the support was snatched away. Marner’s thoughts could no longer -move in their old round, and were baffled by a blank like that which -meets a plodding ant when the earth has broken away on its homeward -path. The loom was there, and the weaving, and the growing pattern in -the cloth; but the bright treasure in the hole under his feet was gone; -the prospect of handling and counting it was gone: the evening had no -phantasm of delight to still the poor soul’s craving. The thought of -the money he would get by his actual work could bring no joy, for its -meagre image was only a fresh reminder of his loss; and hope was too -heavily crushed by the sudden blow for his imagination to dwell on the -growth of a new hoard from that small beginning. - -He filled up the blank with grief. As he sat weaving, he every now and -then moaned low, like one in pain: it was the sign that his thoughts -had come round again to the sudden chasm—to the empty evening-time. And -all the evening, as he sat in his loneliness by his dull fire, he -leaned his elbows on his knees, and clasped his head with his hands, -and moaned very low—not as one who seeks to be heard. - -And yet he was not utterly forsaken in his trouble. The repulsion -Marner had always created in his neighbours was partly dissipated by -the new light in which this misfortune had shown him. Instead of a man -who had more cunning than honest folks could come by, and, what was -worse, had not the inclination to use that cunning in a neighbourly -way, it was now apparent that Silas had not cunning enough to keep his -own. He was generally spoken of as a “poor mushed creatur”; and that -avoidance of his neighbours, which had before been referred to his -ill-will and to a probable addiction to worse company, was now -considered mere craziness. - -This change to a kindlier feeling was shown in various ways. The odour -of Christmas cooking being on the wind, it was the season when -superfluous pork and black puddings are suggestive of charity in -well-to-do families; and Silas’s misfortune had brought him uppermost -in the memory of housekeepers like Mrs. Osgood. Mr. Crackenthorp, too, -while he admonished Silas that his money had probably been taken from -him because he thought too much of it and never came to church, -enforced the doctrine by a present of pigs’ pettitoes, well calculated -to dissipate unfounded prejudices against the clerical character. -Neighbours who had nothing but verbal consolation to give showed a -disposition not only to greet Silas and discuss his misfortune at some -length when they encountered him in the village, but also to take the -trouble of calling at his cottage and getting him to repeat all the -details on the very spot; and then they would try to cheer him by -saying, “Well, Master Marner, you’re no worse off nor other poor folks, -after all; and if you was to be crippled, the parish ’ud give you a -’lowance.” - -I suppose one reason why we are seldom able to comfort our neighbours -with our words is that our goodwill gets adulterated, in spite of -ourselves, before it can pass our lips. We can send black puddings and -pettitoes without giving them a flavour of our own egoism; but language -is a stream that is almost sure to smack of a mingled soil. There was a -fair proportion of kindness in Raveloe; but it was often of a beery and -bungling sort, and took the shape least allied to the complimentary and -hypocritical. - -Mr. Macey, for example, coming one evening expressly to let Silas know -that recent events had given him the advantage of standing more -favourably in the opinion of a man whose judgment was not formed -lightly, opened the conversation by saying, as soon as he had seated -himself and adjusted his thumbs— - -“Come, Master Marner, why, you’ve no call to sit a-moaning. You’re a -deal better off to ha’ lost your money, nor to ha’ kep it by foul -means. I used to think, when you first come into these parts, as you -were no better nor you should be; you were younger a deal than what you -are now; but you were allays a staring, white-faced creatur, partly -like a bald-faced calf, as I may say. But there’s no knowing: it isn’t -every queer-looksed thing as Old Harry’s had the making of—I mean, -speaking o’ toads and such; for they’re often harmless, like, and -useful against varmin. And it’s pretty much the same wi’ you, as fur as -I can see. Though as to the yarbs and stuff to cure the breathing, if -you brought that sort o’ knowledge from distant parts, you might ha’ -been a bit freer of it. And if the knowledge wasn’t well come by, why, -you might ha’ made up for it by coming to church reg’lar; for, as for -the children as the Wise Woman charmed, I’ve been at the christening of -’em again and again, and they took the water just as well. And that’s -reasonable; for if Old Harry’s a mind to do a bit o’ kindness for a -holiday, like, who’s got anything against it? That’s my thinking; and -I’ve been clerk o’ this parish forty year, and I know, when the parson -and me does the cussing of a Ash Wednesday, there’s no cussing o’ folks -as have a mind to be cured without a doctor, let Kimble say what he -will. And so, Master Marner, as I was saying—for there’s windings i’ -things as they may carry you to the fur end o’ the prayer-book afore -you get back to ’em—my advice is, as you keep up your sperrits; for as -for thinking you’re a deep un, and ha’ got more inside you nor ’ull -bear daylight, I’m not o’ that opinion at all, and so I tell the -neighbours. For, says I, you talk o’ Master Marner making out a -tale—why, it’s nonsense, that is: it ’ud take a ’cute man to make a -tale like that; and, says I, he looked as scared as a rabbit.” - -During this discursive address Silas had continued motionless in his -previous attitude, leaning his elbows on his knees, and pressing his -hands against his head. Mr. Macey, not doubting that he had been -listened to, paused, in the expectation of some appreciatory reply, but -Marner remained silent. He had a sense that the old man meant to be -good-natured and neighbourly; but the kindness fell on him as sunshine -falls on the wretched—he had no heart to taste it, and felt that it was -very far off him. - -“Come, Master Marner, have you got nothing to say to that?” said Mr. -Macey at last, with a slight accent of impatience. - -“Oh,” said Marner, slowly, shaking his head between his hands, “I thank -you—thank you—kindly.” - -“Aye, aye, to be sure: I thought you would,” said Mr. Macey; “and my -advice is—have you got a Sunday suit?” - -“No,” said Marner. - -“I doubted it was so,” said Mr. Macey. “Now, let me advise you to get a -Sunday suit: there’s Tookey, he’s a poor creatur, but he’s got my -tailoring business, and some o’ my money in it, and he shall make a -suit at a low price, and give you trust, and then you can come to -church, and be a bit neighbourly. Why, you’ve never heared me say -“Amen” since you come into these parts, and I recommend you to lose no -time, for it’ll be poor work when Tookey has it all to himself, for I -mayn’t be equil to stand i’ the desk at all, come another winter.” Here -Mr. Macey paused, perhaps expecting some sign of emotion in his hearer; -but not observing any, he went on. “And as for the money for the suit -o’ clothes, why, you get a matter of a pound a-week at your weaving, -Master Marner, and you’re a young man, eh, for all you look so mushed. -Why, you couldn’t ha’ been five-and-twenty when you come into these -parts, eh?” - -Silas started a little at the change to a questioning tone, and -answered mildly, “I don’t know; I can’t rightly say—it’s a long while -since.” - -After receiving such an answer as this, it is not surprising that Mr. -Macey observed, later on in the evening at the Rainbow, that Marner’s -head was “all of a muddle”, and that it was to be doubted if he ever -knew when Sunday came round, which showed him a worse heathen than many -a dog. - -Another of Silas’s comforters, besides Mr. Macey, came to him with a -mind highly charged on the same topic. This was Mrs. Winthrop, the -wheelwright’s wife. The inhabitants of Raveloe were not severely -regular in their church-going, and perhaps there was hardly a person in -the parish who would not have held that to go to church every Sunday in -the calendar would have shown a greedy desire to stand well with -Heaven, and get an undue advantage over their neighbours—a wish to be -better than the “common run”, that would have implied a reflection on -those who had had godfathers and godmothers as well as themselves, and -had an equal right to the burying-service. At the same time, it was -understood to be requisite for all who were not household servants, or -young men, to take the sacrament at one of the great festivals: Squire -Cass himself took it on Christmas-day; while those who were held to be -“good livers” went to church with greater, though still with moderate, -frequency. - -Mrs. Winthrop was one of these: she was in all respects a woman of -scrupulous conscience, so eager for duties that life seemed to offer -them too scantily unless she rose at half-past four, though this threw -a scarcity of work over the more advanced hours of the morning, which -it was a constant problem with her to remove. Yet she had not the -vixenish temper which is sometimes supposed to be a necessary condition -of such habits: she was a very mild, patient woman, whose nature it was -to seek out all the sadder and more serious elements of life, and -pasture her mind upon them. She was the person always first thought of -in Raveloe when there was illness or death in a family, when leeches -were to be applied, or there was a sudden disappointment in a monthly -nurse. She was a “comfortable woman”—good-looking, fresh-complexioned, -having her lips always slightly screwed, as if she felt herself in a -sick-room with the doctor or the clergyman present. But she was never -whimpering; no one had seen her shed tears; she was simply grave and -inclined to shake her head and sigh, almost imperceptibly, like a -funereal mourner who is not a relation. It seemed surprising that Ben -Winthrop, who loved his quart-pot and his joke, got along so well with -Dolly; but she took her husband’s jokes and joviality as patiently as -everything else, considering that “men _would_ be so”, and viewing the -stronger sex in the light of animals whom it had pleased Heaven to make -naturally troublesome, like bulls and turkey-cocks. - -This good wholesome woman could hardly fail to have her mind drawn -strongly towards Silas Marner, now that he appeared in the light of a -sufferer; and one Sunday afternoon she took her little boy Aaron with -her, and went to call on Silas, carrying in her hand some small -lard-cakes, flat paste-like articles much esteemed in Raveloe. Aaron, -an apple-cheeked youngster of seven, with a clean starched frill which -looked like a plate for the apples, needed all his adventurous -curiosity to embolden him against the possibility that the big-eyed -weaver might do him some bodily injury; and his dubiety was much -increased when, on arriving at the Stone-pits, they heard the -mysterious sound of the loom. - -“Ah, it is as I thought,” said Mrs. Winthrop, sadly. - -They had to knock loudly before Silas heard them; but when he did come -to the door he showed no impatience, as he would once have done, at a -visit that had been unasked for and unexpected. Formerly, his heart had -been as a locked casket with its treasure inside; but now the casket -was empty, and the lock was broken. Left groping in darkness, with his -prop utterly gone, Silas had inevitably a sense, though a dull and -half-despairing one, that if any help came to him it must come from -without; and there was a slight stirring of expectation at the sight of -his fellow-men, a faint consciousness of dependence on their goodwill. -He opened the door wide to admit Dolly, but without otherwise returning -her greeting than by moving the armchair a few inches as a sign that -she was to sit down in it. Dolly, as soon as she was seated, removed -the white cloth that covered her lard-cakes, and said in her gravest -way— - -“I’d a baking yisterday, Master Marner, and the lard-cakes turned out -better nor common, and I’d ha’ asked you to accept some, if you’d -thought well. I don’t eat such things myself, for a bit o’ bread’s what -I like from one year’s end to the other; but men’s stomichs are made so -comical, they want a change—they do, I know, God help ’em.” - -Dolly sighed gently as she held out the cakes to Silas, who thanked her -kindly and looked very close at them, absently, being accustomed to -look so at everything he took into his hand—eyed all the while by the -wondering bright orbs of the small Aaron, who had made an outwork of -his mother’s chair, and was peeping round from behind it. - -“There’s letters pricked on ’em,” said Dolly. “I can’t read ’em myself, -and there’s nobody, not Mr. Macey himself, rightly knows what they -mean; but they’ve a good meaning, for they’re the same as is on the -pulpit-cloth at church. What are they, Aaron, my dear?” - -Aaron retreated completely behind his outwork. - -“Oh, go, that’s naughty,” said his mother, mildly. “Well, whativer the -letters are, they’ve a good meaning; and it’s a stamp as has been in -our house, Ben says, ever since he was a little un, and his mother used -to put it on the cakes, and I’ve allays put it on too; for if there’s -any good, we’ve need of it i’ this world.” - -“It’s I. H. S.,” said Silas, at which proof of learning Aaron peeped -round the chair again. - -“Well, to be sure, you can read ’em off,” said Dolly. “Ben’s read ’em -to me many and many a time, but they slip out o’ my mind again; the -more’s the pity, for they’re good letters, else they wouldn’t be in the -church; and so I prick ’em on all the loaves and all the cakes, though -sometimes they won’t hold, because o’ the rising—for, as I said, if -there’s any good to be got we’ve need of it i’ this world—that we have; -and I hope they’ll bring good to you, Master Marner, for it’s wi’ that -will I brought you the cakes; and you see the letters have held better -nor common.” - -Silas was as unable to interpret the letters as Dolly, but there was no -possibility of misunderstanding the desire to give comfort that made -itself heard in her quiet tones. He said, with more feeling than -before—“Thank you—thank you kindly.” But he laid down the cakes and -seated himself absently—drearily unconscious of any distinct benefit -towards which the cakes and the letters, or even Dolly’s kindness, -could tend for him. - -“Ah, if there’s good anywhere, we’ve need of it,” repeated Dolly, who -did not lightly forsake a serviceable phrase. She looked at Silas -pityingly as she went on. “But you didn’t hear the church-bells this -morning, Master Marner? I doubt you didn’t know it was Sunday. Living -so lone here, you lose your count, I daresay; and then, when your loom -makes a noise, you can’t hear the bells, more partic’lar now the frost -kills the sound.” - -“Yes, I did; I heard ’em,” said Silas, to whom Sunday bells were a mere -accident of the day, and not part of its sacredness. There had been no -bells in Lantern Yard. - -“Dear heart!” said Dolly, pausing before she spoke again. “But what a -pity it is you should work of a Sunday, and not clean yourself—if you -_didn’t_ go to church; for if you’d a roasting bit, it might be as you -couldn’t leave it, being a lone man. But there’s the bakehus, if you -could make up your mind to spend a twopence on the oven now and -then,—not every week, in course—I shouldn’t like to do that myself,—you -might carry your bit o’ dinner there, for it’s nothing but right to -have a bit o’ summat hot of a Sunday, and not to make it as you can’t -know your dinner from Saturday. But now, upo’ Christmas-day, this -blessed Christmas as is ever coming, if you was to take your dinner to -the bakehus, and go to church, and see the holly and the yew, and hear -the anthim, and then take the sacramen’, you’d be a deal the better, -and you’d know which end you stood on, and you could put your trust i’ -Them as knows better nor we do, seein’ you’d ha’ done what it lies on -us all to do.” - -Dolly’s exhortation, which was an unusually long effort of speech for -her, was uttered in the soothing persuasive tone with which she would -have tried to prevail on a sick man to take his medicine, or a basin of -gruel for which he had no appetite. Silas had never before been closely -urged on the point of his absence from church, which had only been -thought of as a part of his general queerness; and he was too direct -and simple to evade Dolly’s appeal. - -“Nay, nay,” he said, “I know nothing o’ church. I’ve never been to -church.” - -“No!” said Dolly, in a low tone of wonderment. Then bethinking herself -of Silas’s advent from an unknown country, she said, “Could it ha’ been -as they’d no church where you was born?” - -“Oh, yes,” said Silas, meditatively, sitting in his usual posture of -leaning on his knees, and supporting his head. “There was churches—a -many—it was a big town. But I knew nothing of ’em—I went to chapel.” - -Dolly was much puzzled at this new word, but she was rather afraid of -inquiring further, lest “chapel” might mean some haunt of wickedness. -After a little thought, she said— - -“Well, Master Marner, it’s niver too late to turn over a new leaf, and -if you’ve niver had no church, there’s no telling the good it’ll do -you. For I feel so set up and comfortable as niver was, when I’ve been -and heard the prayers, and the singing to the praise and glory o’ God, -as Mr. Macey gives out—and Mr. Crackenthorp saying good words, and more -partic’lar on Sacramen’ Day; and if a bit o’ trouble comes, I feel as I -can put up wi’ it, for I’ve looked for help i’ the right quarter, and -gev myself up to Them as we must all give ourselves up to at the last; -and if we’n done our part, it isn’t to be believed as Them as are above -us ’ull be worse nor we are, and come short o’ Their’n.” - -Poor Dolly’s exposition of her simple Raveloe theology fell rather -unmeaningly on Silas’s ears, for there was no word in it that could -rouse a memory of what he had known as religion, and his comprehension -was quite baffled by the plural pronoun, which was no heresy of -Dolly’s, but only her way of avoiding a presumptuous familiarity. He -remained silent, not feeling inclined to assent to the part of Dolly’s -speech which he fully understood—her recommendation that he should go -to church. Indeed, Silas was so unaccustomed to talk beyond the brief -questions and answers necessary for the transaction of his simple -business, that words did not easily come to him without the urgency of -a distinct purpose. - -But now, little Aaron, having become used to the weaver’s awful -presence, had advanced to his mother’s side, and Silas, seeming to -notice him for the first time, tried to return Dolly’s signs of -good-will by offering the lad a bit of lard-cake. Aaron shrank back a -little, and rubbed his head against his mother’s shoulder, but still -thought the piece of cake worth the risk of putting his hand out for -it. - -“Oh, for shame, Aaron,” said his mother, taking him on her lap, -however; “why, you don’t want cake again yet awhile. He’s wonderful -hearty,” she went on, with a little sigh—“that he is, God knows. He’s -my youngest, and we spoil him sadly, for either me or the father must -allays hev him in our sight—that we must.” - -She stroked Aaron’s brown head, and thought it must do Master Marner -good to see such a “pictur of a child”. But Marner, on the other side -of the hearth, saw the neat-featured rosy face as a mere dim round, -with two dark spots in it. - -“And he’s got a voice like a bird—you wouldn’t think,” Dolly went on; -“he can sing a Christmas carril as his father’s taught him; and I take -it for a token as he’ll come to good, as he can learn the good tunes so -quick. Come, Aaron, stan’ up and sing the carril to Master Marner, -come.” - -Aaron replied by rubbing his forehead against his mother’s shoulder. - -“Oh, that’s naughty,” said Dolly, gently. “Stan’ up, when mother tells -you, and let me hold the cake till you’ve done.” - -Aaron was not indisposed to display his talents, even to an ogre, under -protecting circumstances; and after a few more signs of coyness, -consisting chiefly in rubbing the backs of his hands over his eyes, and -then peeping between them at Master Marner, to see if he looked anxious -for the “carril”, he at length allowed his head to be duly adjusted, -and standing behind the table, which let him appear above it only as -far as his broad frill, so that he looked like a cherubic head -untroubled with a body, he began with a clear chirp, and in a melody -that had the rhythm of an industrious hammer - -“God rest you, merry gentlemen, -Let nothing you dismay, -For Jesus Christ our Savior -Was born on Christmas-day.” - - -Dolly listened with a devout look, glancing at Marner in some -confidence that this strain would help to allure him to church. - -“That’s Christmas music,” she said, when Aaron had ended, and had -secured his piece of cake again. “There’s no other music equil to the -Christmas music—“Hark the erol angils sing.” And you may judge what it -is at church, Master Marner, with the bassoon and the voices, as you -can’t help thinking you’ve got to a better place a’ready—for I wouldn’t -speak ill o’ this world, seeing as Them put us in it as knows best—but -what wi’ the drink, and the quarrelling, and the bad illnesses, and the -hard dying, as I’ve seen times and times, one’s thankful to hear of a -better. The boy sings pretty, don’t he, Master Marner?” - -“Yes,” said Silas, absently, “very pretty.” - -The Christmas carol, with its hammer-like rhythm, had fallen on his -ears as strange music, quite unlike a hymn, and could have none of the -effect Dolly contemplated. But he wanted to show her that he was -grateful, and the only mode that occurred to him was to offer Aaron a -bit more cake. - -“Oh, no, thank you, Master Marner,” said Dolly, holding down Aaron’s -willing hands. “We must be going home now. And so I wish you good-bye, -Master Marner; and if you ever feel anyways bad in your inside, as you -can’t fend for yourself, I’ll come and clean up for you, and get you a -bit o’ victual, and willing. But I beg and pray of you to leave off -weaving of a Sunday, for it’s bad for soul and body—and the money as -comes i’ that way ’ull be a bad bed to lie down on at the last, if it -doesn’t fly away, nobody knows where, like the white frost. And you’ll -excuse me being that free with you, Master Marner, for I wish you -well—I do. Make your bow, Aaron.” - -Silas said “Good-bye, and thank you kindly,” as he opened the door for -Dolly, but he couldn’t help feeling relieved when she was gone—relieved -that he might weave again and moan at his ease. Her simple view of life -and its comforts, by which she had tried to cheer him, was only like a -report of unknown objects, which his imagination could not fashion. The -fountains of human love and of faith in a divine love had not yet been -unlocked, and his soul was still the shrunken rivulet, with only this -difference, that its little groove of sand was blocked up, and it -wandered confusedly against dark obstruction. - -And so, notwithstanding the honest persuasions of Mr. Macey and Dolly -Winthrop, Silas spent his Christmas-day in loneliness, eating his meat -in sadness of heart, though the meat had come to him as a neighbourly -present. In the morning he looked out on the black frost that seemed to -press cruelly on every blade of grass, while the half-icy red pool -shivered under the bitter wind; but towards evening the snow began to -fall, and curtained from him even that dreary outlook, shutting him -close up with his narrow grief. And he sat in his robbed home through -the livelong evening, not caring to close his shutters or lock his -door, pressing his head between his hands and moaning, till the cold -grasped him and told him that his fire was grey. - -Nobody in this world but himself knew that he was the same Silas Marner -who had once loved his fellow with tender love, and trusted in an -unseen goodness. Even to himself that past experience had become dim. - -But in Raveloe village the bells rang merrily, and the church was -fuller than all through the rest of the year, with red faces among the -abundant dark-green boughs—faces prepared for a longer service than -usual by an odorous breakfast of toast and ale. Those green boughs, the -hymn and anthem never heard but at Christmas—even the Athanasian Creed, -which was discriminated from the others only as being longer and of -exceptional virtue, since it was only read on rare occasions—brought a -vague exulting sense, for which the grown men could as little have -found words as the children, that something great and mysterious had -been done for them in heaven above and in earth below, which they were -appropriating by their presence. And then the red faces made their way -through the black biting frost to their own homes, feeling themselves -free for the rest of the day to eat, drink, and be merry, and using -that Christian freedom without diffidence. - -At Squire Cass’s family party that day nobody mentioned Dunstan—nobody -was sorry for his absence, or feared it would be too long. The doctor -and his wife, uncle and aunt Kimble, were there, and the annual -Christmas talk was carried through without any omissions, rising to the -climax of Mr. Kimble’s experience when he walked the London hospitals -thirty years back, together with striking professional anecdotes then -gathered. Whereupon cards followed, with aunt Kimble’s annual failure -to follow suit, and uncle Kimble’s irascibility concerning the odd -trick which was rarely explicable to him, when it was not on his side, -without a general visitation of tricks to see that they were formed on -sound principles: the whole being accompanied by a strong steaming -odour of spirits-and-water. - -But the party on Christmas-day, being a strictly family party, was not -the pre-eminently brilliant celebration of the season at the Red House. -It was the great dance on New Year’s Eve that made the glory of Squire -Cass’s hospitality, as of his forefathers’, time out of mind. This was -the occasion when all the society of Raveloe and Tarley, whether old -acquaintances separated by long rutty distances, or cooled -acquaintances separated by misunderstandings concerning runaway calves, -or acquaintances founded on intermittent condescension, counted on -meeting and on comporting themselves with mutual appropriateness. This -was the occasion on which fair dames who came on pillions sent their -bandboxes before them, supplied with more than their evening costume; -for the feast was not to end with a single evening, like a paltry town -entertainment, where the whole supply of eatables is put on the table -at once, and bedding is scanty. The Red House was provisioned as if for -a siege; and as for the spare feather-beds ready to be laid on floors, -they were as plentiful as might naturally be expected in a family that -had killed its own geese for many generations. - -Godfrey Cass was looking forward to this New Year’s Eve with a foolish -reckless longing, that made him half deaf to his importunate companion, -Anxiety. - -“Dunsey will be coming home soon: there will be a great blow-up, and -how will you bribe his spite to silence?” said Anxiety. - -“Oh, he won’t come home before New Year’s Eve, perhaps,” said Godfrey; -“and I shall sit by Nancy then, and dance with her, and get a kind look -from her in spite of herself.” - -“But money is wanted in another quarter,” said Anxiety, in a louder -voice, “and how will you get it without selling your mother’s diamond -pin? And if you don’t get it...?” - -“Well, but something may happen to make things easier. At any rate, -there’s one pleasure for me close at hand: Nancy is coming.” - -“Yes, and suppose your father should bring matters to a pass that will -oblige you to decline marrying her—and to give your reasons?” - -“Hold your tongue, and don’t worry me. I can see Nancy’s eyes, just as -they will look at me, and feel her hand in mine already.” - -But Anxiety went on, though in noisy Christmas company; refusing to be -utterly quieted even by much drinking. - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -Some women, I grant, would not appear to advantage seated on a pillion, -and attired in a drab joseph and a drab beaver-bonnet, with a crown -resembling a small stew-pan; for a garment suggesting a coachman’s -greatcoat, cut out under an exiguity of cloth that would only allow of -miniature capes, is not well adapted to conceal deficiencies of -contour, nor is drab a colour that will throw sallow cheeks into lively -contrast. It was all the greater triumph to Miss Nancy Lammeter’s -beauty that she looked thoroughly bewitching in that costume, as, -seated on the pillion behind her tall, erect father, she held one arm -round him, and looked down, with open-eyed anxiety, at the treacherous -snow-covered pools and puddles, which sent up formidable splashings of -mud under the stamp of Dobbin’s foot. A painter would, perhaps, have -preferred her in those moments when she was free from -self-consciousness; but certainly the bloom on her cheeks was at its -highest point of contrast with the surrounding drab when she arrived at -the door of the Red House, and saw Mr. Godfrey Cass ready to lift her -from the pillion. She wished her sister Priscilla had come up at the -same time behind the servant, for then she would have contrived that -Mr. Godfrey should have lifted off Priscilla first, and, in the -meantime, she would have persuaded her father to go round to the -horse-block instead of alighting at the door-steps. It was very -painful, when you had made it quite clear to a young man that you were -determined not to marry him, however much he might wish it, that he -would still continue to pay you marked attentions; besides, why didn’t -he always show the same attentions, if he meant them sincerely, instead -of being so strange as Mr. Godfrey Cass was, sometimes behaving as if -he didn’t want to speak to her, and taking no notice of her for weeks -and weeks, and then, all on a sudden, almost making love again? -Moreover, it was quite plain he had no real love for her, else he would -not let people have _that_ to say of him which they did say. Did he -suppose that Miss Nancy Lammeter was to be won by any man, squire or no -squire, who led a bad life? That was not what she had been used to see -in her own father, who was the soberest and best man in that -country-side, only a little hot and hasty now and then, if things were -not done to the minute. - -All these thoughts rushed through Miss Nancy’s mind, in their habitual -succession, in the moments between her first sight of Mr. Godfrey Cass -standing at the door and her own arrival there. Happily, the Squire -came out too and gave a loud greeting to her father, so that, somehow, -under cover of this noise she seemed to find concealment for her -confusion and neglect of any suitably formal behaviour, while she was -being lifted from the pillion by strong arms which seemed to find her -ridiculously small and light. And there was the best reason for -hastening into the house at once, since the snow was beginning to fall -again, threatening an unpleasant journey for such guests as were still -on the road. These were a small minority; for already the afternoon was -beginning to decline, and there would not be too much time for the -ladies who came from a distance to attire themselves in readiness for -the early tea which was to inspirit them for the dance. - -There was a buzz of voices through the house, as Miss Nancy entered, -mingled with the scrape of a fiddle preluding in the kitchen; but the -Lammeters were guests whose arrival had evidently been thought of so -much that it had been watched for from the windows, for Mrs. Kimble, -who did the honours at the Red House on these great occasions, came -forward to meet Miss Nancy in the hall, and conduct her up-stairs. Mrs. -Kimble was the Squire’s sister, as well as the doctor’s wife—a double -dignity, with which her diameter was in direct proportion; so that, a -journey up-stairs being rather fatiguing to her, she did not oppose -Miss Nancy’s request to be allowed to find her way alone to the Blue -Room, where the Miss Lammeters’ bandboxes had been deposited on their -arrival in the morning. - -There was hardly a bedroom in the house where feminine compliments were -not passing and feminine toilettes going forward, in various stages, in -space made scanty by extra beds spread upon the floor; and Miss Nancy, -as she entered the Blue Room, had to make her little formal curtsy to a -group of six. On the one hand, there were ladies no less important than -the two Miss Gunns, the wine merchant’s daughters from Lytherly, -dressed in the height of fashion, with the tightest skirts and the -shortest waists, and gazed at by Miss Ladbrook (of the Old Pastures) -with a shyness not unsustained by inward criticism. Partly, Miss -Ladbrook felt that her own skirt must be regarded as unduly lax by the -Miss Gunns, and partly, that it was a pity the Miss Gunns did not show -that judgment which she herself would show if she were in their place, -by stopping a little on this side of the fashion. On the other hand, -Mrs. Ladbrook was standing in skull-cap and front, with her turban in -her hand, curtsying and smiling blandly and saying, “After you, ma’am,” -to another lady in similar circumstances, who had politely offered the -precedence at the looking-glass. - -But Miss Nancy had no sooner made her curtsy than an elderly lady came -forward, whose full white muslin kerchief, and mob-cap round her curls -of smooth grey hair, were in daring contrast with the puffed yellow -satins and top-knotted caps of her neighbours. She approached Miss -Nancy with much primness, and said, with a slow, treble suavity— - -“Niece, I hope I see you well in health.” Miss Nancy kissed her aunt’s -cheek dutifully, and answered, with the same sort of amiable primness, -“Quite well, I thank you, aunt; and I hope I see you the same.” - -“Thank you, niece; I keep my health for the present. And how is my -brother-in-law?” - -These dutiful questions and answers were continued until it was -ascertained in detail that the Lammeters were all as well as usual, and -the Osgoods likewise, also that niece Priscilla must certainly arrive -shortly, and that travelling on pillions in snowy weather was -unpleasant, though a joseph was a great protection. Then Nancy was -formally introduced to her aunt’s visitors, the Miss Gunns, as being -the daughters of a mother known to _their_ mother, though now for the -first time induced to make a journey into these parts; and these ladies -were so taken by surprise at finding such a lovely face and figure in -an out-of-the-way country place, that they began to feel some curiosity -about the dress she would put on when she took off her joseph. Miss -Nancy, whose thoughts were always conducted with the propriety and -moderation conspicuous in her manners, remarked to herself that the -Miss Gunns were rather hard-featured than otherwise, and that such very -low dresses as they wore might have been attributed to vanity if their -shoulders had been pretty, but that, being as they were, it was not -reasonable to suppose that they showed their necks from a love of -display, but rather from some obligation not inconsistent with sense -and modesty. She felt convinced, as she opened her box, that this must -be her aunt Osgood’s opinion, for Miss Nancy’s mind resembled her -aunt’s to a degree that everybody said was surprising, considering the -kinship was on Mr. Osgood’s side; and though you might not have -supposed it from the formality of their greeting, there was a devoted -attachment and mutual admiration between aunt and niece. Even Miss -Nancy’s refusal of her cousin Gilbert Osgood (on the ground solely that -he was her cousin), though it had grieved her aunt greatly, had not in -the least cooled the preference which had determined her to leave Nancy -several of her hereditary ornaments, let Gilbert’s future wife be whom -she might. - -Three of the ladies quickly retired, but the Miss Gunns were quite -content that Mrs. Osgood’s inclination to remain with her niece gave -them also a reason for staying to see the rustic beauty’s toilette. And -it was really a pleasure—from the first opening of the bandbox, where -everything smelt of lavender and rose-leaves, to the clasping of the -small coral necklace that fitted closely round her little white neck. -Everything belonging to Miss Nancy was of delicate purity and -nattiness: not a crease was where it had no business to be, not a bit -of her linen professed whiteness without fulfilling its profession; the -very pins on her pincushion were stuck in after a pattern from which -she was careful to allow no aberration; and as for her own person, it -gave the same idea of perfect unvarying neatness as the body of a -little bird. It is true that her light-brown hair was cropped behind -like a boy’s, and was dressed in front in a number of flat rings, that -lay quite away from her face; but there was no sort of coiffure that -could make Miss Nancy’s cheek and neck look otherwise than pretty; and -when at last she stood complete in her silvery twilled silk, her lace -tucker, her coral necklace, and coral ear-drops, the Miss Gunns could -see nothing to criticise except her hands, which bore the traces of -butter-making, cheese-crushing, and even still coarser work. But Miss -Nancy was not ashamed of that, for even while she was dressing she -narrated to her aunt how she and Priscilla had packed their boxes -yesterday, because this morning was baking morning, and since they were -leaving home, it was desirable to make a good supply of meat-pies for -the kitchen; and as she concluded this judicious remark, she turned to -the Miss Gunns that she might not commit the rudeness of not including -them in the conversation. The Miss Gunns smiled stiffly, and thought -what a pity it was that these rich country people, who could afford to -buy such good clothes (really Miss Nancy’s lace and silk were very -costly), should be brought up in utter ignorance and vulgarity. She -actually said “mate” for “meat”, “’appen” for “perhaps”, and “oss” for -“horse”, which, to young ladies living in good Lytherly society, who -habitually said ’orse, even in domestic privacy, and only said ’appen -on the right occasions, was necessarily shocking. Miss Nancy, indeed, -had never been to any school higher than Dame Tedman’s: her -acquaintance with profane literature hardly went beyond the rhymes she -had worked in her large sampler under the lamb and the shepherdess; and -in order to balance an account, she was obliged to effect her -subtraction by removing visible metallic shillings and sixpences from a -visible metallic total. There is hardly a servant-maid in these days -who is not better informed than Miss Nancy; yet she had the essential -attributes of a lady—high veracity, delicate honour in her dealings, -deference to others, and refined personal habits,—and lest these should -not suffice to convince grammatical fair ones that her feelings can at -all resemble theirs, I will add that she was slightly proud and -exacting, and as constant in her affection towards a baseless opinion -as towards an erring lover. - -The anxiety about sister Priscilla, which had grown rather active by -the time the coral necklace was clasped, was happily ended by the -entrance of that cheerful-looking lady herself, with a face made blowsy -by cold and damp. After the first questions and greetings, she turned -to Nancy, and surveyed her from head to foot—then wheeled her round, to -ascertain that the back view was equally faultless. - -“What do you think o’ _these_ gowns, aunt Osgood?” said Priscilla, -while Nancy helped her to unrobe. - -“Very handsome indeed, niece,” said Mrs. Osgood, with a slight increase -of formality. She always thought niece Priscilla too rough. - -“I’m obliged to have the same as Nancy, you know, for all I’m five -years older, and it makes me look yallow; for she never _will_ have -anything without I have mine just like it, because she wants us to look -like sisters. And I tell her, folks ’ull think it’s my weakness makes -me fancy as I shall look pretty in what she looks pretty in. For I _am_ -ugly—there’s no denying that: I feature my father’s family. But, law! I -don’t mind, do you?” Priscilla here turned to the Miss Gunns, rattling -on in too much preoccupation with the delight of talking, to notice -that her candour was not appreciated. “The pretty uns do for -fly-catchers—they keep the men off us. I’ve no opinion o’ the men, Miss -Gunn—I don’t know what _you_ have. And as for fretting and stewing -about what _they_’ll think of you from morning till night, and making -your life uneasy about what they’re doing when they’re out o’ your -sight—as I tell Nancy, it’s a folly no woman need be guilty of, if -she’s got a good father and a good home: let her leave it to them as -have got no fortin, and can’t help themselves. As I say, Mr. -Have-your-own-way is the best husband, and the only one I’d ever -promise to obey. I know it isn’t pleasant, when you’ve been used to -living in a big way, and managing hogsheads and all that, to go and put -your nose in by somebody else’s fireside, or to sit down by yourself to -a scrag or a knuckle; but, thank God! my father’s a sober man and -likely to live; and if you’ve got a man by the chimney-corner, it -doesn’t matter if he’s childish—the business needn’t be broke up.” - -The delicate process of getting her narrow gown over her head without -injury to her smooth curls, obliged Miss Priscilla to pause in this -rapid survey of life, and Mrs. Osgood seized the opportunity of rising -and saying— - -“Well, niece, you’ll follow us. The Miss Gunns will like to go down.” - -“Sister,” said Nancy, when they were alone, “you’ve offended the Miss -Gunns, I’m sure.” - -“What have I done, child?” said Priscilla, in some alarm. - -“Why, you asked them if they minded about being ugly—you’re so very -blunt.” - -“Law, did I? Well, it popped out: it’s a mercy I said no more, for I’m -a bad un to live with folks when they don’t like the truth. But as for -being ugly, look at me, child, in this silver-coloured silk—I told you -how it ’ud be—I look as yallow as a daffadil. Anybody ’ud say you -wanted to make a mawkin of me.” - -“No, Priscy, don’t say so. I begged and prayed of you not to let us -have this silk if you’d like another better. I was willing to have -_your_ choice, you know I was,” said Nancy, in anxious -self-vindication. - -“Nonsense, child! you know you’d set your heart on this; and reason -good, for you’re the colour o’ cream. It ’ud be fine doings for you to -dress yourself to suit _my_ skin. What I find fault with, is that -notion o’ yours as I must dress myself just like you. But you do as you -like with me—you always did, from when first you begun to walk. If you -wanted to go the field’s length, the field’s length you’d go; and there -was no whipping you, for you looked as prim and innicent as a daisy all -the while.” - -“Priscy,” said Nancy, gently, as she fastened a coral necklace, exactly -like her own, round Priscilla’s neck, which was very far from being -like her own, “I’m sure I’m willing to give way as far as is right, but -who shouldn’t dress alike if it isn’t sisters? Would you have us go -about looking as if we were no kin to one another—us that have got no -mother and not another sister in the world? I’d do what was right, if I -dressed in a gown dyed with cheese-colouring; and I’d rather you’d -choose, and let me wear what pleases you.” - -“There you go again! You’d come round to the same thing if one talked -to you from Saturday night till Saturday morning. It’ll be fine fun to -see how you’ll master your husband and never raise your voice above the -singing o’ the kettle all the while. I like to see the men mastered!” - -“Don’t talk _so_, Priscy,” said Nancy, blushing. “You know I don’t mean -ever to be married.” - -“Oh, you never mean a fiddlestick’s end!” said Priscilla, as she -arranged her discarded dress, and closed her bandbox. “Who shall _I_ -have to work for when father’s gone, if you are to go and take notions -in your head and be an old maid, because some folks are no better than -they should be? I haven’t a bit o’ patience with you—sitting on an -addled egg for ever, as if there was never a fresh un in the world. One -old maid’s enough out o’ two sisters; and I shall do credit to a single -life, for God A’mighty meant me for it. Come, we can go down now. I’m -as ready as a mawkin _can_ be—there’s nothing awanting to frighten the -crows, now I’ve got my ear-droppers in.” - -As the two Miss Lammeters walked into the large parlour together, any -one who did not know the character of both might certainly have -supposed that the reason why the square-shouldered, clumsy, -high-featured Priscilla wore a dress the facsimile of her pretty -sister’s, was either the mistaken vanity of the one, or the malicious -contrivance of the other in order to set off her own rare beauty. But -the good-natured self-forgetful cheeriness and common-sense of -Priscilla would soon have dissipated the one suspicion; and the modest -calm of Nancy’s speech and manners told clearly of a mind free from all -disavowed devices. - -Places of honour had been kept for the Miss Lammeters near the head of -the principal tea-table in the wainscoted parlour, now looking fresh -and pleasant with handsome branches of holly, yew, and laurel, from the -abundant growths of the old garden; and Nancy felt an inward flutter, -that no firmness of purpose could prevent, when she saw Mr. Godfrey -Cass advancing to lead her to a seat between himself and Mr. -Crackenthorp, while Priscilla was called to the opposite side between -her father and the Squire. It certainly did make some difference to -Nancy that the lover she had given up was the young man of quite the -highest consequence in the parish—at home in a venerable and unique -parlour, which was the extremity of grandeur in her experience, a -parlour where _she_ might one day have been mistress, with the -consciousness that she was spoken of as “Madam Cass”, the Squire’s -wife. These circumstances exalted her inward drama in her own eyes, and -deepened the emphasis with which she declared to herself that not the -most dazzling rank should induce her to marry a man whose conduct -showed him careless of his character, but that, “love once, love -always”, was the motto of a true and pure woman, and no man should ever -have any right over her which would be a call on her to destroy the -dried flowers that she treasured, and always would treasure, for -Godfrey Cass’s sake. And Nancy was capable of keeping her word to -herself under very trying conditions. Nothing but a becoming blush -betrayed the moving thoughts that urged themselves upon her as she -accepted the seat next to Mr. Crackenthorp; for she was so -instinctively neat and adroit in all her actions, and her pretty lips -met each other with such quiet firmness, that it would have been -difficult for her to appear agitated. - -It was not the rector’s practice to let a charming blush pass without -an appropriate compliment. He was not in the least lofty or -aristocratic, but simply a merry-eyed, small-featured, grey-haired man, -with his chin propped by an ample, many-creased white neckcloth which -seemed to predominate over every other point in his person, and somehow -to impress its peculiar character on his remarks; so that to have -considered his amenities apart from his cravat would have been a -severe, and perhaps a dangerous, effort of abstraction. - -“Ha, Miss Nancy,” he said, turning his head within his cravat and -smiling down pleasantly upon her, “when anybody pretends this has been -a severe winter, I shall tell them I saw the roses blooming on New -Year’s Eve—eh, Godfrey, what do _you_ say?” - -Godfrey made no reply, and avoided looking at Nancy very markedly; for -though these complimentary personalities were held to be in excellent -taste in old-fashioned Raveloe society, reverent love has a politeness -of its own which it teaches to men otherwise of small schooling. But -the Squire was rather impatient at Godfrey’s showing himself a dull -spark in this way. By this advanced hour of the day, the Squire was -always in higher spirits than we have seen him in at the -breakfast-table, and felt it quite pleasant to fulfil the hereditary -duty of being noisily jovial and patronizing: the large silver -snuff-box was in active service and was offered without fail to all -neighbours from time to time, however often they might have declined -the favour. At present, the Squire had only given an express welcome to -the heads of families as they appeared; but always as the evening -deepened, his hospitality rayed out more widely, till he had tapped the -youngest guests on the back and shown a peculiar fondness for their -presence, in the full belief that they must feel their lives made happy -by their belonging to a parish where there was such a hearty man as -Squire Cass to invite them and wish them well. Even in this early stage -of the jovial mood, it was natural that he should wish to supply his -son’s deficiencies by looking and speaking for him. - -“Aye, aye,” he began, offering his snuff-box to Mr. Lammeter, who for -the second time bowed his head and waved his hand in stiff rejection of -the offer, “us old fellows may wish ourselves young to-night, when we -see the mistletoe-bough in the White Parlour. It’s true, most things -are gone back’ard in these last thirty years—the country’s going down -since the old king fell ill. But when I look at Miss Nancy here, I -begin to think the lasses keep up their quality;—ding me if I remember -a sample to match her, not when I was a fine young fellow, and thought -a deal about my pigtail. No offence to you, madam,” he added, bending -to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who sat by him, “I didn’t know _you_ when you -were as young as Miss Nancy here.” - -Mrs. Crackenthorp—a small blinking woman, who fidgeted incessantly with -her lace, ribbons, and gold chain, turning her head about and making -subdued noises, very much like a guinea-pig that twitches its nose and -soliloquizes in all company indiscriminately—now blinked and fidgeted -towards the Squire, and said, “Oh, no—no offence.” - -This emphatic compliment of the Squire’s to Nancy was felt by others -besides Godfrey to have a diplomatic significance; and her father gave -a slight additional erectness to his back, as he looked across the -table at her with complacent gravity. That grave and orderly senior was -not going to bate a jot of his dignity by seeming elated at the notion -of a match between his family and the Squire’s: he was gratified by any -honour paid to his daughter; but he must see an alteration in several -ways before his consent would be vouchsafed. His spare but healthy -person, and high-featured firm face, that looked as if it had never -been flushed by excess, was in strong contrast, not only with the -Squire’s, but with the appearance of the Raveloe farmers generally—in -accordance with a favourite saying of his own, that “breed was stronger -than pasture”. - -“Miss Nancy’s wonderful like what her mother was, though; isn’t she, -Kimble?” said the stout lady of that name, looking round for her -husband. - -But Doctor Kimble (country apothecaries in old days enjoyed that title -without authority of diploma), being a thin and agile man, was flitting -about the room with his hands in his pockets, making himself agreeable -to his feminine patients, with medical impartiality, and being welcomed -everywhere as a doctor by hereditary right—not one of those miserable -apothecaries who canvass for practice in strange neighbourhoods, and -spend all their income in starving their one horse, but a man of -substance, able to keep an extravagant table like the best of his -patients. Time out of mind the Raveloe doctor had been a Kimble; Kimble -was inherently a doctor’s name; and it was difficult to contemplate -firmly the melancholy fact that the actual Kimble had no son, so that -his practice might one day be handed over to a successor with the -incongruous name of Taylor or Johnson. But in that case the wiser -people in Raveloe would employ Dr. Blick of Flitton—as less unnatural. - -“Did you speak to me, my dear?” said the authentic doctor, coming -quickly to his wife’s side; but, as if foreseeing that she would be too -much out of breath to repeat her remark, he went on immediately—“Ha, -Miss Priscilla, the sight of you revives the taste of that -super-excellent pork-pie. I hope the batch isn’t near an end.” - -“Yes, indeed, it is, doctor,” said Priscilla; “but I’ll answer for it -the next shall be as good. My pork-pies don’t turn out well by chance.” - -“Not as your doctoring does, eh, Kimble?—because folks forget to take -your physic, eh?” said the Squire, who regarded physic and doctors as -many loyal churchmen regard the church and the clergy—tasting a joke -against them when he was in health, but impatiently eager for their aid -when anything was the matter with him. He tapped his box, and looked -round with a triumphant laugh. - -“Ah, she has a quick wit, my friend Priscilla has,” said the doctor, -choosing to attribute the epigram to a lady rather than allow a -brother-in-law that advantage over him. “She saves a little pepper to -sprinkle over her talk—that’s the reason why she never puts too much -into her pies. There’s my wife now, she never has an answer at her -tongue’s end; but if I offend her, she’s sure to scarify my throat with -black pepper the next day, or else give me the colic with watery -greens. That’s an awful tit-for-tat.” Here the vivacious doctor made a -pathetic grimace. - -“Did you ever hear the like?” said Mrs. Kimble, laughing above her -double chin with much good-humour, aside to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who -blinked and nodded, and seemed to intend a smile, which, by the -correlation of forces, went off in small twitchings and noises. - -“I suppose that’s the sort of tit-for-tat adopted in your profession, -Kimble, if you’ve a grudge against a patient,” said the rector. - -“Never do have a grudge against our patients,” said Mr. Kimble, “except -when they leave us: and then, you see, we haven’t the chance of -prescribing for ’em. Ha, Miss Nancy,” he continued, suddenly skipping -to Nancy’s side, “you won’t forget your promise? You’re to save a dance -for me, you know.” - -“Come, come, Kimble, don’t you be too for’ard,” said the Squire. “Give -the young uns fair-play. There’s my son Godfrey’ll be wanting to have a -round with you if you run off with Miss Nancy. He’s bespoke her for the -first dance, I’ll be bound. Eh, sir! what do you say?” he continued, -throwing himself backward, and looking at Godfrey. “Haven’t you asked -Miss Nancy to open the dance with you?” - -Godfrey, sorely uncomfortable under this significant insistence about -Nancy, and afraid to think where it would end by the time his father -had set his usual hospitable example of drinking before and after -supper, saw no course open but to turn to Nancy and say, with as little -awkwardness as possible— - -“No; I’ve not asked her yet, but I hope she’ll consent—if somebody else -hasn’t been before me.” - -“No, I’ve not engaged myself,” said Nancy, quietly, though blushingly. -(If Mr. Godfrey founded any hopes on her consenting to dance with him, -he would soon be undeceived; but there was no need for her to be -uncivil.) - -“Then I hope you’ve no objections to dancing with me,” said Godfrey, -beginning to lose the sense that there was anything uncomfortable in -this arrangement. - -“No, no objections,” said Nancy, in a cold tone. - -“Ah, well, you’re a lucky fellow, Godfrey,” said uncle Kimble; “but -you’re my godson, so I won’t stand in your way. Else I’m not so very -old, eh, my dear?” he went on, skipping to his wife’s side again. “You -wouldn’t mind my having a second after you were gone—not if I cried a -good deal first?” - -“Come, come, take a cup o’ tea and stop your tongue, do,” said -good-humoured Mrs. Kimble, feeling some pride in a husband who must be -regarded as so clever and amusing by the company generally. If he had -only not been irritable at cards! - -While safe, well-tested personalities were enlivening the tea in this -way, the sound of the fiddle approaching within a distance at which it -could be heard distinctly, made the young people look at each other -with sympathetic impatience for the end of the meal. - -“Why, there’s Solomon in the hall,” said the Squire, “and playing my -fav’rite tune, _I_ believe—“The flaxen-headed ploughboy”—he’s for -giving us a hint as we aren’t enough in a hurry to hear him play. Bob,” -he called out to his third long-legged son, who was at the other end of -the room, “open the door, and tell Solomon to come in. He shall give us -a tune here.” - -Bob obeyed, and Solomon walked in, fiddling as he walked, for he would -on no account break off in the middle of a tune. - -“Here, Solomon,” said the Squire, with loud patronage. “Round here, my -man. Ah, I knew it was “The flaxen-headed ploughboy”: there’s no finer -tune.” - -Solomon Macey, a small hale old man with an abundant crop of long white -hair reaching nearly to his shoulders, advanced to the indicated spot, -bowing reverently while he fiddled, as much as to say that he respected -the company, though he respected the key-note more. As soon as he had -repeated the tune and lowered his fiddle, he bowed again to the Squire -and the rector, and said, “I hope I see your honour and your reverence -well, and wishing you health and long life and a happy New Year. And -wishing the same to you, Mr. Lammeter, sir; and to the other gentlemen, -and the madams, and the young lasses.” - -As Solomon uttered the last words, he bowed in all directions -solicitously, lest he should be wanting in due respect. But thereupon -he immediately began to prelude, and fell into the tune which he knew -would be taken as a special compliment by Mr. Lammeter. - -“Thank ye, Solomon, thank ye,” said Mr. Lammeter when the fiddle paused -again. “That’s “Over the hills and far away”, that is. My father used -to say to me, whenever we heard that tune, “Ah, lad, _I_ come from over -the hills and far away.” There’s a many tunes I don’t make head or tail -of; but that speaks to me like the blackbird’s whistle. I suppose it’s -the name: there’s a deal in the name of a tune.” - -But Solomon was already impatient to prelude again, and presently broke -with much spirit into “Sir Roger de Coverley”, at which there was a -sound of chairs pushed back, and laughing voices. - -“Aye, aye, Solomon, we know what that means,” said the Squire, rising. -“It’s time to begin the dance, eh? Lead the way, then, and we’ll all -follow you.” - -So Solomon, holding his white head on one side, and playing vigorously, -marched forward at the head of the gay procession into the White -Parlour, where the mistletoe-bough was hung, and multitudinous tallow -candles made rather a brilliant effect, gleaming from among the berried -holly-boughs, and reflected in the old-fashioned oval mirrors fastened -in the panels of the white wainscot. A quaint procession! Old Solomon, -in his seedy clothes and long white locks, seemed to be luring that -decent company by the magic scream of his fiddle—luring discreet -matrons in turban-shaped caps, nay, Mrs. Crackenthorp herself, the -summit of whose perpendicular feather was on a level with the Squire’s -shoulder—luring fair lasses complacently conscious of very short waists -and skirts blameless of front-folds—luring burly fathers in large -variegated waistcoats, and ruddy sons, for the most part shy and -sheepish, in short nether garments and very long coat-tails. - -Already Mr. Macey and a few other privileged villagers, who were -allowed to be spectators on these great occasions, were seated on -benches placed for them near the door; and great was the admiration and -satisfaction in that quarter when the couples had formed themselves for -the dance, and the Squire led off with Mrs. Crackenthorp, joining hands -with the rector and Mrs. Osgood. That was as it should be—that was what -everybody had been used to—and the charter of Raveloe seemed to be -renewed by the ceremony. It was not thought of as an unbecoming levity -for the old and middle-aged people to dance a little before sitting -down to cards, but rather as part of their social duties. For what were -these if not to be merry at appropriate times, interchanging visits and -poultry with due frequency, paying each other old-established -compliments in sound traditional phrases, passing well-tried personal -jokes, urging your guests to eat and drink too much out of hospitality, -and eating and drinking too much in your neighbour’s house to show that -you liked your cheer? And the parson naturally set an example in these -social duties. For it would not have been possible for the Raveloe -mind, without a peculiar revelation, to know that a clergyman should be -a pale-faced memento of solemnities, instead of a reasonably faulty man -whose exclusive authority to read prayers and preach, to christen, -marry, and bury you, necessarily coexisted with the right to sell you -the ground to be buried in and to take tithe in kind; on which last -point, of course, there was a little grumbling, but not to the extent -of irreligion—not of deeper significance than the grumbling at the -rain, which was by no means accompanied with a spirit of impious -defiance, but with a desire that the prayer for fine weather might be -read forthwith. - -There was no reason, then, why the rector’s dancing should not be -received as part of the fitness of things quite as much as the -Squire’s, or why, on the other hand, Mr. Macey’s official respect -should restrain him from subjecting the parson’s performance to that -criticism with which minds of extraordinary acuteness must necessarily -contemplate the doings of their fallible fellow-men. - -“The Squire’s pretty springe, considering his weight,” said Mr. Macey, -“and he stamps uncommon well. But Mr. Lammeter beats ’em all for -shapes: you see he holds his head like a sodger, and he isn’t so -cushiony as most o’ the oldish gentlefolks—they run fat in general; and -he’s got a fine leg. The parson’s nimble enough, but he hasn’t got much -of a leg: it’s a bit too thick down’ard, and his knees might be a bit -nearer wi’out damage; but he might do worse, he might do worse. Though -he hasn’t that grand way o’ waving his hand as the Squire has.” - -“Talk o’ nimbleness, look at Mrs. Osgood,” said Ben Winthrop, who was -holding his son Aaron between his knees. “She trips along with her -little steps, so as nobody can see how she goes—it’s like as if she had -little wheels to her feet. She doesn’t look a day older nor last year: -she’s the finest-made woman as is, let the next be where she will.” - -“I don’t heed how the women are made,” said Mr. Macey, with some -contempt. “They wear nayther coat nor breeches: you can’t make much out -o’ their shapes.” - -“Fayder,” said Aaron, whose feet were busy beating out the tune, “how -does that big cock’s-feather stick in Mrs. Crackenthorp’s yead? Is -there a little hole for it, like in my shuttle-cock?” - -“Hush, lad, hush; that’s the way the ladies dress theirselves, that -is,” said the father, adding, however, in an undertone to Mr. Macey, -“It does make her look funny, though—partly like a short-necked bottle -wi’ a long quill in it. Hey, by jingo, there’s the young Squire leading -off now, wi’ Miss Nancy for partners! There’s a lass for you!—like a -pink-and-white posy—there’s nobody ’ud think as anybody could be so -pritty. I shouldn’t wonder if she’s Madam Cass some day, arter all—and -nobody more rightfuller, for they’d make a fine match. You can find -nothing against Master Godfrey’s shapes, Macey, _I_’ll bet a penny.” - -Mr. Macey screwed up his mouth, leaned his head further on one side, -and twirled his thumbs with a presto movement as his eyes followed -Godfrey up the dance. At last he summed up his opinion. - -“Pretty well down’ard, but a bit too round i’ the shoulder-blades. And -as for them coats as he gets from the Flitton tailor, they’re a poor -cut to pay double money for.” - -“Ah, Mr. Macey, you and me are two folks,” said Ben, slightly indignant -at this carping. “When I’ve got a pot o’ good ale, I like to swaller -it, and do my inside good, i’stead o’ smelling and staring at it to see -if I can’t find faut wi’ the brewing. I should like you to pick me out -a finer-limbed young fellow nor Master Godfrey—one as ’ud knock you -down easier, or ’s more pleasanter-looksed when he’s piert and merry.” - -“Tchuh!” said Mr. Macey, provoked to increased severity, “he isn’t come -to his right colour yet: he’s partly like a slack-baked pie. And I -doubt he’s got a soft place in his head, else why should he be turned -round the finger by that offal Dunsey as nobody’s seen o’ late, and let -him kill that fine hunting hoss as was the talk o’ the country? And one -while he was allays after Miss Nancy, and then it all went off again, -like a smell o’ hot porridge, as I may say. That wasn’t my way when _I_ -went a-coorting.” - -“Ah, but mayhap Miss Nancy hung off, like, and your lass didn’t,” said -Ben. - -“I should say she didn’t,” said Mr. Macey, significantly. “Before I -said “sniff”, I took care to know as she’d say “snaff”, and pretty -quick too. I wasn’t a-going to open _my_ mouth, like a dog at a fly, -and snap it to again, wi’ nothing to swaller.” - -“Well, I think Miss Nancy’s a-coming round again,” said Ben, “for -Master Godfrey doesn’t look so down-hearted to-night. And I see he’s -for taking her away to sit down, now they’re at the end o’ the dance: -that looks like sweethearting, that does.” - -The reason why Godfrey and Nancy had left the dance was not so tender -as Ben imagined. In the close press of couples a slight accident had -happened to Nancy’s dress, which, while it was short enough to show her -neat ankle in front, was long enough behind to be caught under the -stately stamp of the Squire’s foot, so as to rend certain stitches at -the waist, and cause much sisterly agitation in Priscilla’s mind, as -well as serious concern in Nancy’s. One’s thoughts may be much occupied -with love-struggles, but hardly so as to be insensible to a disorder in -the general framework of things. Nancy had no sooner completed her duty -in the figure they were dancing than she said to Godfrey, with a deep -blush, that she must go and sit down till Priscilla could come to her; -for the sisters had already exchanged a short whisper and an open-eyed -glance full of meaning. No reason less urgent than this could have -prevailed on Nancy to give Godfrey this opportunity of sitting apart -with her. As for Godfrey, he was feeling so happy and oblivious under -the long charm of the country-dance with Nancy, that he got rather bold -on the strength of her confusion, and was capable of leading her -straight away, without leave asked, into the adjoining small parlour, -where the card-tables were set. - -“Oh no, thank you,” said Nancy, coldly, as soon as she perceived where -he was going, “not in there. I’ll wait here till Priscilla’s ready to -come to me. I’m sorry to bring you out of the dance and make myself -troublesome.” - -“Why, you’ll be more comfortable here by yourself,” said the artful -Godfrey: “I’ll leave you here till your sister can come.” He spoke in -an indifferent tone. - -That was an agreeable proposition, and just what Nancy desired; why, -then, was she a little hurt that Mr. Godfrey should make it? They -entered, and she seated herself on a chair against one of the -card-tables, as the stiffest and most unapproachable position she could -choose. - -“Thank you, sir,” she said immediately. “I needn’t give you any more -trouble. I’m sorry you’ve had such an unlucky partner.” - -“That’s very ill-natured of you,” said Godfrey, standing by her without -any sign of intended departure, “to be sorry you’ve danced with me.” - -“Oh, no, sir, I don’t mean to say what’s ill-natured at all,” said -Nancy, looking distractingly prim and pretty. “When gentlemen have so -many pleasures, one dance can matter but very little.” - -“You know that isn’t true. You know one dance with you matters more to -me than all the other pleasures in the world.” - -It was a long, long while since Godfrey had said anything so direct as -that, and Nancy was startled. But her instinctive dignity and -repugnance to any show of emotion made her sit perfectly still, and -only throw a little more decision into her voice, as she said— - -“No, indeed, Mr. Godfrey, that’s not known to me, and I have very good -reasons for thinking different. But if it’s true, I don’t wish to hear -it.” - -“Would you never forgive me, then, Nancy—never think well of me, let -what would happen—would you never think the present made amends for the -past? Not if I turned a good fellow, and gave up everything you didn’t -like?” - -Godfrey was half conscious that this sudden opportunity of speaking to -Nancy alone had driven him beside himself; but blind feeling had got -the mastery of his tongue. Nancy really felt much agitated by the -possibility Godfrey’s words suggested, but this very pressure of -emotion that she was in danger of finding too strong for her roused all -her power of self-command. - -“I should be glad to see a good change in anybody, Mr. Godfrey,” she -answered, with the slightest discernible difference of tone, “but it -’ud be better if no change was wanted.” - -“You’re very hard-hearted, Nancy,” said Godfrey, pettishly. “You might -encourage me to be a better fellow. I’m very miserable—but you’ve no -feeling.” - -“I think those have the least feeling that act wrong to begin with,” -said Nancy, sending out a flash in spite of herself. Godfrey was -delighted with that little flash, and would have liked to go on and -make her quarrel with him; Nancy was so exasperatingly quiet and firm. -But she was not indifferent to him _yet_, though— - -The entrance of Priscilla, bustling forward and saying, “Dear heart -alive, child, let us look at this gown,” cut off Godfrey’s hopes of a -quarrel. - -“I suppose I must go now,” he said to Priscilla. - -“It’s no matter to me whether you go or stay,” said that frank lady, -searching for something in her pocket, with a preoccupied brow. - -“Do _you_ want me to go?” said Godfrey, looking at Nancy, who was now -standing up by Priscilla’s order. - -“As you like,” said Nancy, trying to recover all her former coldness, -and looking down carefully at the hem of her gown. - -“Then I like to stay,” said Godfrey, with a reckless determination to -get as much of this joy as he could to-night, and think nothing of the -morrow. - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -While Godfrey Cass was taking draughts of forgetfulness from the sweet -presence of Nancy, willingly losing all sense of that hidden bond which -at other moments galled and fretted him so as to mingle irritation with -the very sunshine, Godfrey’s wife was walking with slow uncertain steps -through the snow-covered Raveloe lanes, carrying her child in her arms. - -This journey on New Year’s Eve was a premeditated act of vengeance -which she had kept in her heart ever since Godfrey, in a fit of -passion, had told her he would sooner die than acknowledge her as his -wife. There would be a great party at the Red House on New Year’s Eve, -she knew: her husband would be smiling and smiled upon, hiding _her_ -existence in the darkest corner of his heart. But she would mar his -pleasure: she would go in her dingy rags, with her faded face, once as -handsome as the best, with her little child that had its father’s hair -and eyes, and disclose herself to the Squire as his eldest son’s wife. -It is seldom that the miserable can help regarding their misery as a -wrong inflicted by those who are less miserable. Molly knew that the -cause of her dingy rags was not her husband’s neglect, but the demon -Opium to whom she was enslaved, body and soul, except in the lingering -mother’s tenderness that refused to give him her hungry child. She knew -this well; and yet, in the moments of wretched unbenumbed -consciousness, the sense of her want and degradation transformed itself -continually into bitterness towards Godfrey. _He_ was well off; and if -she had her rights she would be well off too. The belief that he -repented his marriage, and suffered from it, only aggravated her -vindictiveness. Just and self-reproving thoughts do not come to us too -thickly, even in the purest air, and with the best lessons of heaven -and earth; how should those white-winged delicate messengers make their -way to Molly’s poisoned chamber, inhabited by no higher memories than -those of a barmaid’s paradise of pink ribbons and gentlemen’s jokes? - -She had set out at an early hour, but had lingered on the road, -inclined by her indolence to believe that if she waited under a warm -shed the snow would cease to fall. She had waited longer than she knew, -and now that she found herself belated in the snow-hidden ruggedness of -the long lanes, even the animation of a vindictive purpose could not -keep her spirit from failing. It was seven o’clock, and by this time -she was not very far from Raveloe, but she was not familiar enough with -those monotonous lanes to know how near she was to her journey’s end. -She needed comfort, and she knew but one comforter—the familiar demon -in her bosom; but she hesitated a moment, after drawing out the black -remnant, before she raised it to her lips. In that moment the mother’s -love pleaded for painful consciousness rather than oblivion—pleaded to -be left in aching weariness, rather than to have the encircling arms -benumbed so that they could not feel the dear burden. In another moment -Molly had flung something away, but it was not the black remnant—it was -an empty phial. And she walked on again under the breaking cloud, from -which there came now and then the light of a quickly veiled star, for a -freezing wind had sprung up since the snowing had ceased. But she -walked always more and more drowsily, and clutched more and more -automatically the sleeping child at her bosom. - -Slowly the demon was working his will, and cold and weariness were his -helpers. Soon she felt nothing but a supreme immediate longing that -curtained off all futurity—the longing to lie down and sleep. She had -arrived at a spot where her footsteps were no longer checked by a -hedgerow, and she had wandered vaguely, unable to distinguish any -objects, notwithstanding the wide whiteness around her, and the growing -starlight. She sank down against a straggling furze bush, an easy -pillow enough; and the bed of snow, too, was soft. She did not feel -that the bed was cold, and did not heed whether the child would wake -and cry for her. But her arms had not yet relaxed their instinctive -clutch; and the little one slumbered on as gently as if it had been -rocked in a lace-trimmed cradle. - -But the complete torpor came at last: the fingers lost their tension, -the arms unbent; then the little head fell away from the bosom, and the -blue eyes opened wide on the cold starlight. At first there was a -little peevish cry of “mammy”, and an effort to regain the pillowing -arm and bosom; but mammy’s ear was deaf, and the pillow seemed to be -slipping away backward. Suddenly, as the child rolled downward on its -mother’s knees, all wet with snow, its eyes were caught by a bright -glancing light on the white ground, and, with the ready transition of -infancy, it was immediately absorbed in watching the bright living -thing running towards it, yet never arriving. That bright living thing -must be caught; and in an instant the child had slipped on all-fours, -and held out one little hand to catch the gleam. But the gleam would -not be caught in that way, and now the head was held up to see where -the cunning gleam came from. It came from a very bright place; and the -little one, rising on its legs, toddled through the snow, the old grimy -shawl in which it was wrapped trailing behind it, and the queer little -bonnet dangling at its back—toddled on to the open door of Silas -Marner’s cottage, and right up to the warm hearth, where there was a -bright fire of logs and sticks, which had thoroughly warmed the old -sack (Silas’s greatcoat) spread out on the bricks to dry. The little -one, accustomed to be left to itself for long hours without notice from -its mother, squatted down on the sack, and spread its tiny hands -towards the blaze, in perfect contentment, gurgling and making many -inarticulate communications to the cheerful fire, like a new-hatched -gosling beginning to find itself comfortable. But presently the warmth -had a lulling effect, and the little golden head sank down on the old -sack, and the blue eyes were veiled by their delicate half-transparent -lids. - -But where was Silas Marner while this strange visitor had come to his -hearth? He was in the cottage, but he did not see the child. During the -last few weeks, since he had lost his money, he had contracted the -habit of opening his door and looking out from time to time, as if he -thought that his money might be somehow coming back to him, or that -some trace, some news of it, might be mysteriously on the road, and be -caught by the listening ear or the straining eye. It was chiefly at -night, when he was not occupied in his loom, that he fell into this -repetition of an act for which he could have assigned no definite -purpose, and which can hardly be understood except by those who have -undergone a bewildering separation from a supremely loved object. In -the evening twilight, and later whenever the night was not dark, Silas -looked out on that narrow prospect round the Stone-pits, listening and -gazing, not with hope, but with mere yearning and unrest. - -This morning he had been told by some of his neighbours that it was New -Year’s Eve, and that he must sit up and hear the old year rung out and -the new rung in, because that was good luck, and might bring his money -back again. This was only a friendly Raveloe-way of jesting with the -half-crazy oddities of a miser, but it had perhaps helped to throw -Silas into a more than usually excited state. Since the on-coming of -twilight he had opened his door again and again, though only to shut it -immediately at seeing all distance veiled by the falling snow. But the -last time he opened it the snow had ceased, and the clouds were parting -here and there. He stood and listened, and gazed for a long while—there -was really something on the road coming towards him then, but he caught -no sign of it; and the stillness and the wide trackless snow seemed to -narrow his solitude, and touched his yearning with the chill of -despair. He went in again, and put his right hand on the latch of the -door to close it—but he did not close it: he was arrested, as he had -been already since his loss, by the invisible wand of catalepsy, and -stood like a graven image, with wide but sightless eyes, holding open -his door, powerless to resist either the good or the evil that might -enter there. - -When Marner’s sensibility returned, he continued the action which had -been arrested, and closed his door, unaware of the chasm in his -consciousness, unaware of any intermediate change, except that the -light had grown dim, and that he was chilled and faint. He thought he -had been too long standing at the door and looking out. Turning towards -the hearth, where the two logs had fallen apart, and sent forth only a -red uncertain glimmer, he seated himself on his fireside chair, and was -stooping to push his logs together, when, to his blurred vision, it -seemed as if there were gold on the floor in front of the hearth. -Gold!—his own gold—brought back to him as mysteriously as it had been -taken away! He felt his heart begin to beat violently, and for a few -moments he was unable to stretch out his hand and grasp the restored -treasure. The heap of gold seemed to glow and get larger beneath his -agitated gaze. He leaned forward at last, and stretched forth his hand; -but instead of the hard coin with the familiar resisting outline, his -fingers encountered soft warm curls. In utter amazement, Silas fell on -his knees and bent his head low to examine the marvel: it was a -sleeping child—a round, fair thing, with soft yellow rings all over its -head. Could this be his little sister come back to him in a dream—his -little sister whom he had carried about in his arms for a year before -she died, when he was a small boy without shoes or stockings? That was -the first thought that darted across Silas’s blank wonderment. _Was_ it -a dream? He rose to his feet again, pushed his logs together, and, -throwing on some dried leaves and sticks, raised a flame; but the flame -did not disperse the vision—it only lit up more distinctly the little -round form of the child, and its shabby clothing. It was very much like -his little sister. Silas sank into his chair powerless, under the -double presence of an inexplicable surprise and a hurrying influx of -memories. How and when had the child come in without his knowledge? He -had never been beyond the door. But along with that question, and -almost thrusting it away, there was a vision of the old home and the -old streets leading to Lantern Yard—and within that vision another, of -the thoughts which had been present with him in those far-off scenes. -The thoughts were strange to him now, like old friendships impossible -to revive; and yet he had a dreamy feeling that this child was somehow -a message come to him from that far-off life: it stirred fibres that -had never been moved in Raveloe—old quiverings of tenderness—old -impressions of awe at the presentiment of some Power presiding over his -life; for his imagination had not yet extricated itself from the sense -of mystery in the child’s sudden presence, and had formed no -conjectures of ordinary natural means by which the event could have -been brought about. - -But there was a cry on the hearth: the child had awaked, and Marner -stooped to lift it on his knee. It clung round his neck, and burst -louder and louder into that mingling of inarticulate cries with “mammy” -by which little children express the bewilderment of waking. Silas -pressed it to him, and almost unconsciously uttered sounds of hushing -tenderness, while he bethought himself that some of his porridge, which -had got cool by the dying fire, would do to feed the child with if it -were only warmed up a little. - -He had plenty to do through the next hour. The porridge, sweetened with -some dry brown sugar from an old store which he had refrained from -using for himself, stopped the cries of the little one, and made her -lift her blue eyes with a wide quiet gaze at Silas, as he put the spoon -into her mouth. Presently she slipped from his knee and began to toddle -about, but with a pretty stagger that made Silas jump up and follow her -lest she should fall against anything that would hurt her. But she only -fell in a sitting posture on the ground, and began to pull at her -boots, looking up at him with a crying face as if the boots hurt her. -He took her on his knee again, but it was some time before it occurred -to Silas’s dull bachelor mind that the wet boots were the grievance, -pressing on her warm ankles. He got them off with difficulty, and baby -was at once happily occupied with the primary mystery of her own toes, -inviting Silas, with much chuckling, to consider the mystery too. But -the wet boots had at last suggested to Silas that the child had been -walking on the snow, and this roused him from his entire oblivion of -any ordinary means by which it could have entered or been brought into -his house. Under the prompting of this new idea, and without waiting to -form conjectures, he raised the child in his arms, and went to the -door. As soon as he had opened it, there was the cry of “mammy” again, -which Silas had not heard since the child’s first hungry waking. -Bending forward, he could just discern the marks made by the little -feet on the virgin snow, and he followed their track to the furze -bushes. “Mammy!” the little one cried again and again, stretching -itself forward so as almost to escape from Silas’s arms, before he -himself was aware that there was something more than the bush before -him—that there was a human body, with the head sunk low in the furze, -and half-covered with the shaken snow. - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -It was after the early supper-time at the Red House, and the -entertainment was in that stage when bashfulness itself had passed into -easy jollity, when gentlemen, conscious of unusual accomplishments, -could at length be prevailed on to dance a hornpipe, and when the -Squire preferred talking loudly, scattering snuff, and patting his -visitors’ backs, to sitting longer at the whist-table—a choice -exasperating to uncle Kimble, who, being always volatile in sober -business hours, became intense and bitter over cards and brandy, -shuffled before his adversary’s deal with a glare of suspicion, and -turned up a mean trump-card with an air of inexpressible disgust, as if -in a world where such things could happen one might as well enter on a -course of reckless profligacy. When the evening had advanced to this -pitch of freedom and enjoyment, it was usual for the servants, the -heavy duties of supper being well over, to get their share of amusement -by coming to look on at the dancing; so that the back regions of the -house were left in solitude. - -There were two doors by which the White Parlour was entered from the -hall, and they were both standing open for the sake of air; but the -lower one was crowded with the servants and villagers, and only the -upper doorway was left free. Bob Cass was figuring in a hornpipe, and -his father, very proud of this lithe son, whom he repeatedly declared -to be just like himself in his young days in a tone that implied this -to be the very highest stamp of juvenile merit, was the centre of a -group who had placed themselves opposite the performer, not far from -the upper door. Godfrey was standing a little way off, not to admire -his brother’s dancing, but to keep sight of Nancy, who was seated in -the group, near her father. He stood aloof, because he wished to avoid -suggesting himself as a subject for the Squire’s fatherly jokes in -connection with matrimony and Miss Nancy Lammeter’s beauty, which were -likely to become more and more explicit. But he had the prospect of -dancing with her again when the hornpipe was concluded, and in the -meanwhile it was very pleasant to get long glances at her quite -unobserved. - -But when Godfrey was lifting his eyes from one of those long glances, -they encountered an object as startling to him at that moment as if it -had been an apparition from the dead. It _was_ an apparition from that -hidden life which lies, like a dark by-street, behind the goodly -ornamented facade that meets the sunlight and the gaze of respectable -admirers. It was his own child, carried in Silas Marner’s arms. That -was his instantaneous impression, unaccompanied by doubt, though he had -not seen the child for months past; and when the hope was rising that -he might possibly be mistaken, Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Lammeter had -already advanced to Silas, in astonishment at this strange advent. -Godfrey joined them immediately, unable to rest without hearing every -word—trying to control himself, but conscious that if any one noticed -him, they must see that he was white-lipped and trembling. - -But now all eyes at that end of the room were bent on Silas Marner; the -Squire himself had risen, and asked angrily, “How’s this?—what’s -this?—what do you do coming in here in this way?” - -“I’m come for the doctor—I want the doctor,” Silas had said, in the -first moment, to Mr. Crackenthorp. - -“Why, what’s the matter, Marner?” said the rector. “The doctor’s here; -but say quietly what you want him for.” - -“It’s a woman,” said Silas, speaking low, and half-breathlessly, just -as Godfrey came up. “She’s dead, I think—dead in the snow at the -Stone-pits—not far from my door.” - -Godfrey felt a great throb: there was one terror in his mind at that -moment: it was, that the woman might _not_ be dead. That was an evil -terror—an ugly inmate to have found a nestling-place in Godfrey’s -kindly disposition; but no disposition is a security from evil wishes -to a man whose happiness hangs on duplicity. - -“Hush, hush!” said Mr. Crackenthorp. “Go out into the hall there. I’ll -fetch the doctor to you. Found a woman in the snow—and thinks she’s -dead,” he added, speaking low to the Squire. “Better say as little -about it as possible: it will shock the ladies. Just tell them a poor -woman is ill from cold and hunger. I’ll go and fetch Kimble.” - -By this time, however, the ladies had pressed forward, curious to know -what could have brought the solitary linen-weaver there under such -strange circumstances, and interested in the pretty child, who, half -alarmed and half attracted by the brightness and the numerous company, -now frowned and hid her face, now lifted up her head again and looked -round placably, until a touch or a coaxing word brought back the frown, -and made her bury her face with new determination. - -“What child is it?” said several ladies at once, and, among the rest, -Nancy Lammeter, addressing Godfrey. - -“I don’t know—some poor woman’s who has been found in the snow, I -believe,” was the answer Godfrey wrung from himself with a terrible -effort. (“After all, _am_ I certain?” he hastened to add, silently, in -anticipation of his own conscience.) - -“Why, you’d better leave the child here, then, Master Marner,” said -good-natured Mrs. Kimble, hesitating, however, to take those dingy -clothes into contact with her own ornamented satin bodice. “I’ll tell -one o’ the girls to fetch it.” - -“No—no—I can’t part with it, I can’t let it go,” said Silas, abruptly. -“It’s come to me—I’ve a right to keep it.” - -The proposition to take the child from him had come to Silas quite -unexpectedly, and his speech, uttered under a strong sudden impulse, -was almost like a revelation to himself: a minute before, he had no -distinct intention about the child. - -“Did you ever hear the like?” said Mrs. Kimble, in mild surprise, to -her neighbour. - -“Now, ladies, I must trouble you to stand aside,” said Mr. Kimble, -coming from the card-room, in some bitterness at the interruption, but -drilled by the long habit of his profession into obedience to -unpleasant calls, even when he was hardly sober. - -“It’s a nasty business turning out now, eh, Kimble?” said the Squire. -“He might ha’ gone for your young fellow—the ’prentice, there—what’s -his name?” - -“Might? aye—what’s the use of talking about might?” growled uncle -Kimble, hastening out with Marner, and followed by Mr. Crackenthorp and -Godfrey. “Get me a pair of thick boots, Godfrey, will you? And stay, -let somebody run to Winthrop’s and fetch Dolly—she’s the best woman to -get. Ben was here himself before supper; is he gone?” - -“Yes, sir, I met him,” said Marner; “but I couldn’t stop to tell him -anything, only I said I was going for the doctor, and he said the -doctor was at the Squire’s. And I made haste and ran, and there was -nobody to be seen at the back o’ the house, and so I went in to where -the company was.” - -The child, no longer distracted by the bright light and the smiling -women’s faces, began to cry and call for “mammy”, though always -clinging to Marner, who had apparently won her thorough confidence. -Godfrey had come back with the boots, and felt the cry as if some fibre -were drawn tight within him. - -“I’ll go,” he said, hastily, eager for some movement; “I’ll go and -fetch the woman—Mrs. Winthrop.” - -“Oh, pooh—send somebody else,” said uncle Kimble, hurrying away with -Marner. - -“You’ll let me know if I can be of any use, Kimble,” said Mr. -Crackenthorp. But the doctor was out of hearing. - -Godfrey, too, had disappeared: he was gone to snatch his hat and coat, -having just reflection enough to remember that he must not look like a -madman; but he rushed out of the house into the snow without heeding -his thin shoes. - -In a few minutes he was on his rapid way to the Stone-pits by the side -of Dolly, who, though feeling that she was entirely in her place in -encountering cold and snow on an errand of mercy, was much concerned at -a young gentleman’s getting his feet wet under a like impulse. - -“You’d a deal better go back, sir,” said Dolly, with respectful -compassion. “You’ve no call to catch cold; and I’d ask you if you’d be -so good as tell my husband to come, on your way back—he’s at the -Rainbow, I doubt—if you found him anyway sober enough to be o’ use. Or -else, there’s Mrs. Snell ’ud happen send the boy up to fetch and carry, -for there may be things wanted from the doctor’s.” - -“No, I’ll stay, now I’m once out—I’ll stay outside here,” said Godfrey, -when they came opposite Marner’s cottage. “You can come and tell me if -I can do anything.” - -“Well, sir, you’re very good: you’ve a tender heart,” said Dolly, going -to the door. - -Godfrey was too painfully preoccupied to feel a twinge of self-reproach -at this undeserved praise. He walked up and down, unconscious that he -was plunging ankle-deep in snow, unconscious of everything but -trembling suspense about what was going on in the cottage, and the -effect of each alternative on his future lot. No, not quite unconscious -of everything else. Deeper down, and half-smothered by passionate -desire and dread, there was the sense that he ought not to be waiting -on these alternatives; that he ought to accept the consequences of his -deeds, own the miserable wife, and fulfil the claims of the helpless -child. But he had not moral courage enough to contemplate that active -renunciation of Nancy as possible for him: he had only conscience and -heart enough to make him for ever uneasy under the weakness that -forbade the renunciation. And at this moment his mind leaped away from -all restraint toward the sudden prospect of deliverance from his long -bondage. - -“Is she dead?” said the voice that predominated over every other within -him. “If she is, I may marry Nancy; and then I shall be a good fellow -in future, and have no secrets, and the child—shall be taken care of -somehow.” But across that vision came the other possibility—“She may -live, and then it’s all up with me.” - -Godfrey never knew how long it was before the door of the cottage -opened and Mr. Kimble came out. He went forward to meet his uncle, -prepared to suppress the agitation he must feel, whatever news he was -to hear. - -“I waited for you, as I’d come so far,” he said, speaking first. - -“Pooh, it was nonsense for you to come out: why didn’t you send one of -the men? There’s nothing to be done. She’s dead—has been dead for -hours, I should say.” - -“What sort of woman is she?” said Godfrey, feeling the blood rush to -his face. - -“A young woman, but emaciated, with long black hair. Some vagrant—quite -in rags. She’s got a wedding-ring on, however. They must fetch her away -to the workhouse to-morrow. Come, come along.” - -“I want to look at her,” said Godfrey. “I think I saw such a woman -yesterday. I’ll overtake you in a minute or two.” - -Mr. Kimble went on, and Godfrey turned back to the cottage. He cast -only one glance at the dead face on the pillow, which Dolly had -smoothed with decent care; but he remembered that last look at his -unhappy hated wife so well, that at the end of sixteen years every line -in the worn face was present to him when he told the full story of this -night. - -He turned immediately towards the hearth, where Silas Marner sat -lulling the child. She was perfectly quiet now, but not asleep—only -soothed by sweet porridge and warmth into that wide-gazing calm which -makes us older human beings, with our inward turmoil, feel a certain -awe in the presence of a little child, such as we feel before some -quiet majesty or beauty in the earth or sky—before a steady glowing -planet, or a full-flowered eglantine, or the bending trees over a -silent pathway. The wide-open blue eyes looked up at Godfrey’s without -any uneasiness or sign of recognition: the child could make no visible -audible claim on its father; and the father felt a strange mixture of -feelings, a conflict of regret and joy, that the pulse of that little -heart had no response for the half-jealous yearning in his own, when -the blue eyes turned away from him slowly, and fixed themselves on the -weaver’s queer face, which was bent low down to look at them, while the -small hand began to pull Marner’s withered cheek with loving -disfiguration. - -“You’ll take the child to the parish to-morrow?” asked Godfrey, -speaking as indifferently as he could. - -“Who says so?” said Marner, sharply. “Will they make me take her?” - -“Why, you wouldn’t like to keep her, should you—an old bachelor like -you?” - -“Till anybody shows they’ve a right to take her away from me,” said -Marner. “The mother’s dead, and I reckon it’s got no father: it’s a -lone thing—and I’m a lone thing. My money’s gone, I don’t know -where—and this is come from I don’t know where. I know nothing—I’m -partly mazed.” - -“Poor little thing!” said Godfrey. “Let me give something towards -finding it clothes.” - -He had put his hand in his pocket and found half-a-guinea, and, -thrusting it into Silas’s hand, he hurried out of the cottage to -overtake Mr. Kimble. - -“Ah, I see it’s not the same woman I saw,” he said, as he came up. -“It’s a pretty little child: the old fellow seems to want to keep it; -that’s strange for a miser like him. But I gave him a trifle to help -him out: the parish isn’t likely to quarrel with him for the right to -keep the child.” - -“No; but I’ve seen the time when I might have quarrelled with him for -it myself. It’s too late now, though. If the child ran into the fire, -your aunt’s too fat to overtake it: she could only sit and grunt like -an alarmed sow. But what a fool you are, Godfrey, to come out in your -dancing shoes and stockings in this way—and you one of the beaux of the -evening, and at your own house! What do you mean by such freaks, young -fellow? Has Miss Nancy been cruel, and do you want to spite her by -spoiling your pumps?” - -“Oh, everything has been disagreeable to-night. I was tired to death of -jigging and gallanting, and that bother about the hornpipes. And I’d -got to dance with the other Miss Gunn,” said Godfrey, glad of the -subterfuge his uncle had suggested to him. - -The prevarication and white lies which a mind that keeps itself -ambitiously pure is as uneasy under as a great artist under the false -touches that no eye detects but his own, are worn as lightly as mere -trimmings when once the actions have become a lie. - -Godfrey reappeared in the White Parlour with dry feet, and, since the -truth must be told, with a sense of relief and gladness that was too -strong for painful thoughts to struggle with. For could he not venture -now, whenever opportunity offered, to say the tenderest things to Nancy -Lammeter—to promise her and himself that he would always be just what -she would desire to see him? There was no danger that his dead wife -would be recognized: those were not days of active inquiry and wide -report; and as for the registry of their marriage, that was a long way -off, buried in unturned pages, away from every one’s interest but his -own. Dunsey might betray him if he came back; but Dunsey might be won -to silence. - -And when events turn out so much better for a man than he has had -reason to dread, is it not a proof that his conduct has been less -foolish and blameworthy than it might otherwise have appeared? When we -are treated well, we naturally begin to think that we are not -altogether unmeritorious, and that it is only just we should treat -ourselves well, and not mar our own good fortune. Where, after all, -would be the use of his confessing the past to Nancy Lammeter, and -throwing away his happiness?—nay, hers? for he felt some confidence -that she loved him. As for the child, he would see that it was cared -for: he would never forsake it; he would do everything but own it. -Perhaps it would be just as happy in life without being owned by its -father, seeing that nobody could tell how things would turn out, and -that—is there any other reason wanted?—well, then, that the father -would be much happier without owning the child. - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -There was a pauper’s burial that week in Raveloe, and up Kench Yard at -Batherley it was known that the dark-haired woman with the fair child, -who had lately come to lodge there, was gone away again. That was all -the express note taken that Molly had disappeared from the eyes of men. -But the unwept death which, to the general lot, seemed as trivial as -the summer-shed leaf, was charged with the force of destiny to certain -human lives that we know of, shaping their joys and sorrows even to the -end. - -Silas Marner’s determination to keep the “tramp’s child” was matter of -hardly less surprise and iterated talk in the village than the robbery -of his money. That softening of feeling towards him which dated from -his misfortune, that merging of suspicion and dislike in a rather -contemptuous pity for him as lone and crazy, was now accompanied with a -more active sympathy, especially amongst the women. Notable mothers, -who knew what it was to keep children “whole and sweet”; lazy mothers, -who knew what it was to be interrupted in folding their arms and -scratching their elbows by the mischievous propensities of children -just firm on their legs, were equally interested in conjecturing how a -lone man would manage with a two-year-old child on his hands, and were -equally ready with their suggestions: the notable chiefly telling him -what he had better do, and the lazy ones being emphatic in telling him -what he would never be able to do. - -Among the notable mothers, Dolly Winthrop was the one whose neighbourly -offices were the most acceptable to Marner, for they were rendered -without any show of bustling instruction. Silas had shown her the -half-guinea given to him by Godfrey, and had asked her what he should -do about getting some clothes for the child. - -“Eh, Master Marner,” said Dolly, “there’s no call to buy, no more nor a -pair o’ shoes; for I’ve got the little petticoats as Aaron wore five -years ago, and it’s ill spending the money on them baby-clothes, for -the child ’ull grow like grass i’ May, bless it—that it will.” - -And the same day Dolly brought her bundle, and displayed to Marner, one -by one, the tiny garments in their due order of succession, most of -them patched and darned, but clean and neat as fresh-sprung herbs. This -was the introduction to a great ceremony with soap and water, from -which Baby came out in new beauty, and sat on Dolly’s knee, handling -her toes and chuckling and patting her palms together with an air of -having made several discoveries about herself, which she communicated -by alternate sounds of “gug-gug-gug”, and “mammy”. The “mammy” was not -a cry of need or uneasiness: Baby had been used to utter it without -expecting either tender sound or touch to follow. - -“Anybody ’ud think the angils in heaven couldn’t be prettier,” said -Dolly, rubbing the golden curls and kissing them. “And to think of its -being covered wi’ them dirty rags—and the poor mother—froze to death; -but there’s Them as took care of it, and brought it to your door, -Master Marner. The door was open, and it walked in over the snow, like -as if it had been a little starved robin. Didn’t you say the door was -open?” - -“Yes,” said Silas, meditatively. “Yes—the door was open. The money’s -gone I don’t know where, and this is come from I don’t know where.” - -He had not mentioned to any one his unconsciousness of the child’s -entrance, shrinking from questions which might lead to the fact he -himself suspected—namely, that he had been in one of his trances. - -“Ah,” said Dolly, with soothing gravity, “it’s like the night and the -morning, and the sleeping and the waking, and the rain and the -harvest—one goes and the other comes, and we know nothing how nor -where. We may strive and scrat and fend, but it’s little we can do -arter all—the big things come and go wi’ no striving o’ our’n—they do, -that they do; and I think you’re in the right on it to keep the little -un, Master Marner, seeing as it’s been sent to you, though there’s -folks as thinks different. You’ll happen be a bit moithered with it -while it’s so little; but I’ll come, and welcome, and see to it for -you: I’ve a bit o’ time to spare most days, for when one gets up -betimes i’ the morning, the clock seems to stan’ still tow’rt ten, -afore it’s time to go about the victual. So, as I say, I’ll come and -see to the child for you, and welcome.” - -“Thank you... kindly,” said Silas, hesitating a little. “I’ll be glad -if you’ll tell me things. But,” he added, uneasily, leaning forward to -look at Baby with some jealousy, as she was resting her head backward -against Dolly’s arm, and eyeing him contentedly from a distance—“But I -want to do things for it myself, else it may get fond o’ somebody else, -and not fond o’ me. I’ve been used to fending for myself in the house—I -can learn, I can learn.” - -“Eh, to be sure,” said Dolly, gently. “I’ve seen men as are wonderful -handy wi’ children. The men are awk’ard and contrairy mostly, God help -’em—but when the drink’s out of ’em, they aren’t unsensible, though -they’re bad for leeching and bandaging—so fiery and unpatient. You see -this goes first, next the skin,” proceeded Dolly, taking up the little -shirt, and putting it on. - -“Yes,” said Marner, docilely, bringing his eyes very close, that they -might be initiated in the mysteries; whereupon Baby seized his head -with both her small arms, and put her lips against his face with -purring noises. - -“See there,” said Dolly, with a woman’s tender tact, “she’s fondest o’ -you. She wants to go o’ your lap, I’ll be bound. Go, then: take her, -Master Marner; you can put the things on, and then you can say as -you’ve done for her from the first of her coming to you.” - -Marner took her on his lap, trembling with an emotion mysterious to -himself, at something unknown dawning on his life. Thought and feeling -were so confused within him, that if he had tried to give them -utterance, he could only have said that the child was come instead of -the gold—that the gold had turned into the child. He took the garments -from Dolly, and put them on under her teaching; interrupted, of course, -by Baby’s gymnastics. - -“There, then! why, you take to it quite easy, Master Marner,” said -Dolly; “but what shall you do when you’re forced to sit in your loom? -For she’ll get busier and mischievouser every day—she will, bless her. -It’s lucky as you’ve got that high hearth i’stead of a grate, for that -keeps the fire more out of her reach: but if you’ve got anything as can -be spilt or broke, or as is fit to cut her fingers off, she’ll be at -it—and it is but right you should know.” - -Silas meditated a little while in some perplexity. “I’ll tie her to the -leg o’ the loom,” he said at last—“tie her with a good long strip o’ -something.” - -“Well, mayhap that’ll do, as it’s a little gell, for they’re easier -persuaded to sit i’ one place nor the lads. I know what the lads are; -for I’ve had four—four I’ve had, God knows—and if you was to take and -tie ’em up, they’d make a fighting and a crying as if you was ringing -the pigs. But I’ll bring you my little chair, and some bits o’ red rag -and things for her to play wi’; an’ she’ll sit and chatter to ’em as if -they was alive. Eh, if it wasn’t a sin to the lads to wish ’em made -different, bless ’em, I should ha’ been glad for one of ’em to be a -little gell; and to think as I could ha’ taught her to scour, and mend, -and the knitting, and everything. But I can teach ’em this little un, -Master Marner, when she gets old enough.” - -“But she’ll be _my_ little un,” said Marner, rather hastily. “She’ll be -nobody else’s.” - -“No, to be sure; you’ll have a right to her, if you’re a father to her, -and bring her up according. But,” added Dolly, coming to a point which -she had determined beforehand to touch upon, “you must bring her up -like christened folks’s children, and take her to church, and let her -learn her catechise, as my little Aaron can say off—the “I believe”, -and everything, and “hurt nobody by word or deed”,—as well as if he was -the clerk. That’s what you must do, Master Marner, if you’d do the -right thing by the orphin child.” - -Marner’s pale face flushed suddenly under a new anxiety. His mind was -too busy trying to give some definite bearing to Dolly’s words for him -to think of answering her. - -“And it’s my belief,” she went on, “as the poor little creatur has -never been christened, and it’s nothing but right as the parson should -be spoke to; and if you was noways unwilling, I’d talk to Mr. Macey -about it this very day. For if the child ever went anyways wrong, and -you hadn’t done your part by it, Master Marner—’noculation, and -everything to save it from harm—it ’ud be a thorn i’ your bed for ever -o’ this side the grave; and I can’t think as it ’ud be easy lying down -for anybody when they’d got to another world, if they hadn’t done their -part by the helpless children as come wi’out their own asking.” - -Dolly herself was disposed to be silent for some time now, for she had -spoken from the depths of her own simple belief, and was much concerned -to know whether her words would produce the desired effect on Silas. He -was puzzled and anxious, for Dolly’s word “christened” conveyed no -distinct meaning to him. He had only heard of baptism, and had only -seen the baptism of grown-up men and women. - -“What is it as you mean by “christened”?” he said at last, timidly. -“Won’t folks be good to her without it?” - -“Dear, dear! Master Marner,” said Dolly, with gentle distress and -compassion. “Had you never no father nor mother as taught you to say -your prayers, and as there’s good words and good things to keep us from -harm?” - -“Yes,” said Silas, in a low voice; “I know a deal about that—used to, -used to. But your ways are different: my country was a good way off.” -He paused a few moments, and then added, more decidedly, “But I want to -do everything as can be done for the child. And whatever’s right for it -i’ this country, and you think ’ull do it good, I’ll act according, if -you’ll tell me.” - -“Well, then, Master Marner,” said Dolly, inwardly rejoiced, “I’ll ask -Mr. Macey to speak to the parson about it; and you must fix on a name -for it, because it must have a name giv’ it when it’s christened.” - -“My mother’s name was Hephzibah,” said Silas, “and my little sister was -named after her.” - -“Eh, that’s a hard name,” said Dolly. “I partly think it isn’t a -christened name.” - -“It’s a Bible name,” said Silas, old ideas recurring. - -“Then I’ve no call to speak again’ it,” said Dolly, rather startled by -Silas’s knowledge on this head; “but you see I’m no scholard, and I’m -slow at catching the words. My husband says I’m allays like as if I was -putting the haft for the handle—that’s what he says—for he’s very -sharp, God help him. But it was awk’ard calling your little sister by -such a hard name, when you’d got nothing big to say, like—wasn’t it, -Master Marner?” - -“We called her Eppie,” said Silas. - -“Well, if it was noways wrong to shorten the name, it ’ud be a deal -handier. And so I’ll go now, Master Marner, and I’ll speak about the -christening afore dark; and I wish you the best o’ luck, and it’s my -belief as it’ll come to you, if you do what’s right by the orphin -child;—and there’s the ’noculation to be seen to; and as to washing its -bits o’ things, you need look to nobody but me, for I can do ’em wi’ -one hand when I’ve got my suds about. Eh, the blessed angil! You’ll let -me bring my Aaron one o’ these days, and he’ll show her his little cart -as his father’s made for him, and the black-and-white pup as he’s got -a-rearing.” - -Baby _was_ christened, the rector deciding that a double baptism was -the lesser risk to incur; and on this occasion Silas, making himself as -clean and tidy as he could, appeared for the first time within the -church, and shared in the observances held sacred by his neighbours. He -was quite unable, by means of anything he heard or saw, to identify the -Raveloe religion with his old faith; if he could at any time in his -previous life have done so, it must have been by the aid of a strong -feeling ready to vibrate with sympathy, rather than by a comparison of -phrases and ideas: and now for long years that feeling had been -dormant. He had no distinct idea about the baptism and the -church-going, except that Dolly had said it was for the good of the -child; and in this way, as the weeks grew to months, the child created -fresh and fresh links between his life and the lives from which he had -hitherto shrunk continually into narrower isolation. Unlike the gold -which needed nothing, and must be worshipped in close-locked -solitude—which was hidden away from the daylight, was deaf to the song -of birds, and started to no human tones—Eppie was a creature of endless -claims and ever-growing desires, seeking and loving sunshine, and -living sounds, and living movements; making trial of everything, with -trust in new joy, and stirring the human kindness in all eyes that -looked on her. The gold had kept his thoughts in an ever-repeated -circle, leading to nothing beyond itself; but Eppie was an object -compacted of changes and hopes that forced his thoughts onward, and -carried them far away from their old eager pacing towards the same -blank limit—carried them away to the new things that would come with -the coming years, when Eppie would have learned to understand how her -father Silas cared for her; and made him look for images of that time -in the ties and charities that bound together the families of his -neighbours. The gold had asked that he should sit weaving longer and -longer, deafened and blinded more and more to all things except the -monotony of his loom and the repetition of his web; but Eppie called -him away from his weaving, and made him think all its pauses a holiday, -reawakening his senses with her fresh life, even to the old -winter-flies that came crawling forth in the early spring sunshine, and -warming him into joy because _she_ had joy. - -And when the sunshine grew strong and lasting, so that the buttercups -were thick in the meadows, Silas might be seen in the sunny midday, or -in the late afternoon when the shadows were lengthening under the -hedgerows, strolling out with uncovered head to carry Eppie beyond the -Stone-pits to where the flowers grew, till they reached some favourite -bank where he could sit down, while Eppie toddled to pluck the flowers, -and make remarks to the winged things that murmured happily above the -bright petals, calling “Dad-dad’s” attention continually by bringing -him the flowers. Then she would turn her ear to some sudden bird-note, -and Silas learned to please her by making signs of hushed stillness, -that they might listen for the note to come again: so that when it -came, she set up her small back and laughed with gurgling triumph. -Sitting on the banks in this way, Silas began to look for the once -familiar herbs again; and as the leaves, with their unchanged outline -and markings, lay on his palm, there was a sense of crowding -remembrances from which he turned away timidly, taking refuge in -Eppie’s little world, that lay lightly on his enfeebled spirit. - -As the child’s mind was growing into knowledge, his mind was growing -into memory: as her life unfolded, his soul, long stupefied in a cold -narrow prison, was unfolding too, and trembling gradually into full -consciousness. - -It was an influence which must gather force with every new year: the -tones that stirred Silas’s heart grew articulate, and called for more -distinct answers; shapes and sounds grew clearer for Eppie’s eyes and -ears, and there was more that “Dad-dad” was imperatively required to -notice and account for. Also, by the time Eppie was three years old, -she developed a fine capacity for mischief, and for devising ingenious -ways of being troublesome, which found much exercise, not only for -Silas’s patience, but for his watchfulness and penetration. Sorely was -poor Silas puzzled on such occasions by the incompatible demands of -love. Dolly Winthrop told him that punishment was good for Eppie, and -that, as for rearing a child without making it tingle a little in soft -and safe places now and then, it was not to be done. - -“To be sure, there’s another thing you might do, Master Marner,” added -Dolly, meditatively: “you might shut her up once i’ the coal-hole. That -was what I did wi’ Aaron; for I was that silly wi’ the youngest lad, as -I could never bear to smack him. Not as I could find i’ my heart to let -him stay i’ the coal-hole more nor a minute, but it was enough to colly -him all over, so as he must be new washed and dressed, and it was as -good as a rod to him—that was. But I put it upo’ your conscience, -Master Marner, as there’s one of ’em you must choose—ayther smacking or -the coal-hole—else she’ll get so masterful, there’ll be no holding -her.” - -Silas was impressed with the melancholy truth of this last remark; but -his force of mind failed before the only two penal methods open to him, -not only because it was painful to him to hurt Eppie, but because he -trembled at a moment’s contention with her, lest she should love him -the less for it. Let even an affectionate Goliath get himself tied to a -small tender thing, dreading to hurt it by pulling, and dreading still -more to snap the cord, and which of the two, pray, will be master? It -was clear that Eppie, with her short toddling steps, must lead father -Silas a pretty dance on any fine morning when circumstances favoured -mischief. - -For example. He had wisely chosen a broad strip of linen as a means of -fastening her to his loom when he was busy: it made a broad belt round -her waist, and was long enough to allow of her reaching the truckle-bed -and sitting down on it, but not long enough for her to attempt any -dangerous climbing. One bright summer’s morning Silas had been more -engrossed than usual in “setting up” a new piece of work, an occasion -on which his scissors were in requisition. These scissors, owing to an -especial warning of Dolly’s, had been kept carefully out of Eppie’s -reach; but the click of them had had a peculiar attraction for her ear, -and watching the results of that click, she had derived the philosophic -lesson that the same cause would produce the same effect. Silas had -seated himself in his loom, and the noise of weaving had begun; but he -had left his scissors on a ledge which Eppie’s arm was long enough to -reach; and now, like a small mouse, watching her opportunity, she stole -quietly from her corner, secured the scissors, and toddled to the bed -again, setting up her back as a mode of concealing the fact. She had a -distinct intention as to the use of the scissors; and having cut the -linen strip in a jagged but effectual manner, in two moments she had -run out at the open door where the sunshine was inviting her, while -poor Silas believed her to be a better child than usual. It was not -until he happened to need his scissors that the terrible fact burst -upon him: Eppie had run out by herself—had perhaps fallen into the -Stone-pit. Silas, shaken by the worst fear that could have befallen -him, rushed out, calling “Eppie!” and ran eagerly about the unenclosed -space, exploring the dry cavities into which she might have fallen, and -then gazing with questioning dread at the smooth red surface of the -water. The cold drops stood on his brow. How long had she been out? -There was one hope—that she had crept through the stile and got into -the fields, where he habitually took her to stroll. But the grass was -high in the meadow, and there was no descrying her, if she were there, -except by a close search that would be a trespass on Mr. Osgood’s crop. -Still, that misdemeanour must be committed; and poor Silas, after -peering all round the hedgerows, traversed the grass, beginning with -perturbed vision to see Eppie behind every group of red sorrel, and to -see her moving always farther off as he approached. The meadow was -searched in vain; and he got over the stile into the next field, -looking with dying hope towards a small pond which was now reduced to -its summer shallowness, so as to leave a wide margin of good adhesive -mud. Here, however, sat Eppie, discoursing cheerfully to her own small -boot, which she was using as a bucket to convey the water into a deep -hoof-mark, while her little naked foot was planted comfortably on a -cushion of olive-green mud. A red-headed calf was observing her with -alarmed doubt through the opposite hedge. - -Here was clearly a case of aberration in a christened child which -demanded severe treatment; but Silas, overcome with convulsive joy at -finding his treasure again, could do nothing but snatch her up, and -cover her with half-sobbing kisses. It was not until he had carried her -home, and had begun to think of the necessary washing, that he -recollected the need that he should punish Eppie, and “make her -remember”. The idea that she might run away again and come to harm, -gave him unusual resolution, and for the first time he determined to -try the coal-hole—a small closet near the hearth. - -“Naughty, naughty Eppie,” he suddenly began, holding her on his knee, -and pointing to her muddy feet and clothes—“naughty to cut with the -scissors and run away. Eppie must go into the coal-hole for being -naughty. Daddy must put her in the coal-hole.” - -He half-expected that this would be shock enough, and that Eppie would -begin to cry. But instead of that, she began to shake herself on his -knee, as if the proposition opened a pleasing novelty. Seeing that he -must proceed to extremities, he put her into the coal-hole, and held -the door closed, with a trembling sense that he was using a strong -measure. For a moment there was silence, but then came a little cry, -“Opy, opy!” and Silas let her out again, saying, “Now Eppie ’ull never -be naughty again, else she must go in the coal-hole—a black naughty -place.” - -The weaving must stand still a long while this morning, for now Eppie -must be washed, and have clean clothes on; but it was to be hoped that -this punishment would have a lasting effect, and save time in -future—though, perhaps, it would have been better if Eppie had cried -more. - -In half an hour she was clean again, and Silas having turned his back -to see what he could do with the linen band, threw it down again, with -the reflection that Eppie would be good without fastening for the rest -of the morning. He turned round again, and was going to place her in -her little chair near the loom, when she peeped out at him with black -face and hands again, and said, “Eppie in de toal-hole!” - -This total failure of the coal-hole discipline shook Silas’s belief in -the efficacy of punishment. “She’d take it all for fun,” he observed to -Dolly, “if I didn’t hurt her, and that I can’t do, Mrs. Winthrop. If -she makes me a bit o’ trouble, I can bear it. And she’s got no tricks -but what she’ll grow out of.” - -“Well, that’s partly true, Master Marner,” said Dolly, sympathetically; -“and if you can’t bring your mind to frighten her off touching things, -you must do what you can to keep ’em out of her way. That’s what I do -wi’ the pups as the lads are allays a-rearing. They _will_ worry and -gnaw—worry and gnaw they will, if it was one’s Sunday cap as hung -anywhere so as they could drag it. They know no difference, God help -’em: it’s the pushing o’ the teeth as sets ’em on, that’s what it is.” - -So Eppie was reared without punishment, the burden of her misdeeds -being borne vicariously by father Silas. The stone hut was made a soft -nest for her, lined with downy patience: and also in the world that lay -beyond the stone hut she knew nothing of frowns and denials. - -Notwithstanding the difficulty of carrying her and his yarn or linen at -the same time, Silas took her with him in most of his journeys to the -farmhouses, unwilling to leave her behind at Dolly Winthrop’s, who was -always ready to take care of her; and little curly-headed Eppie, the -weaver’s child, became an object of interest at several outlying -homesteads, as well as in the village. Hitherto he had been treated -very much as if he had been a useful gnome or brownie—a queer and -unaccountable creature, who must necessarily be looked at with -wondering curiosity and repulsion, and with whom one would be glad to -make all greetings and bargains as brief as possible, but who must be -dealt with in a propitiatory way, and occasionally have a present of -pork or garden stuff to carry home with him, seeing that without him -there was no getting the yarn woven. But now Silas met with open -smiling faces and cheerful questioning, as a person whose satisfactions -and difficulties could be understood. Everywhere he must sit a little -and talk about the child, and words of interest were always ready for -him: “Ah, Master Marner, you’ll be lucky if she takes the measles soon -and easy!”—or, “Why, there isn’t many lone men ’ud ha’ been wishing to -take up with a little un like that: but I reckon the weaving makes you -handier than men as do out-door work—you’re partly as handy as a woman, -for weaving comes next to spinning.” Elderly masters and mistresses, -seated observantly in large kitchen arm-chairs, shook their heads over -the difficulties attendant on rearing children, felt Eppie’s round arms -and legs, and pronounced them remarkably firm, and told Silas that, if -she turned out well (which, however, there was no telling), it would be -a fine thing for him to have a steady lass to do for him when he got -helpless. Servant maidens were fond of carrying her out to look at the -hens and chickens, or to see if any cherries could be shaken down in -the orchard; and the small boys and girls approached her slowly, with -cautious movement and steady gaze, like little dogs face to face with -one of their own kind, till attraction had reached the point at which -the soft lips were put out for a kiss. No child was afraid of -approaching Silas when Eppie was near him: there was no repulsion -around him now, either for young or old; for the little child had come -to link him once more with the whole world. There was love between him -and the child that blent them into one, and there was love between the -child and the world—from men and women with parental looks and tones, -to the red lady-birds and the round pebbles. - -Silas began now to think of Raveloe life entirely in relation to Eppie: -she must have everything that was a good in Raveloe; and he listened -docilely, that he might come to understand better what this life was, -from which, for fifteen years, he had stood aloof as from a strange -thing, with which he could have no communion: as some man who has a -precious plant to which he would give a nurturing home in a new soil, -thinks of the rain, and the sunshine, and all influences, in relation -to his nursling, and asks industriously for all knowledge that will -help him to satisfy the wants of the searching roots, or to guard leaf -and bud from invading harm. The disposition to hoard had been utterly -crushed at the very first by the loss of his long-stored gold: the -coins he earned afterwards seemed as irrelevant as stones brought to -complete a house suddenly buried by an earthquake; the sense of -bereavement was too heavy upon him for the old thrill of satisfaction -to arise again at the touch of the newly-earned coin. And now something -had come to replace his hoard which gave a growing purpose to the -earnings, drawing his hope and joy continually onward beyond the money. - -In old days there were angels who came and took men by the hand and led -them away from the city of destruction. We see no white-winged angels -now. But yet men are led away from threatening destruction: a hand is -put into theirs, which leads them forth gently towards a calm and -bright land, so that they look no more backward; and the hand may be a -little child’s. - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -There was one person, as you will believe, who watched with keener -though more hidden interest than any other, the prosperous growth of -Eppie under the weaver’s care. He dared not do anything that would -imply a stronger interest in a poor man’s adopted child than could be -expected from the kindliness of the young Squire, when a chance meeting -suggested a little present to a simple old fellow whom others noticed -with goodwill; but he told himself that the time would come when he -might do something towards furthering the welfare of his daughter -without incurring suspicion. Was he very uneasy in the meantime at his -inability to give his daughter her birthright? I cannot say that he -was. The child was being taken care of, and would very likely be happy, -as people in humble stations often were—happier, perhaps, than those -brought up in luxury. - -That famous ring that pricked its owner when he forgot duty and -followed desire—I wonder if it pricked very hard when he set out on the -chase, or whether it pricked but lightly then, and only pierced to the -quick when the chase had long been ended, and hope, folding her wings, -looked backward and became regret? - -Godfrey Cass’s cheek and eye were brighter than ever now. He was so -undivided in his aims, that he seemed like a man of firmness. No Dunsey -had come back: people had made up their minds that he was gone for a -soldier, or gone “out of the country”, and no one cared to be specific -in their inquiries on a subject delicate to a respectable family. -Godfrey had ceased to see the shadow of Dunsey across his path; and the -path now lay straight forward to the accomplishment of his best, -longest-cherished wishes. Everybody said Mr. Godfrey had taken the -right turn; and it was pretty clear what would be the end of things, -for there were not many days in the week that he was not seen riding to -the Warrens. Godfrey himself, when he was asked jocosely if the day had -been fixed, smiled with the pleasant consciousness of a lover who could -say “yes”, if he liked. He felt a reformed man, delivered from -temptation; and the vision of his future life seemed to him as a -promised land for which he had no cause to fight. He saw himself with -all his happiness centred on his own hearth, while Nancy would smile on -him as he played with the children. - -And that other child—not on the hearth—he would not forget it; he would -see that it was well provided for. That was a father’s duty. - - - -PART II. - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -It was a bright autumn Sunday, sixteen years after Silas Marner had -found his new treasure on the hearth. The bells of the old Raveloe -church were ringing the cheerful peal which told that the morning -service was ended; and out of the arched doorway in the tower came -slowly, retarded by friendly greetings and questions, the richer -parishioners who had chosen this bright Sunday morning as eligible for -church-going. It was the rural fashion of that time for the more -important members of the congregation to depart first, while their -humbler neighbours waited and looked on, stroking their bent heads or -dropping their curtsies to any large ratepayer who turned to notice -them. - -Foremost among these advancing groups of well-clad people, there are -some whom we shall recognize, in spite of Time, who has laid his hand -on them all. The tall blond man of forty is not much changed in feature -from the Godfrey Cass of six-and-twenty: he is only fuller in flesh, -and has only lost the indefinable look of youth—a loss which is marked -even when the eye is undulled and the wrinkles are not yet come. -Perhaps the pretty woman, not much younger than he, who is leaning on -his arm, is more changed than her husband: the lovely bloom that used -to be always on her cheek now comes but fitfully, with the fresh -morning air or with some strong surprise; yet to all who love human -faces best for what they tell of human experience, Nancy’s beauty has a -heightened interest. Often the soul is ripened into fuller goodness -while age has spread an ugly film, so that mere glances can never -divine the preciousness of the fruit. But the years have not been so -cruel to Nancy. The firm yet placid mouth, the clear veracious glance -of the brown eyes, speak now of a nature that has been tested and has -kept its highest qualities; and even the costume, with its dainty -neatness and purity, has more significance now the coquetries of youth -can have nothing to do with it. - -Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass (any higher title has died away from Raveloe -lips since the old Squire was gathered to his fathers and his -inheritance was divided) have turned round to look for the tall aged -man and the plainly dressed woman who are a little behind—Nancy having -observed that they must wait for “father and Priscilla”—and now they -all turn into a narrower path leading across the churchyard to a small -gate opposite the Red House. We will not follow them now; for may there -not be some others in this departing congregation whom we should like -to see again—some of those who are not likely to be handsomely clad, -and whom we may not recognize so easily as the master and mistress of -the Red House? - -But it is impossible to mistake Silas Marner. His large brown eyes seem -to have gathered a longer vision, as is the way with eyes that have -been short-sighted in early life, and they have a less vague, a more -answering gaze; but in everything else one sees signs of a frame much -enfeebled by the lapse of the sixteen years. The weaver’s bent -shoulders and white hair give him almost the look of advanced age, -though he is not more than five-and-fifty; but there is the freshest -blossom of youth close by his side—a blonde dimpled girl of eighteen, -who has vainly tried to chastise her curly auburn hair into smoothness -under her brown bonnet: the hair ripples as obstinately as a brooklet -under the March breeze, and the little ringlets burst away from the -restraining comb behind and show themselves below the bonnet-crown. -Eppie cannot help being rather vexed about her hair, for there is no -other girl in Raveloe who has hair at all like it, and she thinks hair -ought to be smooth. She does not like to be blameworthy even in small -things: you see how neatly her prayer-book is folded in her spotted -handkerchief. - -That good-looking young fellow, in a new fustian suit, who walks behind -her, is not quite sure upon the question of hair in the abstract, when -Eppie puts it to him, and thinks that perhaps straight hair is the best -in general, but he doesn’t want Eppie’s hair to be different. She -surely divines that there is some one behind her who is thinking about -her very particularly, and mustering courage to come to her side as -soon as they are out in the lane, else why should she look rather shy, -and take care not to turn away her head from her father Silas, to whom -she keeps murmuring little sentences as to who was at church and who -was not at church, and how pretty the red mountain-ash is over the -Rectory wall? - -“I wish _we_ had a little garden, father, with double daisies in, like -Mrs. Winthrop’s,” said Eppie, when they were out in the lane; “only -they say it ’ud take a deal of digging and bringing fresh soil—and you -couldn’t do that, could you, father? Anyhow, I shouldn’t like you to do -it, for it ’ud be too hard work for you.” - -“Yes, I could do it, child, if you want a bit o’ garden: these long -evenings, I could work at taking in a little bit o’ the waste, just -enough for a root or two o’ flowers for you; and again, i’ the morning, -I could have a turn wi’ the spade before I sat down to the loom. Why -didn’t you tell me before as you wanted a bit o’ garden?” - -“_I_ can dig it for you, Master Marner,” said the young man in fustian, -who was now by Eppie’s side, entering into the conversation without the -trouble of formalities. “It’ll be play to me after I’ve done my day’s -work, or any odd bits o’ time when the work’s slack. And I’ll bring you -some soil from Mr. Cass’s garden—he’ll let me, and willing.” - -“Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you there?” said Silas; “I wasn’t aware of you; -for when Eppie’s talking o’ things, I see nothing but what she’s -a-saying. Well, if you could help me with the digging, we might get her -a bit o’ garden all the sooner.” - -“Then, if you think well and good,” said Aaron, “I’ll come to the -Stone-pits this afternoon, and we’ll settle what land’s to be taken in, -and I’ll get up an hour earlier i’ the morning, and begin on it.” - -“But not if you don’t promise me not to work at the hard digging, -father,” said Eppie. “For I shouldn’t ha’ said anything about it,” she -added, half-bashfully, half-roguishly, “only Mrs. Winthrop said as -Aaron ’ud be so good, and—” - -“And you might ha’ known it without mother telling you,” said Aaron. -“And Master Marner knows too, I hope, as I’m able and willing to do a -turn o’ work for him, and he won’t do me the unkindness to anyways take -it out o’ my hands.” - -“There, now, father, you won’t work in it till it’s all easy,” said -Eppie, “and you and me can mark out the beds, and make holes and plant -the roots. It’ll be a deal livelier at the Stone-pits when we’ve got -some flowers, for I always think the flowers can see us and know what -we’re talking about. And I’ll have a bit o’ rosemary, and bergamot, and -thyme, because they’re so sweet-smelling; but there’s no lavender only -in the gentlefolks’ gardens, I think.” - -“That’s no reason why you shouldn’t have some,” said Aaron, “for I can -bring you slips of anything; I’m forced to cut no end of ’em when I’m -gardening, and throw ’em away mostly. There’s a big bed o’ lavender at -the Red House: the missis is very fond of it.” - -“Well,” said Silas, gravely, “so as you don’t make free for us, or ask -for anything as is worth much at the Red House: for Mr. Cass’s been so -good to us, and built us up the new end o’ the cottage, and given us -beds and things, as I couldn’t abide to be imposin’ for garden-stuff or -anything else.” - -“No, no, there’s no imposin’,” said Aaron; “there’s never a garden in -all the parish but what there’s endless waste in it for want o’ -somebody as could use everything up. It’s what I think to myself -sometimes, as there need nobody run short o’ victuals if the land was -made the most on, and there was never a morsel but what could find its -way to a mouth. It sets one thinking o’ that—gardening does. But I must -go back now, else mother ’ull be in trouble as I aren’t there.” - -“Bring her with you this afternoon, Aaron,” said Eppie; “I shouldn’t -like to fix about the garden, and her not know everything from the -first—should _you_, father?” - -“Aye, bring her if you can, Aaron,” said Silas; “she’s sure to have a -word to say as’ll help us to set things on their right end.” - -Aaron turned back up the village, while Silas and Eppie went on up the -lonely sheltered lane. - -“O daddy!” she began, when they were in privacy, clasping and squeezing -Silas’s arm, and skipping round to give him an energetic kiss. “My -little old daddy! I’m so glad. I don’t think I shall want anything else -when we’ve got a little garden; and I knew Aaron would dig it for us,” -she went on with roguish triumph—“I knew that very well.” - -“You’re a deep little puss, you are,” said Silas, with the mild passive -happiness of love-crowned age in his face; “but you’ll make yourself -fine and beholden to Aaron.” - -“Oh, no, I shan’t,” said Eppie, laughing and frisking; “he likes it.” - -“Come, come, let me carry your prayer-book, else you’ll be dropping it, -jumping i’ that way.” - -Eppie was now aware that her behaviour was under observation, but it -was only the observation of a friendly donkey, browsing with a log -fastened to his foot—a meek donkey, not scornfully critical of human -trivialities, but thankful to share in them, if possible, by getting -his nose scratched; and Eppie did not fail to gratify him with her -usual notice, though it was attended with the inconvenience of his -following them, painfully, up to the very door of their home. - -But the sound of a sharp bark inside, as Eppie put the key in the door, -modified the donkey’s views, and he limped away again without bidding. -The sharp bark was the sign of an excited welcome that was awaiting -them from a knowing brown terrier, who, after dancing at their legs in -a hysterical manner, rushed with a worrying noise at a tortoise-shell -kitten under the loom, and then rushed back with a sharp bark again, as -much as to say, “I have done my duty by this feeble creature, you -perceive”; while the lady-mother of the kitten sat sunning her white -bosom in the window, and looked round with a sleepy air of expecting -caresses, though she was not going to take any trouble for them. - -The presence of this happy animal life was not the only change which -had come over the interior of the stone cottage. There was no bed now -in the living-room, and the small space was well filled with decent -furniture, all bright and clean enough to satisfy Dolly Winthrop’s eye. -The oaken table and three-cornered oaken chair were hardly what was -likely to be seen in so poor a cottage: they had come, with the beds -and other things, from the Red House; for Mr. Godfrey Cass, as every -one said in the village, did very kindly by the weaver; and it was -nothing but right a man should be looked on and helped by those who -could afford it, when he had brought up an orphan child, and been -father and mother to her—and had lost his money too, so as he had -nothing but what he worked for week by week, and when the weaving was -going down too—for there was less and less flax spun—and Master Marner -was none so young. Nobody was jealous of the weaver, for he was -regarded as an exceptional person, whose claims on neighbourly help -were not to be matched in Raveloe. Any superstition that remained -concerning him had taken an entirely new colour; and Mr. Macey, now a -very feeble old man of fourscore and six, never seen except in his -chimney-corner or sitting in the sunshine at his door-sill, was of -opinion that when a man had done what Silas had done by an orphan -child, it was a sign that his money would come to light again, or -leastwise that the robber would be made to answer for it—for, as Mr. -Macey observed of himself, his faculties were as strong as ever. - -Silas sat down now and watched Eppie with a satisfied gaze as she -spread the clean cloth, and set on it the potato-pie, warmed up slowly -in a safe Sunday fashion, by being put into a dry pot over a -slowly-dying fire, as the best substitute for an oven. For Silas would -not consent to have a grate and oven added to his conveniences: he -loved the old brick hearth as he had loved his brown pot—and was it not -there when he had found Eppie? The gods of the hearth exist for us -still; and let all new faith be tolerant of that fetishism, lest it -bruise its own roots. - -Silas ate his dinner more silently than usual, soon laying down his -knife and fork, and watching half-abstractedly Eppie’s play with Snap -and the cat, by which her own dining was made rather a lengthy -business. Yet it was a sight that might well arrest wandering thoughts: -Eppie, with the rippling radiance of her hair and the whiteness of her -rounded chin and throat set off by the dark-blue cotton gown, laughing -merrily as the kitten held on with her four claws to one shoulder, like -a design for a jug-handle, while Snap on the right hand and Puss on the -other put up their paws towards a morsel which she held out of the -reach of both—Snap occasionally desisting in order to remonstrate with -the cat by a cogent worrying growl on the greediness and futility of -her conduct; till Eppie relented, caressed them both, and divided the -morsel between them. - -But at last Eppie, glancing at the clock, checked the play, and said, -“O daddy, you’re wanting to go into the sunshine to smoke your pipe. -But I must clear away first, so as the house may be tidy when godmother -comes. I’ll make haste—I won’t be long.” - -Silas had taken to smoking a pipe daily during the last two years, -having been strongly urged to it by the sages of Raveloe, as a practice -“good for the fits”; and this advice was sanctioned by Dr. Kimble, on -the ground that it was as well to try what could do no harm—a principle -which was made to answer for a great deal of work in that gentleman’s -medical practice. Silas did not highly enjoy smoking, and often -wondered how his neighbours could be so fond of it; but a humble sort -of acquiescence in what was held to be good, had become a strong habit -of that new self which had been developed in him since he had found -Eppie on his hearth: it had been the only clew his bewildered mind -could hold by in cherishing this young life that had been sent to him -out of the darkness into which his gold had departed. By seeking what -was needful for Eppie, by sharing the effect that everything produced -on her, he had himself come to appropriate the forms of custom and -belief which were the mould of Raveloe life; and as, with reawakening -sensibilities, memory also reawakened, he had begun to ponder over the -elements of his old faith, and blend them with his new impressions, -till he recovered a consciousness of unity between his past and -present. The sense of presiding goodness and the human trust which come -with all pure peace and joy, had given him a dim impression that there -had been some error, some mistake, which had thrown that dark shadow -over the days of his best years; and as it grew more and more easy to -him to open his mind to Dolly Winthrop, he gradually communicated to -her all he could describe of his early life. The communication was -necessarily a slow and difficult process, for Silas’s meagre power of -explanation was not aided by any readiness of interpretation in Dolly, -whose narrow outward experience gave her no key to strange customs, and -made every novelty a source of wonder that arrested them at every step -of the narrative. It was only by fragments, and at intervals which left -Dolly time to revolve what she had heard till it acquired some -familiarity for her, that Silas at last arrived at the climax of the -sad story—the drawing of lots, and its false testimony concerning him; -and this had to be repeated in several interviews, under new questions -on her part as to the nature of this plan for detecting the guilty and -clearing the innocent. - -“And yourn’s the same Bible, you’re sure o’ that, Master Marner—the -Bible as you brought wi’ you from that country—it’s the same as what -they’ve got at church, and what Eppie’s a-learning to read in?” - -“Yes,” said Silas, “every bit the same; and there’s drawing o’ lots in -the Bible, mind you,” he added in a lower tone. - -“Oh, dear, dear,” said Dolly in a grieved voice, as if she were hearing -an unfavourable report of a sick man’s case. She was silent for some -minutes; at last she said— - -“There’s wise folks, happen, as know how it all is; the parson knows, -I’ll be bound; but it takes big words to tell them things, and such as -poor folks can’t make much out on. I can never rightly know the meaning -o’ what I hear at church, only a bit here and there, but I know it’s -good words—I do. But what lies upo’ your mind—it’s this, Master Marner: -as, if Them above had done the right thing by you, They’d never ha’ let -you be turned out for a wicked thief when you was innicent.” - -“Ah!” said Silas, who had now come to understand Dolly’s phraseology, -“that was what fell on me like as if it had been red-hot iron; because, -you see, there was nobody as cared for me or clave to me above nor -below. And him as I’d gone out and in wi’ for ten year and more, since -when we was lads and went halves—mine own familiar friend in whom I -trusted, had lifted up his heel again’ me, and worked to ruin me.” - -“Eh, but he was a bad un—I can’t think as there’s another such,” said -Dolly. “But I’m o’ercome, Master Marner; I’m like as if I’d waked and -didn’t know whether it was night or morning. I feel somehow as sure as -I do when I’ve laid something up though I can’t justly put my hand on -it, as there was a rights in what happened to you, if one could but -make it out; and you’d no call to lose heart as you did. But we’ll talk -on it again; for sometimes things come into my head when I’m leeching -or poulticing, or such, as I could never think on when I was sitting -still.” - -Dolly was too useful a woman not to have many opportunities of -illumination of the kind she alluded to, and she was not long before -she recurred to the subject. - -“Master Marner,” she said, one day that she came to bring home Eppie’s -washing, “I’ve been sore puzzled for a good bit wi’ that trouble o’ -yourn and the drawing o’ lots; and it got twisted back’ards and -for’ards, as I didn’t know which end to lay hold on. But it come to me -all clear like, that night when I was sitting up wi’ poor Bessy Fawkes, -as is dead and left her children behind, God help ’em—it come to me as -clear as daylight; but whether I’ve got hold on it now, or can anyways -bring it to my tongue’s end, that I don’t know. For I’ve often a deal -inside me as’ll never come out; and for what you talk o’ your folks in -your old country niver saying prayers by heart nor saying ’em out of a -book, they must be wonderful cliver; for if I didn’t know “Our Father”, -and little bits o’ good words as I can carry out o’ church wi’ me, I -might down o’ my knees every night, but nothing could I say.” - -“But you can mostly say something as I can make sense on, Mrs. -Winthrop,” said Silas. - -“Well, then, Master Marner, it come to me summat like this: I can make -nothing o’ the drawing o’ lots and the answer coming wrong; it ’ud -mayhap take the parson to tell that, and he could only tell us i’ big -words. But what come to me as clear as the daylight, it was when I was -troubling over poor Bessy Fawkes, and it allays comes into my head when -I’m sorry for folks, and feel as I can’t do a power to help ’em, not if -I was to get up i’ the middle o’ the night—it comes into my head as -Them above has got a deal tenderer heart nor what I’ve got—for I can’t -be anyways better nor Them as made me; and if anything looks hard to -me, it’s because there’s things I don’t know on; and for the matter o’ -that, there may be plenty o’ things I don’t know on, for it’s little as -I know—that it is. And so, while I was thinking o’ that, you come into -my mind, Master Marner, and it all come pouring in:—if _I_ felt i’ my -inside what was the right and just thing by you, and them as prayed and -drawed the lots, all but that wicked un, if _they_’d ha’ done the right -thing by you if they could, isn’t there Them as was at the making on -us, and knows better and has a better will? And that’s all as ever I -can be sure on, and everything else is a big puzzle to me when I think -on it. For there was the fever come and took off them as were -full-growed, and left the helpless children; and there’s the breaking -o’ limbs; and them as ’ud do right and be sober have to suffer by them -as are contrairy—eh, there’s trouble i’ this world, and there’s things -as we can niver make out the rights on. And all as we’ve got to do is -to trusten, Master Marner—to do the right thing as fur as we know, and -to trusten. For if us as knows so little can see a bit o’ good and -rights, we may be sure as there’s a good and a rights bigger nor what -we can know—I feel it i’ my own inside as it must be so. And if you -could but ha’ gone on trustening, Master Marner, you wouldn’t ha’ run -away from your fellow-creaturs and been so lone.” - -“Ah, but that ’ud ha’ been hard,” said Silas, in an under-tone; “it ’ud -ha’ been hard to trusten then.” - -“And so it would,” said Dolly, almost with compunction; “them things -are easier said nor done; and I’m partly ashamed o’ talking.” - -“Nay, nay,” said Silas, “you’re i’ the right, Mrs. Winthrop—you’re i’ -the right. There’s good i’ this world—I’ve a feeling o’ that now; and -it makes a man feel as there’s a good more nor he can see, i’ spite o’ -the trouble and the wickedness. That drawing o’ the lots is dark; but -the child was sent to me: there’s dealings with us—there’s dealings.” - -This dialogue took place in Eppie’s earlier years, when Silas had to -part with her for two hours every day, that she might learn to read at -the dame school, after he had vainly tried himself to guide her in that -first step to learning. Now that she was grown up, Silas had often been -led, in those moments of quiet outpouring which come to people who live -together in perfect love, to talk with _her_ too of the past, and how -and why he had lived a lonely man until she had been sent to him. For -it would have been impossible for him to hide from Eppie that she was -not his own child: even if the most delicate reticence on the point -could have been expected from Raveloe gossips in her presence, her own -questions about her mother could not have been parried, as she grew up, -without that complete shrouding of the past which would have made a -painful barrier between their minds. So Eppie had long known how her -mother had died on the snowy ground, and how she herself had been found -on the hearth by father Silas, who had taken her golden curls for his -lost guineas brought back to him. The tender and peculiar love with -which Silas had reared her in almost inseparable companionship with -himself, aided by the seclusion of their dwelling, had preserved her -from the lowering influences of the village talk and habits, and had -kept her mind in that freshness which is sometimes falsely supposed to -be an invariable attribute of rusticity. Perfect love has a breath of -poetry which can exalt the relations of the least-instructed human -beings; and this breath of poetry had surrounded Eppie from the time -when she had followed the bright gleam that beckoned her to Silas’s -hearth; so that it is not surprising if, in other things besides her -delicate prettiness, she was not quite a common village maiden, but had -a touch of refinement and fervour which came from no other teaching -than that of tenderly-nurtured unvitiated feeling. She was too childish -and simple for her imagination to rove into questions about her unknown -father; for a long while it did not even occur to her that she must -have had a father; and the first time that the idea of her mother -having had a husband presented itself to her, was when Silas showed her -the wedding-ring which had been taken from the wasted finger, and had -been carefully preserved by him in a little lackered box shaped like a -shoe. He delivered this box into Eppie’s charge when she had grown up, -and she often opened it to look at the ring: but still she thought -hardly at all about the father of whom it was the symbol. Had she not a -father very close to her, who loved her better than any real fathers in -the village seemed to love their daughters? On the contrary, who her -mother was, and how she came to die in that forlornness, were questions -that often pressed on Eppie’s mind. Her knowledge of Mrs. Winthrop, who -was her nearest friend next to Silas, made her feel that a mother must -be very precious; and she had again and again asked Silas to tell her -how her mother looked, whom she was like, and how he had found her -against the furze bush, led towards it by the little footsteps and the -outstretched arms. The furze bush was there still; and this afternoon, -when Eppie came out with Silas into the sunshine, it was the first -object that arrested her eyes and thoughts. - -“Father,” she said, in a tone of gentle gravity, which sometimes came -like a sadder, slower cadence across her playfulness, “we shall take -the furze bush into the garden; it’ll come into the corner, and just -against it I’ll put snowdrops and crocuses, ’cause Aaron says they -won’t die out, but’ll always get more and more.” - -“Ah, child,” said Silas, always ready to talk when he had his pipe in -his hand, apparently enjoying the pauses more than the puffs, “it -wouldn’t do to leave out the furze bush; and there’s nothing prettier, -to my thinking, when it’s yallow with flowers. But it’s just come into -my head what we’re to do for a fence—mayhap Aaron can help us to a -thought; but a fence we must have, else the donkeys and things ’ull -come and trample everything down. And fencing’s hard to be got at, by -what I can make out.” - -“Oh, I’ll tell you, daddy,” said Eppie, clasping her hands suddenly, -after a minute’s thought. “There’s lots o’ loose stones about, some of -’em not big, and we might lay ’em atop of one another, and make a wall. -You and me could carry the smallest, and Aaron ’ud carry the rest—I -know he would.” - -“Eh, my precious un,” said Silas, “there isn’t enough stones to go all -round; and as for you carrying, why, wi’ your little arms you couldn’t -carry a stone no bigger than a turnip. You’re dillicate made, my dear,” -he added, with a tender intonation—“that’s what Mrs. Winthrop says.” - -“Oh, I’m stronger than you think, daddy,” said Eppie; “and if there -wasn’t stones enough to go all round, why they’ll go part o’ the way, -and then it’ll be easier to get sticks and things for the rest. See -here, round the big pit, what a many stones!” - -She skipped forward to the pit, meaning to lift one of the stones and -exhibit her strength, but she started back in surprise. - -“Oh, father, just come and look here,” she exclaimed—“come and see how -the water’s gone down since yesterday. Why, yesterday the pit was ever -so full!” - -“Well, to be sure,” said Silas, coming to her side. “Why, that’s the -draining they’ve begun on, since harvest, i’ Mr. Osgood’s fields, I -reckon. The foreman said to me the other day, when I passed by ’em, -“Master Marner,” he said, “I shouldn’t wonder if we lay your bit o’ -waste as dry as a bone.” It was Mr. Godfrey Cass, he said, had gone -into the draining: he’d been taking these fields o’ Mr. Osgood.” - -“How odd it’ll seem to have the old pit dried up!” said Eppie, turning -away, and stooping to lift rather a large stone. “See, daddy, I can -carry this quite well,” she said, going along with much energy for a -few steps, but presently letting it fall. - -“Ah, you’re fine and strong, aren’t you?” said Silas, while Eppie shook -her aching arms and laughed. “Come, come, let us go and sit down on the -bank against the stile there, and have no more lifting. You might hurt -yourself, child. You’d need have somebody to work for you—and my arm -isn’t over strong.” - -Silas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it implied more than met -the ear; and Eppie, when they sat down on the bank, nestled close to -his side, and, taking hold caressingly of the arm that was not over -strong, held it on her lap, while Silas puffed again dutifully at the -pipe, which occupied his other arm. An ash in the hedgerow behind made -a fretted screen from the sun, and threw happy playful shadows all -about them. - -“Father,” said Eppie, very gently, after they had been sitting in -silence a little while, “if I was to be married, ought I to be married -with my mother’s ring?” - -Silas gave an almost imperceptible start, though the question fell in -with the under-current of thought in his own mind, and then said, in a -subdued tone, “Why, Eppie, have you been a-thinking on it?” - -“Only this last week, father,” said Eppie, ingenuously, “since Aaron -talked to me about it.” - -“And what did he say?” said Silas, still in the same subdued way, as if -he were anxious lest he should fall into the slightest tone that was -not for Eppie’s good. - -“He said he should like to be married, because he was a-going in -four-and-twenty, and had got a deal of gardening work, now Mr. Mott’s -given up; and he goes twice a-week regular to Mr. Cass’s, and once to -Mr. Osgood’s, and they’re going to take him on at the Rectory.” - -“And who is it as he’s wanting to marry?” said Silas, with rather a sad -smile. - -“Why, me, to be sure, daddy,” said Eppie, with dimpling laughter, -kissing her father’s cheek; “as if he’d want to marry anybody else!” - -“And you mean to have him, do you?” said Silas. - -“Yes, some time,” said Eppie, “I don’t know when. Everybody’s married -some time, Aaron says. But I told him that wasn’t true: for, I said, -look at father—he’s never been married.” - -“No, child,” said Silas, “your father was a lone man till you was sent -to him.” - -“But you’ll never be lone again, father,” said Eppie, tenderly. “That -was what Aaron said—“I could never think o’ taking you away from Master -Marner, Eppie.” And I said, “It ’ud be no use if you did, Aaron.” And -he wants us all to live together, so as you needn’t work a bit, father, -only what’s for your own pleasure; and he’d be as good as a son to -you—that was what he said.” - -“And should you like that, Eppie?” said Silas, looking at her. - -“I shouldn’t mind it, father,” said Eppie, quite simply. “And I should -like things to be so as you needn’t work much. But if it wasn’t for -that, I’d sooner things didn’t change. I’m very happy: I like Aaron to -be fond of me, and come and see us often, and behave pretty to you—he -always _does_ behave pretty to you, doesn’t he, father?” - -“Yes, child, nobody could behave better,” said Silas, emphatically. -“He’s his mother’s lad.” - -“But I don’t want any change,” said Eppie. “I should like to go on a -long, long while, just as we are. Only Aaron does want a change; and he -made me cry a bit—only a bit—because he said I didn’t care for him, for -if I cared for him I should want us to be married, as he did.” - -“Eh, my blessed child,” said Silas, laying down his pipe as if it were -useless to pretend to smoke any longer, “you’re o’er young to be -married. We’ll ask Mrs. Winthrop—we’ll ask Aaron’s mother what _she_ -thinks: if there’s a right thing to do, she’ll come at it. But there’s -this to be thought on, Eppie: things _will_ change, whether we like it -or no; things won’t go on for a long while just as they are and no -difference. I shall get older and helplesser, and be a burden on you, -belike, if I don’t go away from you altogether. Not as I mean you’d -think me a burden—I know you wouldn’t—but it ’ud be hard upon you; and -when I look for’ard to that, I like to think as you’d have somebody -else besides me—somebody young and strong, as’ll outlast your own life, -and take care on you to the end.” Silas paused, and, resting his wrists -on his knees, lifted his hands up and down meditatively as he looked on -the ground. - -“Then, would you like me to be married, father?” said Eppie, with a -little trembling in her voice. - -“I’ll not be the man to say no, Eppie,” said Silas, emphatically; “but -we’ll ask your godmother. She’ll wish the right thing by you and her -son too.” - -“There they come, then,” said Eppie. “Let us go and meet ’em. Oh, the -pipe! won’t you have it lit again, father?” said Eppie, lifting that -medicinal appliance from the ground. - -“Nay, child,” said Silas, “I’ve done enough for to-day. I think, -mayhap, a little of it does me more good than so much at once.” - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -While Silas and Eppie were seated on the bank discoursing in the -fleckered shade of the ash tree, Miss Priscilla Lammeter was resisting -her sister’s arguments, that it would be better to take tea at the Red -House, and let her father have a long nap, than drive home to the -Warrens so soon after dinner. The family party (of four only) were -seated round the table in the dark wainscoted parlour, with the Sunday -dessert before them, of fresh filberts, apples, and pears, duly -ornamented with leaves by Nancy’s own hand before the bells had rung -for church. - -A great change has come over the dark wainscoted parlour since we saw -it in Godfrey’s bachelor days, and under the wifeless reign of the old -Squire. Now all is polish, on which no yesterday’s dust is ever allowed -to rest, from the yard’s width of oaken boards round the carpet, to the -old Squire’s gun and whips and walking-sticks, ranged on the stag’s -antlers above the mantelpiece. All other signs of sporting and outdoor -occupation Nancy has removed to another room; but she has brought into -the Red House the habit of filial reverence, and preserves sacredly in -a place of honour these relics of her husband’s departed father. The -tankards are on the side-table still, but the bossed silver is undimmed -by handling, and there are no dregs to send forth unpleasant -suggestions: the only prevailing scent is of the lavender and -rose-leaves that fill the vases of Derbyshire spar. All is purity and -order in this once dreary room, for, fifteen years ago, it was entered -by a new presiding spirit. - -“Now, father,” said Nancy, “_is_ there any call for you to go home to -tea? Mayn’t you just as well stay with us?—such a beautiful evening as -it’s likely to be.” - -The old gentleman had been talking with Godfrey about the increasing -poor-rate and the ruinous times, and had not heard the dialogue between -his daughters. - -“My dear, you must ask Priscilla,” he said, in the once firm voice, now -become rather broken. “She manages me and the farm too.” - -“And reason good as I should manage you, father,” said Priscilla, “else -you’d be giving yourself your death with rheumatism. And as for the -farm, if anything turns out wrong, as it can’t but do in these times, -there’s nothing kills a man so soon as having nobody to find fault with -but himself. It’s a deal the best way o’ being master, to let somebody -else do the ordering, and keep the blaming in your own hands. It ’ud -save many a man a stroke, _I_ believe.” - -“Well, well, my dear,” said her father, with a quiet laugh, “I didn’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 shall -drive. And as for staying tea, I can’t hear of it; for there’s this -dairymaid, now she knows she’s to be married, turned Michaelmas, she’d -as lief pour the new milk into the pig-trough as into the pans. That’s -the way with ’em all: it’s as if they thought the world ’ud be new-made -because they’re to be married. So come and let me put my bonnet on, and -there’ll be time for us to walk round the 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 dark cones 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 a thousand pities -you didn’t do it before; for it’ll give you something to fill your -mind. There’s nothing like a dairy if folks want a bit o’ worrit to -make the days pass. For as for rubbing furniture, when you can once see -your face in a table there’s nothing else to look for; but there’s -always something fresh with the dairy; for even in the depths o’ winter -there’s some pleasure in conquering the butter, and making it come -whether or no. My dear,” added Priscilla, pressing her sister’s hand -affectionately as they walked side by side, “you’ll never be low when -you’ve got a dairy.” - -“Ah, Priscilla,” said Nancy, returning the pressure with a grateful -glance of her clear eyes, “but it won’t make up to Godfrey: a dairy’s -not so much to a man. And it’s only what he cares for that ever makes -me low. I’m contented with the blessings we have, if he could be -contented.” - -“It drives me past patience,” said Priscilla, impetuously, “that way o’ -the men—always wanting and wanting, and never easy with what they’ve -got: they can’t sit comfortable in their chairs when they’ve neither -ache nor pain, but either they must stick a pipe in their mouths, to -make ’em better than well, or else they must be swallowing something -strong, though they’re forced to make haste before the next meal comes -in. But joyful be it spoken, our father was never that sort o’ man. And -if it had pleased God to make you ugly, like me, so as the men wouldn’t -ha’ run after you, we might have kept to our own family, and had -nothing to do with folks as have got uneasy blood in their veins.” - -“Oh, don’t say so, Priscilla,” said Nancy, repenting that she had -called forth this outburst; “nobody has any occasion to find fault with -Godfrey. It’s natural he should be disappointed at not having any -children: every man likes to have somebody to work for and lay by for, -and he always counted so on making a fuss with ’em when they were -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 the way o’ -wives; they set one on to abuse their husbands, and then they turn -round on one and praise ’em as if they wanted to sell ’em. But -father’ll be waiting for me; we must turn now.” - -The large gig with the steady old grey was at the front door, and Mr. -Lammeter was already on the stone steps, passing the time in recalling -to Godfrey what very fine points Speckle had when his master used to -ride him. - -“I always _would_ have a good horse, you know,” said the old gentleman, -not liking that spirited time to be quite effaced from the 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 the reins, and shook -them gently, by way of friendly incitement to Speckle. - -“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 little -contemplative farming in a leisurely walk. Nancy seldom accompanied -him; for the women of her generation—unless, like Priscilla, they took -to outdoor management—were not given to much walking beyond their own -house and garden, finding sufficient exercise in domestic duties. So, -when Priscilla was not with her, she usually sat with Mant’s Bible -before her, and after following the text with her eyes for a little -while, she would gradually permit them to wander as her thoughts had -already insisted on wandering. - -But Nancy’s Sunday thoughts were rarely quite out of keeping with the -devout and reverential intention implied by the book spread open before -her. She was not theologically instructed enough to discern very -clearly the relation between the sacred documents of the past which she -opened without method, and her own obscure, simple life; but the spirit -of rectitude, and the sense of responsibility for the effect of her -conduct on others, which were strong elements in Nancy’s character, had -made it a habit with her to scrutinize her past feelings and actions -with self-questioning solicitude. Her mind not being courted by a great -variety of subjects, she filled the vacant moments by living inwardly, -again and again, through all her remembered experience, especially -through the fifteen years of her married time, in which her life and -its significance had been doubled. She recalled the small details, the -words, tones, and looks, in the critical scenes which had opened a new -epoch for her by giving her a deeper insight into the relations and -trials of life, or which had called on her for some little effort of -forbearance, or of painful adherence to an imagined or real duty—asking -herself continually whether she had been in any respect blamable. This -excessive rumination and self-questioning is perhaps a morbid habit -inevitable to a mind of much moral sensibility when shut out from its -due share of outward activity and of practical claims on its -affections—inevitable to a noble-hearted, childless woman, when her lot -is narrow. “I can do so little—have I done it all well?” is the -perpetually recurring thought; and there are no voices calling her away -from that soliloquy, no peremptory demands to divert energy from vain -regret or superfluous scruple. - -There was one main thread of painful experience in Nancy’s married -life, and on it hung certain deeply-felt scenes, which were the -oftenest revived in retrospect. The short dialogue with Priscilla in -the garden had determined the current of retrospect in that frequent -direction this particular Sunday afternoon. The first wandering of her -thought from the text, which she still attempted dutifully to follow -with her eyes and silent lips, was into an imaginary enlargement of the -defence she had set up for her husband against Priscilla’s implied -blame. The vindication of the loved object is the best balm affection -can find for its wounds:—“A man must have so much on his mind,” is the -belief by which a wife often supports a cheerful face under rough -answers and unfeeling words. And Nancy’s deepest wounds had all come -from the perception that the absence of children from their hearth was -dwelt on in her husband’s mind as a privation to which he could not -reconcile himself. - -Yet sweet Nancy might have been expected to feel still more keenly the -denial of a blessing to which she had looked forward with all the -varied expectations and preparations, solemn and prettily trivial, -which fill the mind of a loving woman when she expects to become a -mother. Was there not a drawer filled with the neat work of her hands, -all unworn and untouched, just as she had arranged it there fourteen -years ago—just, but for one little dress, which had been made the -burial-dress? But under this immediate personal trial Nancy was so -firmly unmurmuring, that years ago she had suddenly renounced the habit -of visiting this drawer, lest she should in this way be cherishing a -longing for what was not given. - -Perhaps it was this very severity towards any indulgence of what she -held to be sinful regret in herself, that made her shrink from applying -her own standard to her husband. “It is very different—it is much worse -for a man to be disappointed in that way: a woman can always be -satisfied with devoting herself to her husband, but a man wants -something that will make him look forward more—and sitting by the fire -is so much duller to him than to a woman.” And always, 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 everything in her power to lighten -Godfrey’s privation? Had she really been right in the resistance which -had cost her so much pain six years ago, and again four years ago—the -resistance to her husband’s wish that they should adopt a child? -Adoption was more remote from the ideas and habits of that time than of -our own; still Nancy had her opinion on it. It was as necessary to her -mind to have an opinion on all topics, not exclusively masculine, that -had come under her notice, as for her to have a precisely marked place -for every article of her personal property: and her opinions were -always principles to be unwaveringly acted on. They were firm, not -because of their basis, but because she held them with a tenacity -inseparable from her mental action. On all the duties and proprieties -of life, from filial behaviour to the arrangements of the evening -toilette, pretty Nancy Lammeter, by the time she was three-and-twenty, -had her unalterable little code, and had formed every one of her habits -in strict accordance with that code. She carried these decided -judgments within her in the most unobtrusive way: they rooted -themselves in her mind, and grew there as quietly as grass. Years ago, -we know, she insisted on dressing like Priscilla, because “it was right -for sisters to dress alike”, and because “she would do what was right -if she wore a gown dyed with cheese-colouring”. That was a trivial but -typical instance of the mode 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 her -husband’s wish. To adopt a child, because children of your own had been -denied you, was to try and choose your lot in spite of Providence: the -adopted child, she was convinced, would never turn out well, and would -be a curse to those who had wilfully and rebelliously 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 wishing for it. And so far, perhaps, the wisest -of men could scarcely make more than a verbal improvement in her -principle. But the conditions under which she held it apparent that a -thing was not meant to be, depended on a more peculiar mode of -thinking. She would have given up making a purchase at a particular -place if, on three successive times, rain, or some other cause of -Heaven’s sending, had formed an obstacle; and she would have -anticipated a broken limb or other heavy misfortune to any one who -persisted in spite of such indications. - -“But why should you think the child would turn out ill?” said Godfrey, -in his remonstrances. “She has thriven as well as child can do with the -weaver; and _he_ adopted her. There isn’t such a pretty little girl -anywhere else in the parish, or one fitter for the station we could -give her. Where can be the likelihood of her being a curse to anybody?” - -“Yes, my dear Godfrey,” said Nancy, who was sitting with her hands -tightly clasped together, and with yearning, regretful affection in her -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 be wrong: I feel -sure it will. Don’t you remember what that lady we met at the Royston -Baths told us about the child her sister adopted? That was the only -adopting I ever heard of: and the child was transported when it was -twenty-three. Dear Godfrey, don’t ask me to do what I know is wrong: I -should never be happy again. I know it’s very hard for _you_—it’s -easier for me—but it’s the will of Providence.” - -It might seem singular that Nancy—with her religious theory pieced -together out of narrow social traditions, fragments of church doctrine -imperfectly understood, and girlish reasonings on her small -experience—should have arrived by herself at a way of thinking so -nearly akin to that of many devout people, whose beliefs are held in -the shape of a system quite remote from her knowledge—singular, if we -did not know that human beliefs, like all other natural growths, elude -the barriers of system. - -Godfrey had from the first specified Eppie, then about twelve years -old, as a child suitable for them to adopt. It had never occurred to -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 so much -trouble with, and would be glad that such good fortune should happen to -her: she would always be very grateful to him, and he would be well -provided for to the end of his life—provided for as the excellent part -he had done by the child deserved. Was it not an appropriate thing for -people in a higher station to take a charge off the hands of a man in a -lower? It seemed an eminently appropriate thing to Godfrey, for reasons -that were known only to himself; and by a common fallacy, he imagined -the measure would be easy because he had private motives for desiring -it. This was rather a coarse mode of estimating Silas’s relation to -Eppie; but we must remember that many of the impressions which Godfrey -was likely to gather concerning the labouring people around him would -favour the idea that deep affections can hardly go along with callous -palms and scant means; and he had not had the opportunity, even if he -had had the power, of entering intimately into all that was exceptional -in the weaver’s experience. It was only the want of adequate knowledge -that could have made it possible for Godfrey deliberately to entertain -an unfeeling project: his natural kindness had outlived that blighting -time of cruel wishes, and Nancy’s praise of him as a husband was not -founded entirely on a wilful illusion. - -“I was right,” she said to herself, when she had recalled all their -scenes of discussion—“I feel I was right to say him nay, though it hurt -me more than anything; but how good Godfrey has been about it! Many men -would have been very angry with me for standing out against their -wishes; and they might have thrown out that they’d had ill-luck in -marrying me; but Godfrey has never been the man to say me an unkind -word. It’s only what he can’t hide: everything seems 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 children growing up that he was doing it -all for! But I won’t murmur; and perhaps if he’d married a woman who’d -have had children, she’d have vexed him in other ways.” - -This possibility was Nancy’s chief comfort; and to give it greater -strength, she laboured to make it impossible that any other wife should -have had more perfect tenderness. She had been _forced_ to vex him by -that one denial. Godfrey was not insensible to her loving effort, and -did Nancy no injustice as to the motives of her obstinacy. It was -impossible to have lived with her fifteen years and not be aware that -an unselfish clinging to the right, and a sincerity clear as the -flower-born dew, were her main characteristics; indeed, Godfrey felt -this so strongly, that his own more wavering nature, too averse to -facing difficulty to be unvaryingly simple and truthful, was kept in a -certain awe of this gentle wife who watched his looks with a yearning -to obey them. It seemed to him impossible that he should ever confess -to her the truth about Eppie: she would never recover from the -repulsion the story of his earlier marriage would create, told to her -now, after that long concealment. And the child, too, he thought, must -become an object of repulsion: the very sight of her would be painful. -The shock to Nancy’s mingled pride and ignorance of the world’s evil -might even be too much for her delicate frame. Since he had married her -with that secret on his heart, he must keep it there to the last. -Whatever else he did, he could not make an irreparable breach between -himself and this long-loved wife. - -Meanwhile, why could he not make up his mind to the absence of children -from a hearth brightened by such a wife? Why did his mind fly uneasily -to that void, as if it were the sole reason why life was not thoroughly -joyous to him? I suppose it is the way with all men and women who reach -middle age without the clear perception that life never _can_ be -thoroughly joyous: under the vague dullness of the grey hours, -dissatisfaction seeks a definite object, and finds it in the privation -of an untried good. Dissatisfaction seated musingly on a childless -hearth, thinks with envy of the father whose return is greeted by young -voices—seated at the meal where the little heads rise one above another -like nursery plants, it sees a black care hovering behind every one of -them, and thinks the impulses by which men abandon freedom, and seek -for ties, are surely nothing but a brief madness. In Godfrey’s case -there were further reasons why his thoughts should be continually -solicited by this one point in his lot: his conscience, never -thoroughly easy about Eppie, now gave his childless home the aspect of -a retribution; and as the time passed on, under Nancy’s refusal to -adopt her, any retrieval of his error became more and more difficult. - -On this Sunday afternoon it was already four years since there had been -any allusion to the subject between them, and Nancy supposed that it -was for ever buried. - -“I wonder if he’ll mind it less or more as he gets older,” she thought; -“I’m afraid more. Aged people feel the miss of children: what would -father do without Priscilla? And if I die, Godfrey will be very -lonely—not holding together with his brothers much. But I won’t be -over-anxious, and trying to make things out beforehand: I must do my -best for the present.” - -With that last thought Nancy roused herself from her reverie, and -turned her eyes again towards the forsaken page. It had been forsaken -longer than she imagined, for she was presently surprised by the -appearance of the servant with the tea-things. It was, in fact, a -little before the usual time for tea; but Jane had her reasons. - -“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, after a -pause, “but there’s folks making haste all one way, afore the front -window. I doubt something’s happened. There’s niver a man to be seen i’ -the yard, else I’d send and see. I’ve been up into the top attic, but -there’s no seeing anything for trees. I hope nobody’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, not -altogether despising a hypothesis which covered a few imaginary -calamities. - -“That girl is always terrifying me,” thought Nancy; “I wish Godfrey -would come in.” - -She went to the front window and looked as far as she could see along -the road, with an uneasiness which she felt to be childish, for there -were now no such signs of excitement as Jane had spoken of, and Godfrey -would not be likely to return by the village road, but by the fields. -She continued to stand, however, looking at the placid churchyard with -the long shadows of the gravestones across the bright green hillocks, -and at the glowing autumn colours of the Rectory trees beyond. Before -such calm external beauty the presence of a vague fear is more -distinctly felt—like a raven flapping its slow wing across the sunny -air. Nancy wished more and more that Godfrey would come in. - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -Some one opened the door at the other end of the room, and Nancy felt -that it was her husband. She turned from the window with gladness in -her eyes, for the wife’s chief dread was stilled. - -“Dear, I’m so thankful you’re come,” she said, going towards him. “I -began to get—” - -She paused abruptly, for Godfrey was laying down his hat with trembling -hands, and turned towards her with a pale face and a strange -unanswering glance, as if he saw her indeed, but saw her as part of a -scene invisible to herself. She laid her hand on his arm, not daring to -speak again; but he left the touch unnoticed, and threw himself into -his chair. - -Jane was already at the door with the hissing urn. “Tell her to keep -away, will you?” said Godfrey; and when the door was closed again he -exerted himself to speak more distinctly. - -“Sit down, Nancy—there,” he said, pointing to a chair opposite him. “I -came back as soon as I could, to hinder anybody’s telling you but me. -I’ve had a great shock—but I care most about the shock it’ll be to -you.” - -“It isn’t father and Priscilla?” said Nancy, with quivering lips, -clasping her hands together tightly on her lap. - -“No, it’s nobody living,” said Godfrey, unequal to the considerate -skill with which he would have wished to make his revelation. “It’s -Dunstan—my brother Dunstan, that we lost sight of sixteen years ago. -We’ve found him—found his body—his skeleton.” - -The deep dread Godfrey’s look had created in Nancy made her feel these -words a relief. She sat in comparative calmness to hear what else he -had to tell. He went on: - -“The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly—from the draining, I suppose; and -there he lies—has lain for sixteen years, wedged between two great -stones. There’s his watch and seals, and there’s my gold-handled -hunting-whip, with my name on: he took it away, without my knowing, the -day he went hunting on Wildfire, the last time he was seen.” - -Godfrey paused: it was not so easy to say what came next. “Do you think -he drowned himself?” said Nancy, almost wondering that her husband -should be so deeply shaken by what had happened all those years ago to -an unloved brother, of whom worse things had been augured. - -“No, he fell in,” said Godfrey, in a low but distinct voice, as if he -felt some deep meaning in the fact. Presently he added: “Dunstan was -the man that robbed Silas Marner.” - -The blood rushed to Nancy’s face and neck at this surprise and shame, -for she had been bred up to regard even a distant kinship with crime as -a dishonour. - -“O Godfrey!” she said, with compassion in her tone, for she had -immediately reflected that the dishonour must be felt still more keenly -by her husband. - -“There was the money in the pit,” he continued—“all the weaver’s money. -Everything’s been gathered up, and they’re taking the skeleton to the -Rainbow. But I came back to tell you: there was no hindering it; you -must know.” - -He was silent, looking on the ground for two long minutes. Nancy would -have said some words of comfort under this disgrace, but she refrained, -from an instinctive sense that there was something behind—that Godfrey -had something else to tell her. Presently he lifted his eyes to her -face, and kept them fixed on her, as he said— - -“Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later. When God Almighty -wills it, our secrets are found out. I’ve lived with a secret on my -mind, but I’ll keep it from you no longer. I wouldn’t have you know it -by somebody else, and not by me—I wouldn’t have you find it out after -I’m dead. I’ll tell you now. It’s been “I will” and “I won’t” with me -all my life—I’ll make sure of myself now.” - -Nancy’s utmost dread had returned. The eyes of the husband and wife met -with awe in them, as at a crisis which suspended affection. - -“Nancy,” said Godfrey, slowly, “when I married you, I hid something -from you—something I ought to have told you. That woman Marner found -dead in the snow—Eppie’s mother—that wretched woman—was my wife: Eppie -is my child.” - -He paused, dreading the effect of his confession. But Nancy sat quite -still, only that her eyes dropped and ceased to meet his. She was pale -and quiet as a meditative statue, clasping her hands on her lap. - -“You’ll never think the same of me again,” said Godfrey, after a little -while, with some tremor in his voice. - -She was silent. - -“I oughtn’t to have left the child unowned: I oughtn’t to have kept it -from you. But I couldn’t bear to give you up, Nancy. I was led away -into marrying her—I suffered for it.” - -Still Nancy was silent, looking down; and he almost expected that she -would presently get up and say she would go to her father’s. How could -she have any mercy for faults that must seem so black to her, with her -simple, severe notions? - -But at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and spoke. There was no -indignation in her voice—only deep regret. - -“Godfrey, if you had but told me this six years ago, we could have done -some of our duty by the child. Do you think I’d have refused to take -her in, if I’d known she was yours?” - -At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of an error that was not -simply futile, but had defeated its own end. He had not measured this -wife with whom he had lived so long. But she spoke again, with more -agitation. - -“And—Oh, Godfrey—if we’d had her from the first, if you’d taken to her -as you ought, she’d have loved me for her mother—and you’d have been -happier with me: I could better have bore my little baby dying, and our -life might have been more like what we used to think it ’ud be.” - -The tears fell, and Nancy ceased to speak. - -“But you wouldn’t have married me then, Nancy, if I’d told you,” said -Godfrey, urged, in the bitterness of his self-reproach, to prove to -himself that his conduct had not been utter folly. “You may think you -would now, but you wouldn’t then. With your pride and your father’s, -you’d have hated having anything to do with me after the talk there’d -have been.” - -“I can’t say what I should have done about that, Godfrey. I should -never have married anybody else. But I wasn’t worth doing wrong -for—nothing is in this world. Nothing is so good as it seems -beforehand—not even our marrying wasn’t, you see.” There was a faint -sad smile on Nancy’s face as she said the last words. - -“I’m a worse man than you thought I was, Nancy,” said Godfrey, rather -tremulously. “Can you forgive me ever?” - -“The wrong to me is but little, Godfrey: you’ve made it up to me—you’ve -been good to me for fifteen years. It’s another you did the wrong to; -and I doubt it can never be all made up for.” - -“But we can take Eppie now,” said Godfrey. “I won’t mind the world -knowing at last. I’ll be plain and open for the rest o’ my life.” - -“It’ll be different coming to us, now she’s grown up,” said Nancy, -shaking her head sadly. “But it’s your duty to acknowledge her and -provide for her; and I’ll do my part by her, and pray to God Almighty -to make her love me.” - -“Then we’ll go together to Silas Marner’s this very night, as soon as -everything’s quiet at the Stone-pits.” - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -Between eight and nine o’clock that evening, Eppie and Silas were -seated alone in the cottage. After the great excitement the weaver had -undergone from the events of the afternoon, he had felt a longing for -this quietude, and had even begged Mrs. Winthrop and Aaron, who had -naturally lingered behind every one else, to leave him alone with his -child. The excitement had not passed away: it had only reached that -stage when the keenness of the susceptibility makes external stimulus -intolerable—when there is no sense of weariness, but rather an -intensity of inward life, under which sleep is an impossibility. Any -one who has watched such moments in other men remembers the brightness -of the eyes and the strange definiteness that comes over coarse -features from that transient influence. It is as if a new fineness of -ear for all spiritual voices had sent wonder-working vibrations through -the heavy mortal frame—as if “beauty born of murmuring sound” had -passed into the face of the listener. - -Silas’s face showed that sort of transfiguration, as he sat in his -arm-chair and looked at Eppie. She had drawn her own chair towards his -knees, and leaned forward, holding both his hands, while she looked up -at him. On the table near them, lit by a candle, lay the recovered -gold—the old long-loved gold, ranged in orderly heaps, as Silas used to -range it in the days when it was his only joy. He had been telling her -how he used to count it every night, and how his soul was utterly -desolate till she was sent to him. - -“At first, I’d a sort o’ feeling come across me now and then,” he was -saying in a subdued tone, “as if you might be changed into the gold -again; for sometimes, turn my head which way I would, I seemed to see -the gold; and I thought I should be glad if I could feel it, and find -it was come back. But that didn’t last long. After a bit, I should have -thought it was a curse come again, if it had drove you from me, for I’d -got to feel the need o’ your looks and your voice and the touch o’ your -little fingers. You didn’t know then, Eppie, when you were such a -little un—you didn’t know what your old father Silas felt for you.” - -“But I know now, father,” said Eppie. “If it hadn’t been for you, -they’d have taken me to the workhouse, and there’d have been nobody to -love me.” - -“Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If you hadn’t been sent -to save me, I should ha’ gone to the grave in my misery. The money was -taken away from me in time; and you see it’s been kept—kept till it was -wanted for you. It’s wonderful—our life is wonderful.” - -Silas sat in silence a few minutes, looking at the money. “It takes no -hold of me now,” he said, ponderingly—“the money doesn’t. I wonder if -it ever could again—I doubt it might, if I lost you, Eppie. I might -come to think I was forsaken again, and lose the feeling that God was -good to me.” - -At that moment there was a knocking at the door; and Eppie was obliged -to rise without answering Silas. Beautiful she looked, with the -tenderness of gathering tears in her eyes and a slight flush on her -cheeks, as she stepped to open the door. The flush deepened when she -saw Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass. She made her little rustic curtsy, and -held the door wide for them to enter. - -“We’re disturbing you very late, my dear,” said Mrs. Cass, taking -Eppie’s hand, and looking in her face with an expression of anxious -interest and admiration. Nancy herself was pale and tremulous. - -Eppie, after placing chairs for Mr. and Mrs. Cass, went to stand -against Silas, opposite to them. - -“Well, Marner,” said Godfrey, trying to speak with perfect firmness, -“it’s a great comfort to me to see you with your money again, that -you’ve been deprived of so many years. It was one of my family did you -the wrong—the more grief to me—and I feel bound to make up to you for -it in every way. Whatever I can do for you will be nothing but paying a -debt, even if I looked no further than the robbery. But there are other -things I’m beholden—shall be beholden to you for, Marner.” - -Godfrey checked himself. It had been agreed between him and his wife -that the subject of his fatherhood should be approached very carefully, -and that, if possible, the disclosure should be reserved for the -future, so that it might be made to Eppie gradually. Nancy had urged -this, because she felt strongly the painful light in which Eppie must -inevitably see the relation between her father and mother. - -Silas, always ill at ease when he was being spoken to by “betters”, -such as Mr. Cass—tall, powerful, florid men, seen chiefly on -horseback—answered with some constraint— - -“Sir, I’ve a deal to thank you for a’ready. As for the robbery, I count -it no loss to me. And if I did, you couldn’t help it: you aren’t -answerable for it.” - -“You may look at it in that way, Marner, but I never can; and I hope -you’ll let me act according to my own feeling of what’s just. I know -you’re easily contented: you’ve been a hard-working man all your life.” - -“Yes, sir, yes,” said Marner, meditatively. “I should ha’ been bad off -without my work: it was what I held by when everything else was gone -from me.” - -“Ah,” said Godfrey, applying Marner’s words simply to his bodily wants, -“it was a good trade for you in this country, because there’s been a -great deal of linen-weaving to be done. But you’re getting rather past -such close work, Marner: it’s time you laid by and had some rest. You -look a good deal pulled down, though you’re not an old man, _are_ you?” - -“Fifty-five, as near as I can say, sir,” said Silas. - -“Oh, why, you may live thirty years longer—look at old Macey! And that -money on the table, after all, is but little. It won’t go far either -way—whether it’s put out to interest, or you were to live on it as long -as it would last: it wouldn’t go far if you’d nobody to keep but -yourself, and you’ve had two to keep for a good many years now.” - -“Eh, sir,” said Silas, unaffected by anything Godfrey was saying, “I’m -in no fear o’ want. We shall do very well—Eppie and me ’ull do well -enough. There’s few working-folks have got so much laid by as that. I -don’t know what it is to gentlefolks, but I look upon it as a -deal—almost too much. And as for us, it’s little we want.” - -“Only the garden, father,” said Eppie, blushing up to the ears the -moment after. - -“You love a garden, do you, my dear?” said Nancy, thinking that this -turn in the point of view might help her husband. “We should agree in -that: I give a deal of time to the garden.” - -“Ah, there’s plenty of gardening at the Red House,” said Godfrey, -surprised at the difficulty he found in approaching a proposition which -had seemed so easy to him in the distance. “You’ve done a good part by -Eppie, Marner, for sixteen years. It ’ud be a great comfort to you to -see her well provided for, wouldn’t it? She looks blooming and healthy, -but not fit for any hardships: she doesn’t look like a strapping girl -come of working parents. You’d like to see her taken care of by those -who can leave her well off, and make a lady of her; she’s more fit for -it than for a rough life, such as she might come to have in a few -years’ time.” - -A slight flush came over Marner’s face, and disappeared, like a passing -gleam. Eppie was simply wondering Mr. Cass should talk so about things -that seemed to have nothing to do with reality; but Silas was hurt and -uneasy. - -“I don’t take your meaning, sir,” he answered, not having words at -command to express the mingled feelings with which he had heard Mr. -Cass’s words. - -“Well, my meaning is this, Marner,” said Godfrey, determined to come to -the point. “Mrs. Cass and I, you know, have no children—nobody to -benefit by our good home and everything else we have—more than enough -for ourselves. And we should like to have somebody in the place of a -daughter to us—we should like to have Eppie, and treat her in every way -as our own child. It ’ud be a great comfort to you in your old age, I -hope, to see her fortune made in that way, after you’ve been at the -trouble of bringing her up so well. And it’s right you should have -every reward for that. And Eppie, I’m sure, will always love you and be -grateful to you: she’d come and see you very often, and we should all -be on the look-out to do everything we could towards making you -comfortable.” - -A plain man like Godfrey Cass, speaking under some embarrassment, -necessarily blunders on words that are coarser than his intentions, and -that are likely to fall gratingly on susceptible feelings. While he had -been speaking, Eppie had quietly passed her arm behind Silas’s head, -and let her hand rest against it caressingly: she felt him trembling -violently. He was silent for some moments when Mr. Cass had -ended—powerless under the conflict of emotions, all alike painful. -Eppie’s heart was swelling at the sense that her father was in -distress; and she was just going to lean down and speak to him, when -one struggling dread at last gained the mastery over every other in -Silas, and he said, faintly— - -“Eppie, my child, speak. I won’t stand in your way. Thank Mr. and Mrs. -Cass.” - -Eppie took her hand from her father’s head, and came forward a step. -Her cheeks were flushed, but not with shyness this time: the sense that -her father was in doubt and suffering banished that sort of -self-consciousness. She dropped a low curtsy, first to Mrs. Cass and -then to Mr. Cass, and said— - -“Thank you, ma’am—thank you, sir. But I can’t leave my father, nor own -anybody nearer than him. And I don’t want to be a lady—thank you all -the same” (here Eppie dropped another curtsy). “I couldn’t give up the -folks I’ve been used to.” - -Eppie’s lips began to tremble a little at the last words. She retreated -to her father’s chair again, and held him round the neck: while Silas, -with a subdued sob, put up his hand to grasp hers. - -The tears were in Nancy’s eyes, but her sympathy with Eppie was, -naturally, divided with distress on her husband’s account. She dared -not speak, wondering what was going on in her husband’s mind. - -Godfrey felt an irritation inevitable to almost all of us when we -encounter an unexpected obstacle. He had been full of his own penitence -and resolution to retrieve his error as far as the time was left to -him; he was possessed with all-important feelings, that were to lead to -a predetermined course of action which he had fixed on as the right, -and he was not prepared to enter with lively appreciation into other -people’s feelings counteracting his virtuous resolves. The agitation -with which he spoke again was not quite unmixed with anger. - -“But I’ve a claim on you, Eppie—the strongest of all claims. It’s my -duty, Marner, to own Eppie as my child, and provide for her. She is my -own child—her mother was my wife. I’ve a natural claim on her that must -stand before every other.” - -Eppie had given a violent start, and turned quite pale. Silas, on the -contrary, who had been relieved, by Eppie’s answer, from the dread lest -his mind should be in opposition to hers, felt the spirit of resistance -in him set free, not without a touch of parental fierceness. “Then, -sir,” he answered, with an accent of bitterness that had been silent in -him since the memorable day when his youthful hope had perished—“then, -sir, why didn’t you say so sixteen year ago, and claim her before I’d -come to love her, i’stead o’ coming to take her from me now, when you -might as well take the heart out o’ my body? God gave her to me because -you turned your back upon her, and He looks upon her as mine: you’ve no -right to her! When a man turns a blessing from his door, it falls to -them as take it in.” - -“I know that, Marner. I was wrong. I’ve repented of my conduct in that -matter,” said Godfrey, who could not help feeling the edge of Silas’s -words. - -“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” said Marner, with gathering excitement; -“but repentance doesn’t alter what’s been going on for sixteen year. -Your coming now and saying “I’m her father” doesn’t alter the feelings -inside us. It’s me she’s been calling her father ever since she could -say the word.” - -“But I think you might look at the thing more reasonably, Marner,” said -Godfrey, unexpectedly awed by the weaver’s direct truth-speaking. “It -isn’t as if she was to be taken quite away from you, so that you’d -never see her again. She’ll be very near you, and come to see you very -often. She’ll feel just the same towards you.” - -“Just the same?” said Marner, more bitterly than ever. “How’ll she feel -just the same for me as she does now, when we eat o’ the same bit, and -drink o’ the same cup, and think o’ the same things from one day’s end -to another? Just the same? that’s idle talk. You’d cut us i’ two.” - -Godfrey, unqualified by experience to discern the pregnancy of Marner’s -simple words, felt rather angry again. It seemed to him that the weaver -was very selfish (a judgment readily passed by those who have never -tested their own power of sacrifice) to oppose what was undoubtedly for -Eppie’s welfare; and he felt himself called upon, for her sake, to -assert his authority. - -“I should have thought, Marner,” he said, severely—“I should have -thought your affection for Eppie would make you rejoice in what was for -her good, even if it did call upon you to give up something. You ought -to remember your own life’s uncertain, and she’s at an age now when her -lot may soon be fixed in a way very different from what it would be in -her father’s home: she may marry some low working-man, and then, -whatever I might do for her, I couldn’t make her well-off. You’re -putting yourself in the way of her welfare; and though I’m sorry to -hurt you after what you’ve done, and what I’ve left undone, I feel now -it’s my duty to insist on taking care of my own daughter. I want to do -my duty.” - -It would be difficult to say whether it were Silas or Eppie that was -more deeply stirred by this last speech of Godfrey’s. Thought had been -very busy in Eppie as she listened to the contest between her old -long-loved father and this new unfamiliar father who had suddenly come -to fill the place of that black featureless shadow which had held the -ring and placed it on her mother’s finger. Her imagination had darted -backward in conjectures, and forward in previsions, of what this -revealed fatherhood implied; and there were words in Godfrey’s last -speech which helped to make the previsions especially definite. Not -that these thoughts, either of past or future, determined her -resolution—_that_ was determined by the feelings which vibrated to -every word Silas had uttered; but they raised, even apart from these -feelings, a repulsion towards the offered lot and the newly-revealed -father. - -Silas, on the other hand, was again stricken in conscience, and alarmed -lest Godfrey’s accusation should be true—lest he should be raising his -own will as an obstacle to Eppie’s good. For many moments he was mute, -struggling for the self-conquest necessary to the uttering of the -difficult words. They came out tremulously. - -“I’ll say no more. Let it be as you will. Speak to the child. I’ll -hinder nothing.” - -Even Nancy, with all the acute sensibility of her own affections, -shared her husband’s view, that Marner was not justifiable in his wish -to retain Eppie, after her real father had avowed himself. She felt -that it was a very hard trial for the poor weaver, but her code allowed -no question that a father by blood must have a claim above that of any -foster-father. Besides, Nancy, used all her life to plenteous -circumstances and the privileges of “respectability”, could not enter -into the pleasures which early nurture and habit connect with all the -little aims and efforts of the poor who are born poor: to her mind, -Eppie, in being restored to her birthright, was entering on a too long -withheld but unquestionable good. Hence she heard Silas’s last words -with relief, and thought, as Godfrey did, that their wish was achieved. - -“Eppie, my dear,” said Godfrey, looking at his daughter, not without -some embarrassment, under the sense that she was old enough to judge -him, “it’ll always be our wish that you should show your love and -gratitude to one who’s been a father to you so many years, and we shall -want to help you to make him comfortable in every way. But we hope -you’ll come to love us as well; and though I haven’t been what a father -should ha’ been to you all these years, I wish to do the utmost in my -power for you for the rest of my life, and provide for you as my only -child. And you’ll have the best of mothers in my wife—that’ll be a -blessing you haven’t known since you were old enough to know it.” - -“My dear, you’ll be a treasure to me,” said Nancy, in her gentle voice. -“We shall want for nothing when we have our daughter.” - -Eppie did not come forward and curtsy, as she had done before. She held -Silas’s hand in hers, and grasped it firmly—it was a weaver’s hand, -with a palm and finger-tips that were sensitive to such pressure—while -she spoke with colder decision than before. - -“Thank you, ma’am—thank you, sir, for your offers—they’re very great, -and far above my wish. For I should have no delight i’ life any more if -I was forced to go away from my father, and knew he was sitting at -home, a-thinking of me and feeling lone. We’ve been used to be happy -together every day, and I can’t think o’ no happiness without him. And -he says he’d nobody i’ the world till I was sent to him, and he’d have -nothing when I was gone. And he’s took care of me and loved me from the -first, and I’ll cleave to him as long as he lives, and nobody shall -ever come between him and me.” - -“But you must make sure, Eppie,” said Silas, in a low voice—“you must -make sure as you won’t ever be sorry, because you’ve made your choice -to stay among poor folks, and with poor clothes and things, when you -might ha’ had everything o’ the best.” - -His sensitiveness on this point had increased as he listened to Eppie’s -words of faithful affection. - -“I can never be sorry, father,” said Eppie. “I shouldn’t know what to -think on or to wish for with fine things about me, as I haven’t been -used to. And it ’ud be poor work for me to put on things, and ride in a -gig, and sit in a place at church, as ’ud make them as I’m fond of -think me unfitting company for ’em. What could _I_ care for then?” - -Nancy looked at Godfrey with a pained questioning glance. But his eyes -were fixed on the floor, where he was moving the end of his stick, as -if he were pondering on something absently. She thought there was a -word which might perhaps come better from her lips than from his. - -“What you say is natural, my dear child—it’s natural you should cling -to those who’ve brought you up,” she said, mildly; “but there’s a duty -you owe to your lawful father. There’s perhaps something to be given up -on more sides than one. When your father opens his home to you, I think -it’s right you shouldn’t turn your back on it.” - -“I can’t feel as I’ve got any father but one,” said Eppie, impetuously, -while the tears gathered. “I’ve always thought of a little home where -he’d sit i’ the corner, and I should fend and do everything for him: I -can’t think o’ no other home. I wasn’t brought up to be a lady, and I -can’t turn my mind to it. I like the working-folks, and their victuals, -and their ways. And,” she ended passionately, while the tears fell, -“I’m promised to marry a working-man, as’ll live with father, and help -me to take care of him.” - -Godfrey looked up at Nancy with a flushed face and smarting dilated -eyes. This frustration of a purpose towards which he had set out under -the exalted consciousness that he was about to compensate in some -degree for the greatest demerit of his life, made him feel the air of -the room stifling. - -“Let us go,” he said, in an under-tone. - -“We won’t talk of this any longer now,” said Nancy, rising. “We’re your -well-wishers, my dear—and yours too, Marner. We shall come and see you -again. It’s getting late now.” - -In this way she covered her husband’s abrupt departure, for Godfrey had -gone straight to the door, unable to say more. - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -Nancy and Godfrey walked home under the starlight in silence. When they -entered the oaken parlour, Godfrey threw himself into his chair, while -Nancy laid down her bonnet and shawl, and stood on the hearth near her -husband, unwilling to leave him even for a few minutes, and yet fearing -to utter any word lest it might jar on his feeling. At last Godfrey -turned his head towards her, and their eyes met, dwelling in that -meeting without any movement on either side. That quiet mutual gaze of -a trusting husband and wife is like the first moment of rest or refuge -from a great weariness or a great danger—not to be interfered with by -speech or action which would distract the sensations from the fresh -enjoyment of repose. - -But presently he put out his hand, and as Nancy placed hers within it, -he drew her towards him, and said— - -“That’s ended!” - -She bent to kiss him, and then said, as she stood by his side, “Yes, -I’m afraid we must give up the hope of having her for a daughter. It -wouldn’t be right to want to force her to come to us against her will. -We can’t alter her bringing up and what’s come of it.” - -“No,” said Godfrey, with a keen decisiveness of tone, in contrast with -his usually careless and unemphatic speech—“there’s debts we can’t pay -like money debts, by paying extra for the years that have slipped by. -While I’ve been putting off and putting off, the trees have been -growing—it’s too late now. Marner was in the right in what he said -about a man’s turning away a blessing from his door: it falls to -somebody else. I wanted to pass for childless once, Nancy—I shall pass -for childless now against my wish.” - -Nancy did not speak immediately, but after a little while she -asked—“You won’t make it known, then, about Eppie’s being your -daughter?” - -“No: where would be the good to anybody?—only harm. I must do what I -can for her in the state of life she chooses. I must see who it is -she’s thinking of marrying.” - -“If it won’t do any good to make the thing known,” said Nancy, who -thought she might now allow herself the relief of entertaining a -feeling which she had tried to silence before, “I should be very -thankful for father and Priscilla never to be troubled with knowing -what was done in the past, more than about Dunsey: it can’t be helped, -their knowing that.” - -“I shall put it in my will—I think I shall put it in my will. I -shouldn’t like to leave anything to be found out, like this of Dunsey,” -said Godfrey, meditatively. “But I can’t see anything but difficulties -that ’ud come from telling it now. I must do what I can to make her -happy in her own way. I’ve a notion,” he added, after a moment’s pause, -“it’s Aaron Winthrop she meant she was engaged to. I remember seeing -him with her and Marner going away from church.” - -“Well, he’s very sober and industrious,” said Nancy, trying to view the -matter as cheerfully as possible. - -Godfrey fell into thoughtfulness again. Presently he looked up at Nancy -sorrowfully, and said— - -“She’s a very pretty, nice girl, isn’t she, Nancy?” - -“Yes, dear; and with just your hair and eyes: I wondered it had never -struck me before.” - -“I think she took a dislike to me at the thought of my being her -father: I could see a change in her manner after that.” - -“She couldn’t bear to think of not looking on Marner as her father,” -said Nancy, not wishing to confirm her husband’s painful impression. - -“She thinks I did wrong by her mother as well as by her. She thinks me -worse than I am. But she _must_ think it: she can never know all. It’s -part of my punishment, Nancy, for my daughter to dislike me. I should -never have got into that trouble if I’d been true to you—if I hadn’t -been a fool. I’d no right to expect anything but evil could come of -that marriage—and when I shirked doing a father’s part too.” - -Nancy was silent: her spirit of rectitude would not let her try to -soften the edge of what she felt to be a just compunction. He spoke -again after a little while, but the tone was rather changed: there was -tenderness mingled with the previous self-reproach. - -“And I got _you_, Nancy, in spite of all; and yet I’ve been grumbling -and uneasy because I hadn’t something else—as if I deserved it.” - -“You’ve never been wanting to me, Godfrey,” said Nancy, with quiet -sincerity. “My only trouble would be gone if you resigned yourself to -the lot that’s been given us.” - -“Well, perhaps it isn’t too late to mend a bit there. Though it _is_ -too late to mend some things, say what they will.” - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -The next morning, when Silas and Eppie were seated at their breakfast, -he said to her— - -“Eppie, there’s a thing I’ve had on my mind to do this two year, and -now the money’s been brought back to us, we can do it. I’ve been -turning it over and over in the night, and I think we’ll set out -to-morrow, while the fine days last. We’ll leave the house and -everything for your godmother to take care on, and we’ll make a little -bundle o’ things and set out.” - -“Where to go, daddy?” said Eppie, in much surprise. - -“To my old country—to the town where I was born—up Lantern Yard. I want -to see Mr. Paston, the minister: something may ha’ come out to make ’em -know I was innicent o’ the robbery. And Mr. Paston was a man with a -deal o’ light—I want to speak to him about the drawing o’ the lots. And -I should like to talk to him about the religion o’ this country-side, -for I partly think he doesn’t know on it.” - -Eppie was very joyful, for there was the prospect not only of wonder -and delight at seeing a strange country, but also of coming back to -tell Aaron all about it. Aaron was so much wiser than she was about -most things—it would be rather pleasant to have this little advantage -over him. Mrs. Winthrop, though possessed with a dim fear of dangers -attendant on so long a journey, and requiring many assurances that it -would not take them out of the region of carriers’ carts and slow -waggons, was nevertheless well pleased that Silas should revisit his -own country, and find out if he had been cleared from that false -accusation. - -“You’d be easier in your mind for the rest o’ your life, Master -Marner,” said Dolly—“that you would. And if there’s any light to be got -up the yard as you talk on, we’ve need of it i’ this world, and I’d be -glad on it myself, if you could bring it back.” - -So on the fourth day from that time, Silas and Eppie, in their Sunday -clothes, with a small bundle tied in a blue linen handkerchief, were -making their way through the streets of a great manufacturing town. -Silas, bewildered by the changes thirty years had brought over his -native place, had stopped several persons in succession to ask them the -name of this town, that he might be sure he was not under a mistake -about it. - -“Ask for Lantern Yard, father—ask this gentleman with the tassels on -his shoulders a-standing at the shop door; he isn’t in a hurry like the -rest,” said Eppie, in some distress at her father’s bewilderment, and -ill at ease, besides, amidst the noise, the movement, and the multitude -of strange indifferent faces. - -“Eh, my child, he won’t know anything about it,” said Silas; -“gentlefolks didn’t ever go up the Yard. But happen somebody can tell -me which is the way to Prison Street, where the jail is. I know the way -out o’ that as if I’d seen it yesterday.” - -With some difficulty, after many turnings and new inquiries, they -reached Prison Street; and the grim walls of the jail, the first object -that answered to any image in Silas’s memory, cheered him with the -certitude, which no assurance of the town’s name had hitherto given -him, that he was in his native place. - -“Ah,” he said, drawing a long breath, “there’s the jail, Eppie; that’s -just the same: I aren’t afraid now. It’s the third turning on the left -hand from the jail doors—that’s the way we must go.” - -“Oh, what a dark ugly place!” said Eppie. “How it hides the sky! It’s -worse than the Workhouse. I’m glad you don’t live in this town now, -father. Is Lantern Yard like this street?” - -“My precious child,” said Silas, smiling, “it isn’t a big street like -this. I never was easy i’ this street myself, but I was fond o’ Lantern -Yard. The shops here are all altered, I think—I can’t make ’em out; but -I shall know the turning, because it’s the third.” - -“Here it is,” he said, in a tone of satisfaction, as they came to a -narrow alley. “And then we must go to the left again, and then straight -for’ard for a bit, up Shoe Lane: and then we shall be at the entry next -to the o’erhanging window, where there’s the nick in the road for the -water to run. Eh, I can see it all.” - -“O father, I’m like as if I was stifled,” said Eppie. “I couldn’t ha’ -thought as any folks lived i’ this way, so close together. How pretty -the Stone-pits ’ull look when we get back!” - -“It looks comical to _me_, child, now—and smells bad. I can’t think as -it usened to smell so.” - -Here and there a sallow, begrimed face looked out from a gloomy doorway -at the strangers, and increased Eppie’s uneasiness, so that it was a -longed-for relief when they issued from the alleys into Shoe Lane, -where there was a broader strip of sky. - -“Dear heart!” said Silas, “why, there’s people coming out o’ the Yard -as if they’d been to chapel at this time o’ day—a weekday noon!” - -Suddenly he started and stood still with a look of distressed -amazement, that alarmed Eppie. They were before an opening in front of -a large factory, from which men and women were streaming for their -midday meal. - -“Father,” said Eppie, clasping his arm, “what’s the matter?” - -But she had to speak again and again before Silas could answer her. - -“It’s gone, child,” he said, at last, in strong agitation—“Lantern -Yard’s gone. It must ha’ been here, because here’s the house with the -o’erhanging window—I know that—it’s just the same; but they’ve made -this new opening; and see that big factory! It’s all gone—chapel and -all.” - -“Come into that little brush-shop and sit down, father—they’ll let you -sit down,” said Eppie, always on the watch lest one of her father’s -strange attacks should come on. “Perhaps the people can tell you all -about it.” - -But neither from the brush-maker, who had come to Shoe Lane only ten -years ago, when the factory was already built, nor from any other -source within his reach, could Silas learn anything of the old Lantern -Yard friends, or of Mr. Paston the minister. - -“The old place is all swep’ away,” Silas said to Dolly Winthrop on the -night of his return—“the little graveyard and everything. The old -home’s gone; I’ve no home but this now. I shall never know whether they -got at the truth o’ the robbery, nor whether Mr. Paston could ha’ given -me any light about the drawing o’ the lots. It’s dark to me, Mrs. -Winthrop, that is; I doubt it’ll be dark to the last.” - -“Well, yes, Master Marner,” said Dolly, who sat with a placid listening -face, now bordered by grey hairs; “I doubt it may. It’s the will o’ -Them above as a many things should be dark to us; but there’s some -things as I’ve never felt i’ the dark about, and they’re mostly what -comes i’ the day’s work. You were hard done by that once, Master -Marner, and it seems as you’ll never know the rights of it; but that -doesn’t hinder there _being_ a rights, Master Marner, for all it’s dark -to you and me.” - -“No,” said Silas, “no; that doesn’t hinder. Since the time the child -was sent to me and I’ve come to love her as myself, I’ve had light -enough to trusten by; and now she says she’ll never leave me, I think I -shall trusten till I die.” - - - -CONCLUSION - -There was one time of the year which was held in Raveloe to be -especially suitable for a wedding. It was when the great lilacs and -laburnums in the old-fashioned gardens showed their golden and purple -wealth above the lichen-tinted walls, and when there were calves still -young enough to want bucketfuls of fragrant milk. People were not so -busy then as they must become when the full cheese-making and the -mowing had set in; and besides, it was a time when a light bridal dress -could be worn with comfort and seen to advantage. - -Happily the sunshine fell more warmly than usual on the lilac tufts the -morning that Eppie was married, for her dress was a very light one. She -had often thought, though with a feeling of renunciation, that the -perfection of a wedding-dress would be a white cotton, with the tiniest -pink sprig at wide intervals; so that when Mrs. Godfrey Cass begged to -provide one, and asked Eppie to choose what it should be, previous -meditation had enabled her to give a decided answer at once. - -Seen at a little distance as she walked across the churchyard and down -the village, she seemed to be attired in pure white, and her hair -looked like the dash of gold on a lily. One hand was on her husband’s -arm, and with the other she clasped the hand of her father Silas. - -“You won’t be giving me away, father,” she had said before they went to -church; “you’ll only be taking Aaron to be a son to you.” - -Dolly Winthrop walked behind with her husband; and there ended the -little bridal procession. - -There were many eyes to look at it, and Miss Priscilla Lammeter was -glad that she and her father had happened to drive up to the door of -the Red House just in time to see this pretty sight. They had come to -keep Nancy company to-day, because Mr. Cass had had to go away to -Lytherley, for special reasons. That seemed to be a pity, for otherwise -he might have gone, as Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Osgood certainly would, -to look on at the wedding-feast which he had ordered at the Rainbow, -naturally feeling a great interest in the weaver who had been wronged -by one of his own family. - -“I could ha’ wished Nancy had had the luck to find a child like that -and bring her up,” said Priscilla to her father, as they sat in the -gig; “I should ha’ had something young to think of then, besides the -lambs and the calves.” - -“Yes, my dear, yes,” said Mr. Lammeter; “one feels that as one gets -older. Things look dim to old folks: they’d need have some young eyes -about ’em, to let ’em know the world’s the same as it used to be.” - -Nancy came out now to welcome her father and sister; and the wedding -group had passed on beyond the Red House to the humbler part of the -village. - -Dolly Winthrop was the first to divine that old Mr. Macey, who had been -set in his arm-chair outside his own door, would expect some special -notice as they passed, since he was too old to be at the wedding-feast. - -“Mr. Macey’s looking for a word from us,” said Dolly; “he’ll be hurt if -we pass him and say nothing—and him so racked with rheumatiz.” - -So they turned aside to shake hands with the old man. He had looked -forward to the occasion, and had his premeditated speech. - -“Well, Master Marner,” he said, in a voice that quavered a good deal, -“I’ve lived to see my words come true. I was the first to say there was -no harm in you, though your looks might be again’ you; and I was the -first to say you’d get your money back. And it’s nothing but rightful -as you should. And I’d ha’ said the “Amens”, and willing, at the holy -matrimony; but Tookey’s done it a good while now, and I hope you’ll -have none the worse luck.” - -In the open yard before the Rainbow the party of guests were already -assembled, though it was still nearly an hour before the appointed -feast time. But by this means they could not only enjoy the slow advent -of their pleasure; they had also ample leisure to talk of Silas -Marner’s strange history, and arrive by due degrees at the conclusion -that he had brought a blessing on himself by acting like a father to a -lone motherless child. Even the farrier did not negative this -sentiment: on the contrary, he took it up as peculiarly his own, and -invited any hardy person present to contradict him. But he met with no -contradiction; and all differences among the company were merged in a -general agreement with Mr. Snell’s sentiment, that when a man had -deserved his good luck, it was the part of his neighbours to wish him -joy. - -As the bridal group approached, a hearty cheer was raised in the -Rainbow yard; and Ben Winthrop, whose jokes had retained their -acceptable flavour, found it agreeable to turn in there and receive -congratulations; not requiring the proposed interval of quiet at the -Stone-pits before joining the company. - -Eppie had a larger garden than she had ever expected there now; and in -other ways there had been alterations at the expense of Mr. Cass, the -landlord, to suit Silas’s larger family. For he and Eppie had declared -that they would rather stay at the Stone-pits than go to any new home. -The garden was fenced with stones on two sides, but in front there was -an open fence, through which the flowers shone with answering gladness, -as the four united people came within sight of them. - -“O father,” said Eppie, “what a pretty home ours is! I think nobody -could be happier than we are.” - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Silas Marner, by George Eliot - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SILAS MARNER *** - -***** This file should be named 550-0.txt or 550-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/550/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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