

                                  George Eliot

                                 Silas Marner,

                              the Weaver of Raveloe

 »A child, more than all other gifts
 That earth can offer to declining man,
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts.«
                                                                     Wordsworth.
 

                                     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 folk's 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 civilisation - 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'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 his inherited delight to wander through 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 recognised 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'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 fold of the church. Marner listened in
silence. At last, when every one 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 white-washed 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 hooping-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 in-comings, 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.«
    »O 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.«
    »Ay, ay,« 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't paid. I'd nothing to do with that; you chose to be so
obliging as 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.«
    »Ay, ay,« 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- 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 he 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 Stonepit, 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.
    »Hey-day,« said Bryce, who had long had his eye on Wildfire, »you're on your
brother's horse to-day: how's that?«
    »O, 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.
    »O, 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 fore-finger 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 over-coat, 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 contrary.«
    »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 -
    »Ay, ay; 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 practising, I wish you'd practise 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.«
    »Ay, ay,« 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.«
    »Ay, ay,« 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.«
    »Ay, 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 kept 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.
    »Ay, 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'
contrary, 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 contrary? 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.
    »Ay, 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 regester 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.«
    »Ay, 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.«
    »Ay, but there's more going on in the stables than what folks see by
daylight, eh, Mr. Macey?« said the landlord.
    »Ay, ay; 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'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 venture
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
venture 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.«
    »Ay, 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 antennæ 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 neutralise
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.
    »Ay, Master Marner, what do ye 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 drowned rat. Sit down and dry yourself, and
speak straight forward.«
    »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.«
    »Ay, ay, 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.«
    »Ay, ay,« 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 wakened 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.«
    »Ay, ay, 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 primises; 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 envying 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
suprised 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 further, 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 clair-voyante, 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, is 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 creature« 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 where 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 behove; 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'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 most 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'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'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 loth 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.
    In this point of trusting to some throw of fortune's dice, Godfrey can
hardly be called old-fashioned. Favourable Chance 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 creature;«
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' kept 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 creature, 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, 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'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.«
    »Ay, ay, 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 creature, 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 arm-chair 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.
    »O 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?«
    »O 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 goodwill 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.
    »O, 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 have 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 »picture 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.
    »O, 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 Saviour
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 cant' 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.
    »O, 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'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.
    »O, 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 mean time, she would have persuaded her
father to go round to the horseblock 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
skullcap 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 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'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.«
    »O, 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 patronising: 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.
    »Ay, ay,« 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 soliloquises in
all company indiscriminately - now blinked and fidgeted towards the Squire, and
said, »O 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 amiably intended to smile, but the intention lost itself 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.
    »Ay, ay, 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 co-existed 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'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 under-tone 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'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'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'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.
    »O 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.
    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
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 awake, 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
is 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 façade 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 boddice. »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? ay - 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.«
    »O, 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?«
    »O, 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 recognised: 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 contrary 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'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 creature 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'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, re-awakening 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 mid-day, 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
redheaded 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 farm-houses,
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, wherewith 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 mean time 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 who are 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 recognise, 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 recognise 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 blond 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'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'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?«
    »Ay, 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.«
    »O 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.
    »O 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 famil'are 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 niver 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
contrary - 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 undertone; »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.«
    »O, 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.«
    »O, I'm stronger than you think, daddy,« said Eppie; »and if there wasn't'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.
    »O, 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, arn'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'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'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'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 god-mother. She'll wish the right thing by you and her son too.«
    »There they come then,« said Eppie. »Let us go and meet 'em. O 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 out-door 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 thy'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.«
    »O 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.«
    »O, 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?«
    »O 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 scrutinise 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 blameable. 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 toilet, 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.«
    »O, 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 - O, 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't worth doing wrong for - nothing is in
this world. Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand - not even our marrying
wasn't'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
wonderworking 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'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 farther 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.
    »O, 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'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 be the better
for 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 lip 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's 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't alter what's been going on for sixteen year. Your coming now
and saying I'm her father doesn't'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'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 about 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 countryside, for I partly think he doesn't'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 wagons, 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.«
    »O, 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 mid-day 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
age, 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't hinder there being a rights, Master Marner,
for all it's dark to you and me.«
    »No,« said Silas, »no; that doesn't'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.«
