"'SILAS MARNER\n\nThe Weaver of Raveloe\n\n\nby\n\nGeorge Eliot\n\n(Mary Anne Evans)\n\n\n\n1861\n\n\n\n \"A child, more than all other gifts\n That earth can offer to declining man,\n Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts.\"\n --WORDSWORTH.\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nIn the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the\nfarmhouses--and even great ladies, clothed in silk and thread-lace, had\ntheir toy spinning-wheels of polished oak--there might be seen in\ndistricts far away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills,\ncertain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the brawny\ncountry-folk, looked like the remnants of a disinherited race. The\nshepherd\'s dog barked fiercely when one of these alien-looking men\nappeared on the upland, dark against the early winter sunset; for what\ndog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag?--and these pale men rarely\nstirred abroad without that mysterious burden. The shepherd himself,\nthough he had good reason to believe that the bag held nothing but\nflaxen thread, or else the long rolls of strong linen spun from that\nthread, was not quite sure that this trade of weaving, indispensable\nthough it was, could be carried on entirely without the help of the\nEvil One. In that far-off time superstition clung easily round every\nperson or thing that was at all unwonted, or even intermittent and\noccasional merely, like the visits of the pedlar or the knife-grinder.\nNo one knew where wandering men had their homes or their origin; and\nhow was a man to be explained unless you at least knew somebody who\nknew his father and mother? To the peasants of old times, the world\noutside their own direct experience was a region of vagueness and\nmystery: to their untravelled thought a state of wandering was a\nconception as dim as the winter life of the swallows that came back\nwith the spring; and even a settler, if he came from distant parts,\nhardly ever ceased to be viewed with a remnant of distrust, which would\nhave prevented any surprise if a long course of inoffensive conduct on\nhis part had ended in the commission of a crime; especially if he had\nany reputation for knowledge, or showed any skill in handicraft. All\ncleverness, whether in the rapid use of that difficult instrument the\ntongue, or in some other art unfamiliar to villagers, was in itself\nsuspicious: honest folk, born and bred in a visible manner, were mostly\nnot overwise or clever--at least, not beyond such a matter as knowing\nthe signs of the weather; and the process by which rapidity and\ndexterity of any kind were acquired was so wholly hidden, that they\npartook of the nature of conjuring. In this way it came to pass that\nthose scattered linen-weavers--emigrants from the town into the\ncountry--were to the last regarded as aliens by their rustic\nneighbours, and usually contracted the eccentric habits which belong to\na state of loneliness.\n\nIn the early years of this century, such a linen-weaver, named Silas\nMarner, worked at his vocation in a stone cottage that stood among the\nnutty hedgerows near the village of Raveloe, and not far from the edge\nof a deserted stone-pit. The questionable sound of Silas\'s loom, so\nunlike the natural cheerful trotting of the winnowing-machine, or the\nsimpler rhythm of the flail, had a half-fearful fascination for the\nRaveloe boys, who would often leave off their nutting or birds\'-nesting\nto peep in at the window of the stone cottage, counterbalancing a\ncertain awe at the mysterious action of the loom, by a pleasant sense\nof scornful superiority, drawn from the mockery of its alternating\nnoises, along with the bent, tread-mill attitude of the weaver. But\nsometimes it happened that Marner, pausing to adjust an irregularity in\nhis thread, became aware of the small scoundrels, and, though chary of\nhis time, he liked their intrusion so ill that he would descend from\nhis loom, and, opening the door, would fix on them a gaze that was\nalways enough to make them take to their legs in terror. For how was\nit possible to believe that those large brown protuberant eyes in Silas\nMarner\'s pale face really saw nothing very distinctly that was not\nclose to them, and not rather that their dreadful stare could dart\ncramp, or rickets, or a wry mouth at any boy who happened to be in the\nrear? They had, perhaps, heard their fathers and mothers hint that\nSilas Marner could cure folks\' rheumatism if he had a mind, and add,\nstill more darkly, that if you could only speak the devil fair enough,\nhe might save you the cost of the doctor. Such strange lingering\nechoes of the old demon-worship might perhaps even now be caught by the\ndiligent listener among the grey-haired peasantry; for the rude mind\nwith difficulty associates the ideas of power and benignity. A shadowy\nconception of power that by much persuasion can be induced to refrain\nfrom inflicting harm, is the shape most easily taken by the sense of\nthe Invisible in the minds of men who have always been pressed close by\nprimitive wants, and to whom a life of hard toil has never been\nilluminated by any enthusiastic religious faith. To them pain and\nmishap present a far wider range of possibilities than gladness and\nenjoyment: their imagination is almost barren of the images that feed\ndesire and hope, but is all overgrown by recollections that are a\nperpetual pasture to fear. \"Is there anything you can fancy that you\nwould like to eat?\" I once said to an old labouring man, who was in\nhis last illness, and who had refused all the food his wife had offered\nhim. \"No,\" he answered, \"I\'ve never been used to nothing but common\nvictual, and I can\'t eat that.\" Experience had bred no fancies in him\nthat could raise the phantasm of appetite.\n\nAnd Raveloe was a village where many of the old echoes lingered,\nundrowned by new voices. Not that it was one of those barren parishes\nlying on the outskirts of civilization--inhabited by meagre sheep and\nthinly-scattered shepherds: on the contrary, it lay in the rich central\nplain of what we are pleased to call Merry England, and held farms\nwhich, speaking from a spiritual point of view, paid highly-desirable\ntithes. But it was nestled in a snug well-wooded hollow, quite an\nhour\'s journey on horseback from any turnpike, where it was never\nreached by the vibrations of the coach-horn, or of public opinion. It\nwas an important-looking village, with a fine old church and large\nchurchyard in the heart of it, and two or three large brick-and-stone\nhomesteads, with well-walled orchards and ornamental weathercocks,\nstanding close upon the road, and lifting more imposing fronts than the\nrectory, which peeped from among the trees on the other side of the\nchurchyard:--a village which showed at once the summits of its social\nlife, and told the practised eye that there was no great park and\nmanor-house in the vicinity, but that there were several chiefs in\nRaveloe who could farm badly quite at their ease, drawing enough money\nfrom their bad farming, in those war times, to live in a rollicking\nfashion, and keep a jolly Christmas, Whitsun, and Easter tide.\n\nIt was fifteen years since Silas Marner had first come to Raveloe; he\nwas then simply a pallid young man, with prominent short-sighted brown\neyes, whose appearance would have had nothing strange for people of\naverage culture and experience, but for the villagers near whom he had\ncome to settle it had mysterious peculiarities which corresponded with\nthe exceptional nature of his occupation, and his advent from an\nunknown region called \"North\'ard\". So had his way of life:--he invited\nno comer to step across his door-sill, and he never strolled into the\nvillage to drink a pint at the Rainbow, or to gossip at the\nwheelwright\'s: he sought no man or woman, save for the purposes of his\ncalling, or in order to supply himself with necessaries; and it was\nsoon clear to the Raveloe lasses that he would never urge one of them\nto accept him against her will--quite as if he had heard them declare\nthat they would never marry a dead man come to life again. This view\nof Marner\'s personality was not without another ground than his pale\nface and unexampled eyes; for Jem Rodney, the mole-catcher, averred\nthat one evening as he was returning homeward, he saw Silas Marner\nleaning against a stile with a heavy bag on his back, instead of\nresting the bag on the stile as a man in his senses would have done;\nand that, on coming up to him, he saw that Marner\'s eyes were set like\na dead man\'s, and he spoke to him, and shook him, and his limbs were\nstiff, and his hands clutched the bag as if they\'d been made of iron;\nbut just as he had made up his mind that the weaver was dead, he came\nall right again, like, as you might say, in the winking of an eye, and\nsaid \"Good-night\", and walked off. All this Jem swore he had seen,\nmore by token that it was the very day he had been mole-catching on\nSquire Cass\'s land, down by the old saw-pit. Some said Marner must\nhave been in a \"fit\", a word which seemed to explain things otherwise\nincredible; but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk of the parish, shook\nhis head, and asked if anybody was ever known to go off in a fit and\nnot fall down. A fit was a stroke, wasn\'t it? and it was in the\nnature of a stroke to partly take away the use of a man\'s limbs and\nthrow him on the parish, if he\'d got no children to look to. No, no;\nit was no stroke that would let a man stand on his legs, like a horse\nbetween the shafts, and then walk off as soon as you can say \"Gee!\"\nBut there might be such a thing as a man\'s soul being loose from his\nbody, and going out and in, like a bird out of its nest and back; and\nthat was how folks got over-wise, for they went to school in this\nshell-less state to those who could teach them more than their\nneighbours could learn with their five senses and the parson. And\nwhere did Master Marner get his knowledge of herbs from--and charms\ntoo, if he liked to give them away? Jem Rodney\'s story was no more\nthan what might have been expected by anybody who had seen how Marner\nhad cured Sally Oates, and made her sleep like a baby, when her heart\nhad been beating enough to burst her body, for two months and more,\nwhile she had been under the doctor\'s care. He might cure more folks\nif he would; but he was worth speaking fair, if it was only to keep him\nfrom doing you a mischief.\n\nIt was partly to this vague fear that Marner was indebted for\nprotecting him from the persecution that his singularities might have\ndrawn upon him, but still more to the fact that, the old linen-weaver\nin the neighbouring parish of Tarley being dead, his handicraft made\nhim a highly welcome settler to the richer housewives of the district,\nand even to the more provident cottagers, who had their little stock of\nyarn at the year\'s end. Their sense of his usefulness would have\ncounteracted any repugnance or suspicion which was not confirmed by a\ndeficiency in the quality or the tale of the cloth he wove for them.\nAnd the years had rolled on without producing any change in the\nimpressions of the neighbours concerning Marner, except the change from\nnovelty to habit. At the end of fifteen years the Raveloe men said\njust the same things about Silas Marner as at the beginning: they did\nnot say them quite so often, but they believed them much more strongly\nwhen they did say them. There was only one important addition which\nthe years had brought: it was, that Master Marner had laid by a fine\nsight of money somewhere, and that he could buy up \"bigger men\" than\nhimself.\n\nBut while opinion concerning him had remained nearly stationary, and\nhis daily habits had presented scarcely any visible change, Marner\'s\ninward life had been a history and a metamorphosis, as that of every\nfervid nature must be when it has fled, or been condemned, to solitude.\nHis life, before he came to Raveloe, had been filled with the movement,\nthe mental activity, and the close fellowship, which, in that day as in\nthis, marked the life of an artisan early incorporated in a narrow\nreligious sect, where the poorest layman has the chance of\ndistinguishing himself by gifts of speech, and has, at the very least,\nthe weight of a silent voter in the government of his community.\nMarner was highly thought of in that little hidden world, known to\nitself as the church assembling in Lantern Yard; he was believed to be\na young man of exemplary life and ardent faith; and a peculiar interest\nhad been centred in him ever since he had fallen, at a prayer-meeting,\ninto a mysterious rigidity and suspension of consciousness, which,\nlasting for an hour or more, had been mistaken for death. To have\nsought a medical explanation for this phenomenon would have been held\nby Silas himself, as well as by his minister and fellow-members, a\nwilful self-exclusion from the spiritual significance that might lie\ntherein. Silas was evidently a brother selected for a peculiar\ndiscipline; and though the effort to interpret this discipline was\ndiscouraged by the absence, on his part, of any spiritual vision during\nhis outward trance, yet it was believed by himself and others that its\neffect was seen in an accession of light and fervour. A less truthful\nman than he might have been tempted into the subsequent creation of a\nvision in the form of resurgent memory; a less sane man might have\nbelieved in such a creation; but Silas was both sane and honest,\nthough, as with many honest and fervent men, culture had not defined\nany channels for his sense of mystery, and so it spread itself over the\nproper pathway of inquiry and knowledge. He had inherited from his\nmother some acquaintance with medicinal herbs and their preparation--a\nlittle store of wisdom which she had imparted to him as a solemn\nbequest--but of late years he had had doubts about the lawfulness of\napplying this knowledge, believing that herbs could have no efficacy\nwithout prayer, and that prayer might suffice without herbs; so that\nthe inherited delight he had in wandering in the fields in search of\nfoxglove and dandelion and coltsfoot, began to wear to him the\ncharacter of a temptation.\n\nAmong the members of his church there was one young man, a little older\nthan himself, with whom he had long lived in such close friendship that\nit was the custom of their Lantern Yard brethren to call them David and\nJonathan. The real name of the friend was William Dane, and he, too,\nwas regarded as a shining instance of youthful piety, though somewhat\ngiven to over-severity towards weaker brethren, and to be so dazzled by\nhis own light as to hold himself wiser than his teachers. But whatever\nblemishes others might discern in William, to his friend\'s mind he was\nfaultless; for Marner had one of those impressible self-doubting\nnatures which, at an inexperienced age, admire imperativeness and lean\non contradiction. The expression of trusting simplicity in Marner\'s\nface, heightened by that absence of special observation, that\ndefenceless, deer-like gaze which belongs to large prominent eyes, was\nstrongly contrasted by the self-complacent suppression of inward\ntriumph that lurked in the narrow slanting eyes and compressed lips of\nWilliam Dane. One of the most frequent topics of conversation between\nthe two friends was Assurance of salvation: Silas confessed that he\ncould never arrive at anything higher than hope mingled with fear, and\nlistened with longing wonder when William declared that he had\npossessed unshaken assurance ever since, in the period of his\nconversion, he had dreamed that he saw the words \"calling and election\nsure\" standing by themselves on a white page in the open Bible. Such\ncolloquies have occupied many a pair of pale-faced weavers, whose\nunnurtured souls have been like young winged things, fluttering\nforsaken in the twilight.\n\nIt had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas that the friendship had\nsuffered no chill even from his formation of another attachment of a\ncloser kind. For some months he had been engaged to a young\nservant-woman, waiting only for a little increase to their mutual\nsavings in order to their marriage; and it was a great delight to him\nthat Sarah did not object to William\'s occasional presence in their\nSunday interviews. It was at this point in their history that Silas\'s\ncataleptic fit occurred during the prayer-meeting; and amidst the\nvarious queries and expressions of interest addressed to him by his\nfellow-members, William\'s suggestion alone jarred with the general\nsympathy towards a brother thus singled out for special dealings. He\nobserved that, to him, this trance looked more like a visitation of\nSatan than a proof of divine favour, and exhorted his friend to see\nthat he hid no accursed thing within his soul. Silas, feeling bound to\naccept rebuke and admonition as a brotherly office, felt no resentment,\nbut only pain, at his friend\'s doubts concerning him; and to this was\nsoon added some anxiety at the perception that Sarah\'s manner towards\nhim began to exhibit a strange fluctuation between an effort at an\nincreased manifestation of regard and involuntary signs of shrinking\nand dislike. He asked her if she wished to break off their engagement;\nbut she denied this: their engagement was known to the church, and had\nbeen recognized in the prayer-meetings; it could not be broken off\nwithout strict investigation, and Sarah could render no reason that\nwould be sanctioned by the feeling of the community. At this time the\nsenior deacon was taken dangerously ill, and, being a childless\nwidower, he was tended night and day by some of the younger brethren or\nsisters. Silas frequently took his turn in the night-watching with\nWilliam, the one relieving the other at two in the morning. The old\nman, contrary to expectation, seemed to be on the way to recovery, when\none night Silas, sitting up by his bedside, observed that his usual\naudible breathing had ceased. The candle was burning low, and he had\nto lift it to see the patient\'s face distinctly. Examination convinced\nhim that the deacon was dead--had been dead some time, for the limbs\nwere rigid. Silas asked himself if he had been asleep, and looked at\nthe clock: it was already four in the morning. How was it that William\nhad not come? In much anxiety he went to seek for help, and soon there\nwere several friends assembled in the house, the minister among them,\nwhile Silas went away to his work, wishing he could have met William to\nknow the reason of his non-appearance. But at six o\'clock, as he was\nthinking of going to seek his friend, William came, and with him the\nminister. They came to summon him to Lantern Yard, to meet the church\nmembers there; and to his inquiry concerning the cause of the summons\nthe only reply was, \"You will hear.\" Nothing further was said until\nSilas was seated in the vestry, in front of the minister, with the eyes\nof those who to him represented God\'s people fixed solemnly upon him.\nThen the minister, taking out a pocket-knife, showed it to Silas, and\nasked him if he knew where he had left that knife? Silas said, he did\nnot know that he had left it anywhere out of his own pocket--but he was\ntrembling at this strange interrogation. He was then exhorted not to\nhide his sin, but to confess and repent. The knife had been found in\nthe bureau by the departed deacon\'s bedside--found in the place where\nthe little bag of church money had lain, which the minister himself had\nseen the day before. Some hand had removed that bag; and whose hand\ncould it be, if not that of the man to whom the knife belonged? For\nsome time Silas was mute with astonishment: then he said, \"God will\nclear me: I know nothing about the knife being there, or the money\nbeing gone. Search me and my dwelling; you will find nothing but three\npound five of my own savings, which William Dane knows I have had these\nsix months.\" At this William groaned, but the minister said, \"The\nproof is heavy against you, brother Marner. The money was taken in the\nnight last past, and no man was with our departed brother but you, for\nWilliam Dane declares to us that he was hindered by sudden sickness\nfrom going to take his place as usual, and you yourself said that he\nhad not come; and, moreover, you neglected the dead body.\"\n\n\"I must have slept,\" said Silas. Then, after a pause, he added, \"Or I\nmust have had another visitation like that which you have all seen me\nunder, so that the thief must have come and gone while I was not in the\nbody, but out of the body. But, I say again, search me and my\ndwelling, for I have been nowhere else.\"\n\nThe search was made, and it ended--in William Dane\'s finding the\nwell-known bag, empty, tucked behind the chest of drawers in Silas\'s\nchamber! On this William exhorted his friend to confess, and not to\nhide his sin any longer. Silas turned a look of keen reproach on him,\nand said, \"William, for nine years that we have gone in and out\ntogether, have you ever known me tell a lie? But God will clear me.\"\n\n\"Brother,\" said William, \"how do I know what you may have done in the\nsecret chambers of your heart, to give Satan an advantage over you?\"\n\nSilas was still looking at his friend. Suddenly a deep flush came over\nhis face, and he was about to speak impetuously, when he seemed checked\nagain by some inward shock, that sent the flush back and made him\ntremble. But at last he spoke feebly, looking at William.\n\n\"I remember now--the knife wasn\'t in my pocket.\"\n\nWilliam said, \"I know nothing of what you mean.\" The other persons\npresent, however, began to inquire where Silas meant to say that the\nknife was, but he would give no further explanation: he only said, \"I\nam sore stricken; I can say nothing. God will clear me.\"\n\nOn their return to the vestry there was further deliberation. Any\nresort to legal measures for ascertaining the culprit was contrary to\nthe principles of the church in Lantern Yard, according to which\nprosecution was forbidden to Christians, even had the case held less\nscandal to the community. But the members were bound to take other\nmeasures for finding out the truth, and they resolved on praying and\ndrawing lots. This resolution can be a ground of surprise only to\nthose who are unacquainted with that obscure religious life which has\ngone on in the alleys of our towns. Silas knelt with his brethren,\nrelying on his own innocence being certified by immediate divine\ninterference, but feeling that there was sorrow and mourning behind for\nhim even then--that his trust in man had been cruelly bruised. _The\nlots declared that Silas Marner was guilty._ He was solemnly suspended\nfrom church-membership, and called upon to render up the stolen money:\nonly on confession, as the sign of repentance, could he be received\nonce more within the folds of the church. Marner listened in silence.\nAt last, when everyone rose to depart, he went towards William Dane and\nsaid, in a voice shaken by agitation--\n\n\"The last time I remember using my knife, was when I took it out to cut\na strap for you. I don\'t remember putting it in my pocket again.\n_You_ stole the money, and you have woven a plot to lay the sin at my\ndoor. But you may prosper, for all that: there is no just God that\ngoverns the earth righteously, but a God of lies, that bears witness\nagainst the innocent.\"\n\nThere was a general shudder at this blasphemy.\n\nWilliam said meekly, \"I leave our brethren to judge whether this is the\nvoice of Satan or not. I can do nothing but pray for you, Silas.\"\n\nPoor Marner went out with that despair in his soul--that shaken trust\nin God and man, which is little short of madness to a loving nature.\nIn the bitterness of his wounded spirit, he said to himself, \"_She_\nwill cast me off too.\" And he reflected that, if she did not believe\nthe testimony against him, her whole faith must be upset as his was.\nTo people accustomed to reason about the forms in which their religious\nfeeling has incorporated itself, it is difficult to enter into that\nsimple, untaught state of mind in which the form and the feeling have\nnever been severed by an act of reflection. We are apt to think it\ninevitable that a man in Marner\'s position should have begun to\nquestion the validity of an appeal to the divine judgment by drawing\nlots; but to him this would have been an effort of independent thought\nsuch as he had never known; and he must have made the effort at a\nmoment when all his energies were turned into the anguish of\ndisappointed faith. If there is an angel who records the sorrows of\nmen as well as their sins, he knows how many and deep are the sorrows\nthat spring from false ideas for which no man is culpable.\n\nMarner went home, and for a whole day sat alone, stunned by despair,\nwithout any impulse to go to Sarah and attempt to win her belief in his\ninnocence. The second day he took refuge from benumbing unbelief, by\ngetting into his loom and working away as usual; and before many hours\nwere past, the minister and one of the deacons came to him with the\nmessage from Sarah, that she held her engagement to him at an end.\nSilas received the message mutely, and then turned away from the\nmessengers to work at his loom again. In little more than a month from\nthat time, Sarah was married to William Dane; and not long afterwards\nit was known to the brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had\ndeparted from the town.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nEven people whose lives have been made various by learning, sometimes\nfind it hard to keep a fast hold on their habitual views of life, on\ntheir faith in the Invisible, nay, on the sense that their past joys\nand sorrows are a real experience, when they are suddenly transported\nto a new land, where the beings around them know nothing of their\nhistory, and share none of their ideas--where their mother earth shows\nanother lap, and human life has other forms than those on which their\nsouls have been nourished. Minds that have been unhinged from their\nold faith and love, have perhaps sought this Lethean influence of\nexile, in which the past becomes dreamy because its symbols have all\nvanished, and the present too is dreamy because it is linked with no\nmemories. But even _their_ experience may hardly enable them\nthoroughly to imagine what was the effect on a simple weaver like Silas\nMarner, when he left his own country and people and came to settle in\nRaveloe. Nothing could be more unlike his native town, set within\nsight of the widespread hillsides, than this low, wooded region, where\nhe felt hidden even from the heavens by the screening trees and\nhedgerows. There was nothing here, when he rose in the deep morning\nquiet and looked out on the dewy brambles and rank tufted grass, that\nseemed to have any relation with that life centring in Lantern Yard,\nwhich had once been to him the altar-place of high dispensations. The\nwhitewashed walls; the little pews where well-known figures entered\nwith a subdued rustling, and where first one well-known voice and then\nanother, pitched in a peculiar key of petition, uttered phrases at once\noccult and familiar, like the amulet worn on the heart; the pulpit\nwhere the minister delivered unquestioned doctrine, and swayed to and\nfro, and handled the book in a long accustomed manner; the very pauses\nbetween the couplets of the hymn, as it was given out, and the\nrecurrent swell of voices in song: these things had been the channel of\ndivine influences to Marner--they were the fostering home of his\nreligious emotions--they were Christianity and God\'s kingdom upon\nearth. A weaver who finds hard words in his hymn-book knows nothing of\nabstractions; as the little child knows nothing of parental love, but\nonly knows one face and one lap towards which it stretches its arms for\nrefuge and nurture.\n\nAnd what could be more unlike that Lantern Yard world than the world in\nRaveloe?--orchards looking lazy with neglected plenty; the large church\nin the wide churchyard, which men gazed at lounging at their own doors\nin service-time; the purple-faced farmers jogging along the lanes or\nturning in at the Rainbow; homesteads, where men supped heavily and\nslept in the light of the evening hearth, and where women seemed to be\nlaying up a stock of linen for the life to come. There were no lips in\nRaveloe from which a word could fall that would stir Silas Marner\'s\nbenumbed faith to a sense of pain. In the early ages of the world, we\nknow, it was believed that each territory was inhabited and ruled by\nits own divinities, so that a man could cross the bordering heights and\nbe out of the reach of his native gods, whose presence was confined to\nthe streams and the groves and the hills among which he had lived from\nhis birth. And poor Silas was vaguely conscious of something not\nunlike the feeling of primitive men, when they fled thus, in fear or in\nsullenness, from the face of an unpropitious deity. It seemed to him\nthat the Power he had vainly trusted in among the streets and at the\nprayer-meetings, was very far away from this land in which he had taken\nrefuge, where men lived in careless abundance, knowing and needing\nnothing of that trust, which, for him, had been turned to bitterness.\nThe little light he possessed spread its beams so narrowly, that\nfrustrated belief was a curtain broad enough to create for him the\nblackness of night.\n\nHis first movement after the shock had been to work in his loom; and he\nwent on with this unremittingly, never asking himself why, now he was\ncome to Raveloe, he worked far on into the night to finish the tale of\nMrs. Osgood\'s table-linen sooner than she expected--without\ncontemplating beforehand the money she would put into his hand for the\nwork. He seemed to weave, like the spider, from pure impulse, without\nreflection. Every man\'s work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to\nbecome an end in itself, and so to bridge over the loveless chasms of\nhis life. Silas\'s hand satisfied itself with throwing the shuttle, and\nhis eye with seeing the little squares in the cloth complete themselves\nunder his effort. Then there were the calls of hunger; and Silas, in\nhis solitude, had to provide his own breakfast, dinner, and supper, to\nfetch his own water from the well, and put his own kettle on the fire;\nand all these immediate promptings helped, along with the weaving, to\nreduce his life to the unquestioning activity of a spinning insect. He\nhated the thought of the past; there was nothing that called out his\nlove and fellowship toward the strangers he had come amongst; and the\nfuture was all dark, for there was no Unseen Love that cared for him.\nThought was arrested by utter bewilderment, now its old narrow pathway\nwas closed, and affection seemed to have died under the bruise that had\nfallen on its keenest nerves.\n\nBut at last Mrs. Osgood\'s table-linen was finished, and Silas was paid\nin gold. His earnings in his native town, where he worked for a\nwholesale dealer, had been after a lower rate; he had been paid weekly,\nand of his weekly earnings a large proportion had gone to objects of\npiety and charity. Now, for the first time in his life, he had five\nbright guineas put into his hand; no man expected a share of them, and\nhe loved no man that he should offer him a share. But what were the\nguineas to him who saw no vista beyond countless days of weaving? It\nwas needless for him to ask that, for it was pleasant to him to feel\nthem in his palm, and look at their bright faces, which were all his\nown: it was another element of life, like the weaving and the\nsatisfaction of hunger, subsisting quite aloof from the life of belief\nand love from which he had been cut off. The weaver\'s hand had known\nthe touch of hard-won money even before the palm had grown to its full\nbreadth; for twenty years, mysterious money had stood to him as the\nsymbol of earthly good, and the immediate object of toil. He had\nseemed to love it little in the years when every penny had its purpose\nfor him; for he loved the _purpose_ then. But now, when all purpose\nwas gone, that habit of looking towards the money and grasping it with\na sense of fulfilled effort made a loam that was deep enough for the\nseeds of desire; and as Silas walked homeward across the fields in the\ntwilight, he drew out the money and thought it was brighter in the\ngathering gloom.\n\nAbout this time an incident happened which seemed to open a possibility\nof some fellowship with his neighbours. One day, taking a pair of\nshoes to be mended, he saw the cobbler\'s wife seated by the fire,\nsuffering from the terrible symptoms of heart-disease and dropsy, which\nhe had witnessed as the precursors of his mother\'s death. He felt a\nrush of pity at the mingled sight and remembrance, and, recalling the\nrelief his mother had found from a simple preparation of foxglove, he\npromised Sally Oates to bring her something that would ease her, since\nthe doctor did her no good. In this office of charity, Silas felt, for\nthe first time since he had come to Raveloe, a sense of unity between\nhis past and present life, which might have been the beginning of his\nrescue from the insect-like existence into which his nature had shrunk.\nBut Sally Oates\'s disease had raised her into a personage of much\ninterest and importance among the neighbours, and the fact of her\nhaving found relief from drinking Silas Marner\'s \"stuff\" became a\nmatter of general discourse. When Doctor Kimble gave physic, it was\nnatural that it should have an effect; but when a weaver, who came from\nnobody knew where, worked wonders with a bottle of brown waters, the\noccult character of the process was evident. Such a sort of thing had\nnot been known since the Wise Woman at Tarley died; and she had charms\nas well as \"stuff\": everybody went to her when their children had fits.\nSilas Marner must be a person of the same sort, for how did he know\nwhat would bring back Sally Oates\'s breath, if he didn\'t know a fine\nsight more than that? The Wise Woman had words that she muttered to\nherself, so that you couldn\'t hear what they were, and if she tied a\nbit of red thread round the child\'s toe the while, it would keep off\nthe water in the head. There were women in Raveloe, at that present\ntime, who had worn one of the Wise Woman\'s little bags round their\nnecks, and, in consequence, had never had an idiot child, as Ann\nCoulter had. Silas Marner could very likely do as much, and more; and\nnow it was all clear how he should have come from unknown parts, and be\nso \"comical-looking\". But Sally Oates must mind and not tell the\ndoctor, for he would be sure to set his face against Marner: he was\nalways angry about the Wise Woman, and used to threaten those who went\nto her that they should have none of his help any more.\n\nSilas now found himself and his cottage suddenly beset by mothers who\nwanted him to charm away the whooping-cough, or bring back the milk,\nand by men who wanted stuff against the rheumatics or the knots in the\nhands; and, to secure themselves against a refusal, the applicants\nbrought silver in their palms. Silas might have driven a profitable\ntrade in charms as well as in his small list of drugs; but money on\nthis condition was no temptation to him: he had never known an impulse\ntowards falsity, and he drove one after another away with growing\nirritation, for the news of him as a wise man had spread even to\nTarley, and it was long before people ceased to take long walks for the\nsake of asking his aid. But the hope in his wisdom was at length\nchanged into dread, for no one believed him when he said he knew no\ncharms and could work no cures, and every man and woman who had an\naccident or a new attack after applying to him, set the misfortune down\nto Master Marner\'s ill-will and irritated glances. Thus it came to\npass that his movement of pity towards Sally Oates, which had given him\na transient sense of brotherhood, heightened the repulsion between him\nand his neighbours, and made his isolation more complete.\n\nGradually the guineas, the crowns, and the half-crowns grew to a heap,\nand Marner drew less and less for his own wants, trying to solve the\nproblem of keeping himself strong enough to work sixteen hours a-day on\nas small an outlay as possible. Have not men, shut up in solitary\nimprisonment, found an interest in marking the moments by straight\nstrokes of a certain length on the wall, until the growth of the sum of\nstraight strokes, arranged in triangles, has become a mastering\npurpose? Do we not wile away moments of inanity or fatigued waiting by\nrepeating some trivial movement or sound, until the repetition has bred\na want, which is incipient habit? That will help us to understand how\nthe love of accumulating money grows an absorbing passion in men whose\nimaginations, even in the very beginning of their hoard, showed them no\npurpose beyond it. Marner wanted the heaps of ten to grow into a\nsquare, and then into a larger square; and every added guinea, while it\nwas itself a satisfaction, bred a new desire. In this strange world,\nmade a hopeless riddle to him, he might, if he had had a less intense\nnature, have sat weaving, weaving--looking towards the end of his\npattern, or towards the end of his web, till he forgot the riddle, and\neverything else but his immediate sensations; but the money had come to\nmark off his weaving into periods, and the money not only grew, but it\nremained with him. He began to think it was conscious of him, as his\nloom was, and he would on no account have exchanged those coins, which\nhad become his familiars, for other coins with unknown faces. He\nhandled them, he counted them, till their form and colour were like the\nsatisfaction of a thirst to him; but it was only in the night, when his\nwork was done, that he drew them out to enjoy their companionship. He\nhad taken up some bricks in his floor underneath his loom, and here he\nhad made a hole in which he set the iron pot that contained his guineas\nand silver coins, covering the bricks with sand whenever he replaced\nthem. Not that the idea of being robbed presented itself often or\nstrongly to his mind: hoarding was common in country districts in those\ndays; there were old labourers in the parish of Raveloe who were known\nto have their savings by them, probably inside their flock-beds; but\ntheir rustic neighbours, though not all of them as honest as their\nancestors in the days of King Alfred, had not imaginations bold enough\nto lay a plan of burglary. How could they have spent the money in\ntheir own village without betraying themselves? They would be obliged\nto \"run away\"--a course as dark and dubious as a balloon journey.\n\nSo, year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this solitude, his\nguineas rising in the iron pot, and his life narrowing and hardening\nitself more and more into a mere pulsation of desire and satisfaction\nthat had no relation to any other being. His life had reduced itself\nto the functions of weaving and hoarding, without any contemplation of\nan end towards which the functions tended. The same sort of process\nhas perhaps been undergone by wiser men, when they have been cut off\nfrom faith and love--only, instead of a loom and a heap of guineas,\nthey have had some erudite research, some ingenious project, or some\nwell-knit theory. Strangely Marner\'s face and figure shrank and bent\nthemselves into a constant mechanical relation to the objects of his\nlife, so that he produced the same sort of impression as a handle or a\ncrooked tube, which has no meaning standing apart. The prominent eyes\nthat used to look trusting and dreamy, now looked as if they had been\nmade to see only one kind of thing that was very small, like tiny\ngrain, for which they hunted everywhere: and he was so withered and\nyellow, that, though he was not yet forty, the children always called\nhim \"Old Master Marner\".\n\nYet even in this stage of withering a little incident happened, which\nshowed that the sap of affection was not all gone. It was one of his\ndaily tasks to fetch his water from a well a couple of fields off, and\nfor this purpose, ever since he came to Raveloe, he had had a brown\nearthenware pot, which he held as his most precious utensil among the\nvery few conveniences he had granted himself. It had been his\ncompanion for twelve years, always standing on the same spot, always\nlending its handle to him in the early morning, so that its form had an\nexpression for him of willing helpfulness, and the impress of its\nhandle on his palm gave a satisfaction mingled with that of having the\nfresh clear water. One day as he was returning from the well, he\nstumbled against the step of the stile, and his brown pot, falling with\nforce against the stones that overarched the ditch below him, was\nbroken in three pieces. Silas picked up the pieces and carried them\nhome with grief in his heart. The brown pot could never be of use to\nhim any more, but he stuck the bits together and propped the ruin in\nits old place for a memorial.\n\nThis is the history of Silas Marner, until the fifteenth year after he\ncame to Raveloe. The livelong day he sat in his loom, his ear filled\nwith its monotony, his eyes bent close down on the slow growth of\nsameness in the brownish web, his muscles moving with such even\nrepetition that their pause seemed almost as much a constraint as the\nholding of his breath. But at night came his revelry: at night he\nclosed his shutters, and made fast his doors, and drew forth his gold.\nLong ago the heap of coins had become too large for the iron pot to\nhold them, and he had made for them two thick leather bags, which\nwasted no room in their resting-place, but lent themselves flexibly to\nevery corner. How the guineas shone as they came pouring out of the\ndark leather mouths! The silver bore no large proportion in amount to\nthe gold, because the long pieces of linen which formed his chief work\nwere always partly paid for in gold, and out of the silver he supplied\nhis own bodily wants, choosing always the shillings and sixpences to\nspend in this way. He loved the guineas best, but he would not change\nthe silver--the crowns and half-crowns that were his own earnings,\nbegotten by his labour; he loved them all. He spread them out in heaps\nand bathed his hands in them; then he counted them and set them up in\nregular piles, and felt their rounded outline between his thumb and\nfingers, and thought fondly of the guineas that were only half-earned\nby the work in his loom, as if they had been unborn children--thought\nof the guineas that were coming slowly through the coming years,\nthrough all his life, which spread far away before him, the end quite\nhidden by countless days of weaving. No wonder his thoughts were still\nwith his loom and his money when he made his journeys through the\nfields and the lanes to fetch and carry home his work, so that his\nsteps never wandered to the hedge-banks and the lane-side in search of\nthe once familiar herbs: these too belonged to the past, from which his\nlife had shrunk away, like a rivulet that has sunk far down from the\ngrassy fringe of its old breadth into a little shivering thread, that\ncuts a groove for itself in the barren sand.\n\nBut about the Christmas of that fifteenth year, a second great change\ncame over Marner\'s life, and his history became blent in a singular\nmanner with the life of his neighbours.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nThe greatest man in Raveloe was Squire Cass, who lived in the large red\nhouse with the handsome flight of stone steps in front and the high\nstables behind it, nearly opposite the church. He was only one among\nseveral landed parishioners, but he alone was honoured with the title\nof Squire; for though Mr. Osgood\'s family was also understood to be of\ntimeless origin--the Raveloe imagination having never ventured back to\nthat fearful blank when there were no Osgoods--still, he merely owned\nthe farm he occupied; whereas Squire Cass had a tenant or two, who\ncomplained of the game to him quite as if he had been a lord.\n\nIt was still that glorious war-time which was felt to be a peculiar\nfavour of Providence towards the landed interest, and the fall of\nprices had not yet come to carry the race of small squires and yeomen\ndown that road to ruin for which extravagant habits and bad husbandry\nwere plentifully anointing their wheels. I am speaking now in relation\nto Raveloe and the parishes that resembled it; for our old-fashioned\ncountry life had many different aspects, as all life must have when it\nis spread over a various surface, and breathed on variously by\nmultitudinous currents, from the winds of heaven to the thoughts of\nmen, which are for ever moving and crossing each other with\nincalculable results. Raveloe lay low among the bushy trees and the\nrutted lanes, aloof from the currents of industrial energy and Puritan\nearnestness: the rich ate and drank freely, accepting gout and apoplexy\nas things that ran mysteriously in respectable families, and the poor\nthought that the rich were entirely in the right of it to lead a jolly\nlife; besides, their feasting caused a multiplication of orts, which\nwere the heirlooms of the poor. Betty Jay scented the boiling of\nSquire Cass\'s hams, but her longing was arrested by the unctuous liquor\nin which they were boiled; and when the seasons brought round the great\nmerry-makings, they were regarded on all hands as a fine thing for the\npoor. For the Raveloe feasts were like the rounds of beef and the\nbarrels of ale--they were on a large scale, and lasted a good while,\nespecially in the winter-time. After ladies had packed up their best\ngowns and top-knots in bandboxes, and had incurred the risk of fording\nstreams on pillions with the precious burden in rainy or snowy weather,\nwhen there was no knowing how high the water would rise, it was not to\nbe supposed that they looked forward to a brief pleasure. On this\nground it was always contrived in the dark seasons, when there was\nlittle work to be done, and the hours were long, that several\nneighbours should keep open house in succession. So soon as Squire\nCass\'s standing dishes diminished in plenty and freshness, his guests\nhad nothing to do but to walk a little higher up the village to Mr.\nOsgood\'s, at the Orchards, and they found hams and chines uncut,\npork-pies with the scent of the fire in them, spun butter in all its\nfreshness--everything, in fact, that appetites at leisure could desire,\nin perhaps greater perfection, though not in greater abundance, than at\nSquire Cass\'s.\n\nFor the Squire\'s wife had died long ago, and the Red House was without\nthat presence of the wife and mother which is the fountain of wholesome\nlove and fear in parlour and kitchen; and this helped to account not\nonly for there being more profusion than finished excellence in the\nholiday provisions, but also for the frequency with which the proud\nSquire condescended to preside in the parlour of the Rainbow rather\nthan under the shadow of his own dark wainscot; perhaps, also, for the\nfact that his sons had turned out rather ill. Raveloe was not a place\nwhere moral censure was severe, but it was thought a weakness in the\nSquire that he had kept all his sons at home in idleness; and though\nsome licence was to be allowed to young men whose fathers could afford\nit, people shook their heads at the courses of the second son, Dunstan,\ncommonly called Dunsey Cass, whose taste for swopping and betting might\nturn out to be a sowing of something worse than wild oats. To be sure,\nthe neighbours said, it was no matter what became of Dunsey--a spiteful\njeering fellow, who seemed to enjoy his drink the more when other\npeople went dry--always provided that his doings did not bring trouble\non a family like Squire Cass\'s, with a monument in the church, and\ntankards older than King George. But it would be a thousand pities if\nMr. Godfrey, the eldest, a fine open-faced good-natured young man who\nwas to come into the land some day, should take to going along the same\nroad with his brother, as he had seemed to do of late. If he went on\nin that way, he would lose Miss Nancy Lammeter; for it was well known\nthat she had looked very shyly on him ever since last Whitsuntide\ntwelvemonth, when there was so much talk about his being away from home\ndays and days together. There was something wrong, more than\ncommon--that was quite clear; for Mr. Godfrey didn\'t look half so\nfresh-coloured and open as he used to do. At one time everybody was\nsaying, What a handsome couple he and Miss Nancy Lammeter would make!\nand if she could come to be mistress at the Red House, there would be a\nfine change, for the Lammeters had been brought up in that way, that\nthey never suffered a pinch of salt to be wasted, and yet everybody in\ntheir household had of the best, according to his place. Such a\ndaughter-in-law would be a saving to the old Squire, if she never\nbrought a penny to her fortune; for it was to be feared that,\nnotwithstanding his incomings, there were more holes in his pocket than\nthe one where he put his own hand in. But if Mr. Godfrey didn\'t turn\nover a new leaf, he might say \"Good-bye\" to Miss Nancy Lammeter.\n\nIt was the once hopeful Godfrey who was standing, with his hands in his\nside-pockets and his back to the fire, in the dark wainscoted parlour,\none late November afternoon in that fifteenth year of Silas Marner\'s\nlife at Raveloe. The fading grey light fell dimly on the walls\ndecorated with guns, whips, and foxes\' brushes, on coats and hats flung\non the chairs, on tankards sending forth a scent of flat ale, and on a\nhalf-choked fire, with pipes propped up in the chimney-corners: signs\nof a domestic life destitute of any hallowing charm, with which the\nlook of gloomy vexation on Godfrey\'s blond face was in sad accordance.\nHe seemed to be waiting and listening for some one\'s approach, and\npresently the sound of a heavy step, with an accompanying whistle, was\nheard across the large empty entrance-hall.\n\nThe door opened, and a thick-set, heavy-looking young man entered, with\nthe flushed face and the gratuitously elated bearing which mark the\nfirst stage of intoxication. It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him\nGodfrey\'s face parted with some of its gloom to take on the more active\nexpression of hatred. The handsome brown spaniel that lay on the\nhearth retreated under the chair in the chimney-corner.\n\n\"Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me?\" said Dunsey, in a\nmocking tone. \"You\'re my elders and betters, you know; I was obliged\nto come when you sent for me.\"\n\n\"Why, this is what I want--and just shake yourself sober and listen,\nwill you?\" said Godfrey, savagely. He had himself been drinking more\nthan was good for him, trying to turn his gloom into uncalculating\nanger. \"I want to tell you, I must hand over that rent of Fowler\'s to\nthe Squire, or else tell him I gave it you; for he\'s threatening to\ndistrain for it, and it\'ll all be out soon, whether I tell him or not.\nHe said, just now, before he went out, he should send word to Cox to\ndistrain, if Fowler didn\'t come and pay up his arrears this week. The\nSquire\'s short o\' cash, and in no humour to stand any nonsense; and you\nknow what he threatened, if ever he found you making away with his\nmoney again. So, see and get the money, and pretty quickly, will you?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Dunsey, sneeringly, coming nearer to his brother and\nlooking in his face. \"Suppose, now, you get the money yourself, and\nsave me the trouble, eh? Since you was so kind as to hand it over to\nme, you\'ll not refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me: it was\nyour brotherly love made you do it, you know.\"\n\nGodfrey bit his lips and clenched his fist. \"Don\'t come near me with\nthat look, else I\'ll knock you down.\"\n\n\"Oh no, you won\'t,\" said Dunsey, turning away on his heel, however.\n\"Because I\'m such a good-natured brother, you know. I might get you\nturned out of house and home, and cut off with a shilling any day. I\nmight tell the Squire how his handsome son was married to that nice\nyoung woman, Molly Farren, and was very unhappy because he couldn\'t\nlive with his drunken wife, and I should slip into your place as\ncomfortable as could be. But you see, I don\'t do it--I\'m so easy and\ngood-natured. You\'ll take any trouble for me. You\'ll get the hundred\npounds for me--I know you will.\"\n\n\"How can I get the money?\" said Godfrey, quivering. \"I haven\'t a\nshilling to bless myself with. And it\'s a lie that you\'d slip into my\nplace: you\'d get yourself turned out too, that\'s all. For if you begin\ntelling tales, I\'ll follow. Bob\'s my father\'s favourite--you know that\nvery well. He\'d only think himself well rid of you.\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" said Dunsey, nodding his head sideways as he looked out\nof the window. \"It \'ud be very pleasant to me to go in your\ncompany--you\'re such a handsome brother, and we\'ve always been so fond\nof quarrelling with one another, I shouldn\'t know what to do without\nyou. But you\'d like better for us both to stay at home together; I\nknow you would. So you\'ll manage to get that little sum o\' money, and\nI\'ll bid you good-bye, though I\'m sorry to part.\"\n\nDunstan was moving off, but Godfrey rushed after him and seized him by\nthe arm, saying, with an oath--\n\n\"I tell you, I have no money: I can get no money.\"\n\n\"Borrow of old Kimble.\"\n\n\"I tell you, he won\'t lend me any more, and I shan\'t ask him.\"\n\n\"Well, then, sell Wildfire.\"\n\n\"Yes, that\'s easy talking. I must have the money directly.\"\n\n\"Well, you\'ve only got to ride him to the hunt to-morrow. There\'ll be\nBryce and Keating there, for sure. You\'ll get more bids than one.\"\n\n\"I daresay, and get back home at eight o\'clock, splashed up to the\nchin. I\'m going to Mrs. Osgood\'s birthday dance.\"\n\n\"Oho!\" said Dunsey, turning his head on one side, and trying to speak\nin a small mincing treble. \"And there\'s sweet Miss Nancy coming; and\nwe shall dance with her, and promise never to be naughty again, and be\ntaken into favour, and--\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue about Miss Nancy, you fool,\" said Godfrey, turning\nred, \"else I\'ll throttle you.\"\n\n\"What for?\" said Dunsey, still in an artificial tone, but taking a\nwhip from the table and beating the butt-end of it on his palm. \"You\'ve\na very good chance. I\'d advise you to creep up her sleeve again: it\n\'ud be saving time, if Molly should happen to take a drop too much\nlaudanum some day, and make a widower of you. Miss Nancy wouldn\'t mind\nbeing a second, if she didn\'t know it. And you\'ve got a good-natured\nbrother, who\'ll keep your secret well, because you\'ll be so very\nobliging to him.\"\n\n\"I\'ll tell you what it is,\" said Godfrey, quivering, and pale again,\n\"my patience is pretty near at an end. If you\'d a little more\nsharpness in you, you might know that you may urge a man a bit too far,\nand make one leap as easy as another. I don\'t know but what it is so\nnow: I may as well tell the Squire everything myself--I should get you\noff my back, if I got nothing else. And, after all, he\'ll know some\ntime. She\'s been threatening to come herself and tell him. So, don\'t\nflatter yourself that your secrecy\'s worth any price you choose to ask.\nYou drain me of money till I have got nothing to pacify _her_ with, and\nshe\'ll do as she threatens some day. It\'s all one. I\'ll tell my\nfather everything myself, and you may go to the devil.\"\n\nDunsey perceived that he had overshot his mark, and that there was a\npoint at which even the hesitating Godfrey might be driven into\ndecision. But he said, with an air of unconcern--\n\n\"As you please; but I\'ll have a draught of ale first.\" And ringing the\nbell, he threw himself across two chairs, and began to rap the\nwindow-seat with the handle of his whip.\n\nGodfrey stood, still with his back to the fire, uneasily moving his\nfingers among the contents of his side-pockets, and looking at the\nfloor. That big muscular frame of his held plenty of animal courage,\nbut helped him to no decision when the dangers to be braved were such\nas could neither be knocked down nor throttled. His natural\nirresolution and moral cowardice were exaggerated by a position in\nwhich dreaded consequences seemed to press equally on all sides, and\nhis irritation had no sooner provoked him to defy Dunstan and\nanticipate all possible betrayals, than the miseries he must bring on\nhimself by such a step seemed more unendurable to him than the present\nevil. The results of confession were not contingent, they were\ncertain; whereas betrayal was not certain. From the near vision of that\ncertainty he fell back on suspense and vacillation with a sense of\nrepose. The disinherited son of a small squire, equally disinclined to\ndig and to beg, was almost as helpless as an uprooted tree, which, by\nthe favour of earth and sky, has grown to a handsome bulk on the spot\nwhere it first shot upward. Perhaps it would have been possible to\nthink of digging with some cheerfulness if Nancy Lammeter were to be\nwon on those terms; but, since he must irrevocably lose _her_ as well\nas the inheritance, and must break every tie but the one that degraded\nhim and left him without motive for trying to recover his better self,\nhe could imagine no future for himself on the other side of confession\nbut that of \"\'listing for a soldier\"--the most desperate step, short of\nsuicide, in the eyes of respectable families. No! he would rather\ntrust to casualties than to his own resolve--rather go on sitting at\nthe feast, and sipping the wine he loved, though with the sword hanging\nover him and terror in his heart, than rush away into the cold darkness\nwhere there was no pleasure left. The utmost concession to Dunstan\nabout the horse began to seem easy, compared with the fulfilment of his\nown threat. But his pride would not let him recommence the\nconversation otherwise than by continuing the quarrel. Dunstan was\nwaiting for this, and took his ale in shorter draughts than usual.\n\n\"It\'s just like you,\" Godfrey burst out, in a bitter tone, \"to talk\nabout my selling Wildfire in that cool way--the last thing I\'ve got to\ncall my own, and the best bit of horse-flesh I ever had in my life.\nAnd if you\'d got a spark of pride in you, you\'d be ashamed to see the\nstables emptied, and everybody sneering about it. But it\'s my belief\nyou\'d sell yourself, if it was only for the pleasure of making somebody\nfeel he\'d got a bad bargain.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Dunstan, very placably, \"you do me justice, I see.\nYou know I\'m a jewel for \'ticing people into bargains. For which\nreason I advise you to let _me_ sell Wildfire. I\'d ride him to the\nhunt to-morrow for you, with pleasure. I shouldn\'t look so handsome as\nyou in the saddle, but it\'s the horse they\'ll bid for, and not the\nrider.\"\n\n\"Yes, I daresay--trust my horse to you!\"\n\n\"As you please,\" said Dunstan, rapping the window-seat again with an\nair of great unconcern. \"It\'s _you_ have got to pay Fowler\'s money;\nit\'s none of my business. You received the money from him when you\nwent to Bramcote, and _you_ told the Squire it wasn\'t paid. I\'d nothing\nto do with that; you chose to be so obliging as to give it me, that was\nall. If you don\'t want to pay the money, let it alone; it\'s all one to\nme. But I was willing to accommodate you by undertaking to sell the\nhorse, seeing it\'s not convenient to you to go so far to-morrow.\"\n\nGodfrey was silent for some moments. He would have liked to spring on\nDunstan, wrench the whip from his hand, and flog him to within an inch\nof his life; and no bodily fear could have deterred him; but he was\nmastered by another sort of fear, which was fed by feelings stronger\neven than his resentment. When he spoke again, it was in a\nhalf-conciliatory tone.\n\n\"Well, you mean no nonsense about the horse, eh? You\'ll sell him all\nfair, and hand over the money? If you don\'t, you know, everything \'ull\ngo to smash, for I\'ve got nothing else to trust to. And you\'ll have\nless pleasure in pulling the house over my head, when your own skull\'s\nto be broken too.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Dunstan, rising; \"all right. I thought you\'d come\nround. I\'m the fellow to bring old Bryce up to the scratch. I\'ll get\nyou a hundred and twenty for him, if I get you a penny.\"\n\n\"But it\'ll perhaps rain cats and dogs to-morrow, as it did yesterday,\nand then you can\'t go,\" said Godfrey, hardly knowing whether he wished\nfor that obstacle or not.\n\n\"Not _it_,\" said Dunstan. \"I\'m always lucky in my weather. It might\nrain if you wanted to go yourself. You never hold trumps, you know--I\nalways do. You\'ve got the beauty, you see, and I\'ve got the luck, so\nyou must keep me by you for your crooked sixpence; you\'ll _ne_-ver get\nalong without me.\"\n\n\"Confound you, hold your tongue!\" said Godfrey, impetuously. \"And take\ncare to keep sober to-morrow, else you\'ll get pitched on your head\ncoming home, and Wildfire might be the worse for it.\"\n\n\"Make your tender heart easy,\" said Dunstan, opening the door. \"You\nnever knew me see double when I\'d got a bargain to make; it \'ud spoil\nthe fun. Besides, whenever I fall, I\'m warranted to fall on my legs.\"\n\nWith that, Dunstan slammed the door behind him, and left Godfrey to\nthat bitter rumination on his personal circumstances which was now\nunbroken from day to day save by the excitement of sporting, drinking,\ncard-playing, or the rarer and less oblivious pleasure of seeing Miss\nNancy Lammeter. The subtle and varied pains springing from the higher\nsensibility that accompanies higher culture, are perhaps less pitiable\nthan that dreary absence of impersonal enjoyment and consolation which\nleaves ruder minds to the perpetual urgent companionship of their own\ngriefs and discontents. The lives of those rural forefathers, whom we\nare apt to think very prosaic figures--men whose only work was to ride\nround their land, getting heavier and heavier in their saddles, and who\npassed the rest of their days in the half-listless gratification of\nsenses dulled by monotony--had a certain pathos in them nevertheless.\nCalamities came to _them_ too, and their early errors carried hard\nconsequences: perhaps the love of some sweet maiden, the image of\npurity, order, and calm, had opened their eyes to the vision of a life\nin which the days would not seem too long, even without rioting; but\nthe maiden was lost, and the vision passed away, and then what was left\nto them, especially when they had become too heavy for the hunt, or for\ncarrying a gun over the furrows, but to drink and get merry, or to\ndrink and get angry, so that they might be independent of variety, and\nsay over again with eager emphasis the things they had said already any\ntime that twelvemonth? Assuredly, among these flushed and dull-eyed men\nthere were some whom--thanks to their native human-kindness--even riot\ncould never drive into brutality; men who, when their cheeks were\nfresh, had felt the keen point of sorrow or remorse, had been pierced\nby the reeds they leaned on, or had lightly put their limbs in fetters\nfrom which no struggle could loose them; and under these sad\ncircumstances, common to us all, their thoughts could find no\nresting-place outside the ever-trodden round of their own petty history.\n\nThat, at least, was the condition of Godfrey Cass in this\nsix-and-twentieth year of his life. A movement of compunction, helped\nby those small indefinable influences which every personal relation\nexerts on a pliant nature, had urged him into a secret marriage, which\nwas a blight on his life. It was an ugly story of low passion,\ndelusion, and waking from delusion, which needs not to be dragged from\nthe privacy of Godfrey\'s bitter memory. He had long known that the\ndelusion was partly due to a trap laid for him by Dunstan, who saw in\nhis brother\'s degrading marriage the means of gratifying at once his\njealous hate and his cupidity. And if Godfrey could have felt himself\nsimply a victim, the iron bit that destiny had put into his mouth would\nhave chafed him less intolerably. If the curses he muttered half aloud\nwhen he was alone had had no other object than Dunstan\'s diabolical\ncunning, he might have shrunk less from the consequences of avowal.\nBut he had something else to curse--his own vicious folly, which now\nseemed as mad and unaccountable to him as almost all our follies and\nvices do when their promptings have long passed away. For four years\nhe had thought of Nancy Lammeter, and wooed her with tacit patient\nworship, as the woman who made him think of the future with joy: she\nwould be his wife, and would make home lovely to him, as his father\'s\nhome had never been; and it would be easy, when she was always near, to\nshake off those foolish habits that were no pleasures, but only a\nfeverish way of annulling vacancy. Godfrey\'s was an essentially\ndomestic nature, bred up in a home where the hearth had no smiles, and\nwhere the daily habits were not chastised by the presence of household\norder. His easy disposition made him fall in unresistingly with the\nfamily courses, but the need of some tender permanent affection, the\nlonging for some influence that would make the good he preferred easy\nto pursue, caused the neatness, purity, and liberal orderliness of the\nLammeter household, sunned by the smile of Nancy, to seem like those\nfresh bright hours of the morning when temptations go to sleep and\nleave the ear open to the voice of the good angel, inviting to\nindustry, sobriety, and peace. And yet the hope of this paradise had\nnot been enough to save him from a course which shut him out of it for\never. Instead of keeping fast hold of the strong silken rope by which\nNancy would have drawn him safe to the green banks where it was easy to\nstep firmly, he had let himself be dragged back into mud and slime, in\nwhich it was useless to struggle. He had made ties for himself which\nrobbed him of all wholesome motive, and were a constant exasperation.\n\nStill, there was one position worse than the present: it was the\nposition he would be in when the ugly secret was disclosed; and the\ndesire that continually triumphed over every other was that of warding\noff the evil day, when he would have to bear the consequences of his\nfather\'s violent resentment for the wound inflicted on his family\npride--would have, perhaps, to turn his back on that hereditary ease\nand dignity which, after all, was a sort of reason for living, and\nwould carry with him the certainty that he was banished for ever from\nthe sight and esteem of Nancy Lammeter. The longer the interval, the\nmore chance there was of deliverance from some, at least, of the\nhateful consequences to which he had sold himself; the more\nopportunities remained for him to snatch the strange gratification of\nseeing Nancy, and gathering some faint indications of her lingering\nregard. Towards this gratification he was impelled, fitfully, every\nnow and then, after having passed weeks in which he had avoided her as\nthe far-off bright-winged prize that only made him spring forward and\nfind his chain all the more galling. One of those fits of yearning was\non him now, and it would have been strong enough to have persuaded him\nto trust Wildfire to Dunstan rather than disappoint the yearning, even\nif he had not had another reason for his disinclination towards the\nmorrow\'s hunt. That other reason was the fact that the morning\'s meet\nwas near Batherley, the market-town where the unhappy woman lived,\nwhose image became more odious to him every day; and to his thought the\nwhole vicinage was haunted by her. The yoke a man creates for himself\nby wrong-doing will breed hate in the kindliest nature; and the\ngood-humoured, affectionate-hearted Godfrey Cass was fast becoming a\nbitter man, visited by cruel wishes, that seemed to enter, and depart,\nand enter again, like demons who had found in him a ready-garnished\nhome.\n\nWhat was he to do this evening to pass the time? He might as well go\nto the Rainbow, and hear the talk about the cock-fighting: everybody\nwas there, and what else was there to be done? Though, for his own\npart, he did not care a button for cock-fighting. Snuff, the brown\nspaniel, who had placed herself in front of him, and had been watching\nhim for some time, now jumped up in impatience for the expected caress.\nBut Godfrey thrust her away without looking at her, and left the room,\nfollowed humbly by the unresenting Snuff--perhaps because she saw no\nother career open to her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nDunstan Cass, setting off in the raw morning, at the judiciously quiet\npace of a man who is obliged to ride to cover on his hunter, had to\ntake his way along the lane which, at its farther extremity, passed by\nthe piece of unenclosed ground called the Stone-pit, where stood the\ncottage, once a stone-cutter\'s shed, now for fifteen years inhabited by\nSilas Marner. The spot looked very dreary at this season, with the\nmoist trodden clay about it, and the red, muddy water high up in the\ndeserted quarry. That was Dunstan\'s first thought as he approached it;\nthe second was, that the old fool of a weaver, whose loom he heard\nrattling already, had a great deal of money hidden somewhere. How was\nit that he, Dunstan Cass, who had often heard talk of Marner\'s\nmiserliness, had never thought of suggesting to Godfrey that he should\nfrighten or persuade the old fellow into lending the money on the\nexcellent security of the young Squire\'s prospects? The resource\noccurred to him now as so easy and agreeable, especially as Marner\'s\nhoard was likely to be large enough to leave Godfrey a handsome surplus\nbeyond his immediate needs, and enable him to accommodate his faithful\nbrother, that he had almost turned the horse\'s head towards home again.\nGodfrey would be ready enough to accept the suggestion: he would snatch\neagerly at a plan that might save him from parting with Wildfire. But\nwhen Dunstan\'s meditation reached this point, the inclination to go on\ngrew strong and prevailed. He didn\'t want to give Godfrey that\npleasure: he preferred that Master Godfrey should be vexed. Moreover,\nDunstan enjoyed the self-important consciousness of having a horse to\nsell, and the opportunity of driving a bargain, swaggering, and\npossibly taking somebody in. He might have all the satisfaction\nattendant on selling his brother\'s horse, and not the less have the\nfurther satisfaction of setting Godfrey to borrow Marner\'s money. So\nhe rode on to cover.\n\nBryce and Keating were there, as Dunstan was quite sure they would\nbe--he was such a lucky fellow.\n\n\"Heyday!\" said Bryce, who had long had his eye on Wildfire, \"you\'re on\nyour brother\'s horse to-day: how\'s that?\"\n\n\"Oh, I\'ve swopped with him,\" said Dunstan, whose delight in lying,\ngrandly independent of utility, was not to be diminished by the\nlikelihood that his hearer would not believe him--\"Wildfire\'s mine now.\"\n\n\"What! has he swopped with you for that big-boned hack of yours?\" said\nBryce, quite aware that he should get another lie in answer.\n\n\"Oh, there was a little account between us,\" said Dunsey, carelessly,\n\"and Wildfire made it even. I accommodated him by taking the horse,\nthough it was against my will, for I\'d got an itch for a mare o\'\nJortin\'s--as rare a bit o\' blood as ever you threw your leg across.\nBut I shall keep Wildfire, now I\'ve got him, though I\'d a bid of a\nhundred and fifty for him the other day, from a man over at\nFlitton--he\'s buying for Lord Cromleck--a fellow with a cast in his\neye, and a green waistcoat. But I mean to stick to Wildfire: I shan\'t\nget a better at a fence in a hurry. The mare\'s got more blood, but\nshe\'s a bit too weak in the hind-quarters.\"\n\nBryce of course divined that Dunstan wanted to sell the horse, and\nDunstan knew that he divined it (horse-dealing is only one of many\nhuman transactions carried on in this ingenious manner); and they both\nconsidered that the bargain was in its first stage, when Bryce replied\nironically--\n\n\"I wonder at that now; I wonder you mean to keep him; for I never heard\nof a man who didn\'t want to sell his horse getting a bid of half as\nmuch again as the horse was worth. You\'ll be lucky if you get a\nhundred.\"\n\nKeating rode up now, and the transaction became more complicated. It\nended in the purchase of the horse by Bryce for a hundred and twenty,\nto be paid on the delivery of Wildfire, safe and sound, at the\nBatherley stables. It did occur to Dunsey that it might be wise for\nhim to give up the day\'s hunting, proceed at once to Batherley, and,\nhaving waited for Bryce\'s return, hire a horse to carry him home with\nthe money in his pocket. But the inclination for a run, encouraged by\nconfidence in his luck, and by a draught of brandy from his\npocket-pistol at the conclusion of the bargain, was not easy to\novercome, especially with a horse under him that would take the fences\nto the admiration of the field. Dunstan, however, took one fence too\nmany, and got his horse pierced with a hedge-stake. His own\nill-favoured person, which was quite unmarketable, escaped without\ninjury; but poor Wildfire, unconscious of his price, turned on his\nflank and painfully panted his last. It happened that Dunstan, a short\ntime before, having had to get down to arrange his stirrup, had\nmuttered a good many curses at this interruption, which had thrown him\nin the rear of the hunt near the moment of glory, and under this\nexasperation had taken the fences more blindly. He would soon have\nbeen up with the hounds again, when the fatal accident happened; and\nhence he was between eager riders in advance, not troubling themselves\nabout what happened behind them, and far-off stragglers, who were as\nlikely as not to pass quite aloof from the line of road in which\nWildfire had fallen. Dunstan, whose nature it was to care more for\nimmediate annoyances than for remote consequences, no sooner recovered\nhis legs, and saw that it was all over with Wildfire, than he felt a\nsatisfaction at the absence of witnesses to a position which no\nswaggering could make enviable. Reinforcing himself, after his shake,\nwith a little brandy and much swearing, he walked as fast as he could\nto a coppice on his right hand, through which it occurred to him that\nhe could make his way to Batherley without danger of encountering any\nmember of the hunt. His first intention was to hire a horse there and\nride home forthwith, for to walk many miles without a gun in his hand,\nand along an ordinary road, was as much out of the question to him as\nto other spirited young men of his kind. He did not much mind about\ntaking the bad news to Godfrey, for he had to offer him at the same\ntime the resource of Marner\'s money; and if Godfrey kicked, as he\nalways did, at the notion of making a fresh debt from which he himself\ngot the smallest share of advantage, why, he wouldn\'t kick long:\nDunstan felt sure he could worry Godfrey into anything. The idea of\nMarner\'s money kept growing in vividness, now the want of it had become\nimmediate; the prospect of having to make his appearance with the muddy\nboots of a pedestrian at Batherley, and to encounter the grinning\nqueries of stablemen, stood unpleasantly in the way of his impatience\nto be back at Raveloe and carry out his felicitous plan; and a casual\nvisitation of his waistcoat-pocket, as he was ruminating, awakened his\nmemory to the fact that the two or three small coins his forefinger\nencountered there were of too pale a colour to cover that small debt,\nwithout payment of which the stable-keeper had declared he would never\ndo any more business with Dunsey Cass. After all, according to the\ndirection in which the run had brought him, he was not so very much\nfarther from home than he was from Batherley; but Dunsey, not being\nremarkable for clearness of head, was only led to this conclusion by\nthe gradual perception that there were other reasons for choosing the\nunprecedented course of walking home. It was now nearly four o\'clock,\nand a mist was gathering: the sooner he got into the road the better.\nHe remembered having crossed the road and seen the finger-post only a\nlittle while before Wildfire broke down; so, buttoning his coat,\ntwisting the lash of his hunting-whip compactly round the handle, and\nrapping the tops of his boots with a self-possessed air, as if to\nassure himself that he was not at all taken by surprise, he set off\nwith the sense that he was undertaking a remarkable feat of bodily\nexertion, which somehow and at some time he should be able to dress up\nand magnify to the admiration of a select circle at the Rainbow. When\na young gentleman like Dunsey is reduced to so exceptional a mode of\nlocomotion as walking, a whip in his hand is a desirable corrective to\na too bewildering dreamy sense of unwontedness in his position; and\nDunstan, as he went along through the gathering mist, was always\nrapping his whip somewhere. It was Godfrey\'s whip, which he had chosen\nto take without leave because it had a gold handle; of course no one\ncould see, when Dunstan held it, that the name _Godfrey Cass_ was cut\nin deep letters on that gold handle--they could only see that it was a\nvery handsome whip. Dunsey was not without fear that he might meet some\nacquaintance in whose eyes he would cut a pitiable figure, for mist is\nno screen when people get close to each other; but when he at last\nfound himself in the well-known Raveloe lanes without having met a\nsoul, he silently remarked that that was part of his usual good luck.\nBut now the mist, helped by the evening darkness, was more of a screen\nthan he desired, for it hid the ruts into which his feet were liable to\nslip--hid everything, so that he had to guide his steps by dragging his\nwhip along the low bushes in advance of the hedgerow. He must soon, he\nthought, be getting near the opening at the Stone-pits: he should find\nit out by the break in the hedgerow. He found it out, however, by\nanother circumstance which he had not expected--namely, by certain\ngleams of light, which he presently guessed to proceed from Silas\nMarner\'s cottage. That cottage and the money hidden within it had been\nin his mind continually during his walk, and he had been imagining ways\nof cajoling and tempting the weaver to part with the immediate\npossession of his money for the sake of receiving interest. Dunstan\nfelt as if there must be a little frightening added to the cajolery,\nfor his own arithmetical convictions were not clear enough to afford\nhim any forcible demonstration as to the advantages of interest; and as\nfor security, he regarded it vaguely as a means of cheating a man by\nmaking him believe that he would be paid. Altogether, the operation on\nthe miser\'s mind was a task that Godfrey would be sure to hand over to\nhis more daring and cunning brother: Dunstan had made up his mind to\nthat; and by the time he saw the light gleaming through the chinks of\nMarner\'s shutters, the idea of a dialogue with the weaver had become so\nfamiliar to him, that it occurred to him as quite a natural thing to\nmake the acquaintance forthwith. There might be several conveniences\nattending this course: the weaver had possibly got a lantern, and\nDunstan was tired of feeling his way. He was still nearly\nthree-quarters of a mile from home, and the lane was becoming\nunpleasantly slippery, for the mist was passing into rain. He turned up\nthe bank, not without some fear lest he might miss the right way, since\nhe was not certain whether the light were in front or on the side of\nthe cottage. But he felt the ground before him cautiously with his\nwhip-handle, and at last arrived safely at the door. He knocked\nloudly, rather enjoying the idea that the old fellow would be\nfrightened at the sudden noise. He heard no movement in reply: all was\nsilence in the cottage. Was the weaver gone to bed, then? If so, why\nhad he left a light? That was a strange forgetfulness in a miser.\nDunstan knocked still more loudly, and, without pausing for a reply,\npushed his fingers through the latch-hole, intending to shake the door\nand pull the latch-string up and down, not doubting that the door was\nfastened. But, to his surprise, at this double motion the door opened,\nand he found himself in front of a bright fire which lit up every\ncorner of the cottage--the bed, the loom, the three chairs, and the\ntable--and showed him that Marner was not there.\n\nNothing at that moment could be much more inviting to Dunsey than the\nbright fire on the brick hearth: he walked in and seated himself by it\nat once. There was something in front of the fire, too, that would\nhave been inviting to a hungry man, if it had been in a different stage\nof cooking. It was a small bit of pork suspended from the\nkettle-hanger by a string passed through a large door-key, in a way\nknown to primitive housekeepers unpossessed of jacks. But the pork had\nbeen hung at the farthest extremity of the hanger, apparently to\nprevent the roasting from proceeding too rapidly during the owner\'s\nabsence. The old staring simpleton had hot meat for his supper, then?\nthought Dunstan. People had always said he lived on mouldy bread, on\npurpose to check his appetite. But where could he be at this time, and\non such an evening, leaving his supper in this stage of preparation,\nand his door unfastened? Dunstan\'s own recent difficulty in making his\nway suggested to him that the weaver had perhaps gone outside his\ncottage to fetch in fuel, or for some such brief purpose, and had\nslipped into the Stone-pit. That was an interesting idea to Dunstan,\ncarrying consequences of entire novelty. If the weaver was dead, who\nhad a right to his money? Who would know where his money was hidden?\n_Who would know that anybody had come to take it away?_ He went no\nfarther into the subtleties of evidence: the pressing question, \"Where\n_is_ the money?\" now took such entire possession of him as to make him\nquite forget that the weaver\'s death was not a certainty. A dull mind,\nonce arriving at an inference that flatters a desire, is rarely able to\nretain the impression that the notion from which the inference started\nwas purely problematic. And Dunstan\'s mind was as dull as the mind of\na possible felon usually is. There were only three hiding-places where\nhe had ever heard of cottagers\' hoards being found: the thatch, the\nbed, and a hole in the floor. Marner\'s cottage had no thatch; and\nDunstan\'s first act, after a train of thought made rapid by the\nstimulus of cupidity, was to go up to the bed; but while he did so, his\neyes travelled eagerly over the floor, where the bricks, distinct in\nthe fire-light, were discernible under the sprinkling of sand. But not\neverywhere; for there was one spot, and one only, which was quite\ncovered with sand, and sand showing the marks of fingers, which had\napparently been careful to spread it over a given space. It was near\nthe treddles of the loom. In an instant Dunstan darted to that spot,\nswept away the sand with his whip, and, inserting the thin end of the\nhook between the bricks, found that they were loose. In haste he\nlifted up two bricks, and saw what he had no doubt was the object of\nhis search; for what could there be but money in those two leathern\nbags? And, from their weight, they must be filled with guineas.\nDunstan felt round the hole, to be certain that it held no more; then\nhastily replaced the bricks, and spread the sand over them. Hardly\nmore than five minutes had passed since he entered the cottage, but it\nseemed to Dunstan like a long while; and though he was without any\ndistinct recognition of the possibility that Marner might be alive, and\nmight re-enter the cottage at any moment, he felt an undefinable dread\nlaying hold on him, as he rose to his feet with the bags in his hand.\nHe would hasten out into the darkness, and then consider what he should\ndo with the bags. He closed the door behind him immediately, that he\nmight shut in the stream of light: a few steps would be enough to carry\nhim beyond betrayal by the gleams from the shutter-chinks and the\nlatch-hole. The rain and darkness had got thicker, and he was glad of\nit; though it was awkward walking with both hands filled, so that it\nwas as much as he could do to grasp his whip along with one of the\nbags. But when he had gone a yard or two, he might take his time. So\nhe stepped forward into the darkness.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nWhen Dunstan Cass turned his back on the cottage, Silas Marner was not\nmore than a hundred yards away from it, plodding along from the village\nwith a sack thrown round his shoulders as an overcoat, and with a horn\nlantern in his hand. His legs were weary, but his mind was at ease,\nfree from the presentiment of change. The sense of security more\nfrequently springs from habit than from conviction, and for this reason\nit often subsists after such a change in the conditions as might have\nbeen expected to suggest alarm. The lapse of time during which a given\nevent has not happened, is, in this logic of habit, constantly alleged\nas a reason why the event should never happen, even when the lapse of\ntime is precisely the added condition which makes the event imminent.\nA man will tell you that he has worked in a mine for forty years unhurt\nby an accident as a reason why he should apprehend no danger, though\nthe roof is beginning to sink; and it is often observable, that the\nolder a man gets, the more difficult it is to him to retain a believing\nconception of his own death. This influence of habit was necessarily\nstrong in a man whose life was so monotonous as Marner\'s--who saw no\nnew people and heard of no new events to keep alive in him the idea of\nthe unexpected and the changeful; and it explains simply enough, why\nhis mind could be at ease, though he had left his house and his\ntreasure more defenceless than usual. Silas was thinking with double\ncomplacency of his supper: first, because it would be hot and savoury;\nand secondly, because it would cost him nothing. For the little bit of\npork was a present from that excellent housewife, Miss Priscilla\nLammeter, to whom he had this day carried home a handsome piece of\nlinen; and it was only on occasion of a present like this, that Silas\nindulged himself with roast-meat. Supper was his favourite meal,\nbecause it came at his time of revelry, when his heart warmed over his\ngold; whenever he had roast-meat, he always chose to have it for\nsupper. But this evening, he had no sooner ingeniously knotted his\nstring fast round his bit of pork, twisted the string according to rule\nover his door-key, passed it through the handle, and made it fast on\nthe hanger, than he remembered that a piece of very fine twine was\nindispensable to his \"setting up\" a new piece of work in his loom early\nin the morning. It had slipped his memory, because, in coming from Mr.\nLammeter\'s, he had not had to pass through the village; but to lose\ntime by going on errands in the morning was out of the question. It\nwas a nasty fog to turn out into, but there were things Silas loved\nbetter than his own comfort; so, drawing his pork to the extremity of\nthe hanger, and arming himself with his lantern and his old sack, he\nset out on what, in ordinary weather, would have been a twenty minutes\'\nerrand. He could not have locked his door without undoing his\nwell-knotted string and retarding his supper; it was not worth his\nwhile to make that sacrifice. What thief would find his way to the\nStone-pits on such a night as this? and why should he come on this\nparticular night, when he had never come through all the fifteen years\nbefore? These questions were not distinctly present in Silas\'s mind;\nthey merely serve to represent the vaguely-felt foundation of his\nfreedom from anxiety.\n\nHe reached his door in much satisfaction that his errand was done: he\nopened it, and to his short-sighted eyes everything remained as he had\nleft it, except that the fire sent out a welcome increase of heat. He\ntrod about the floor while putting by his lantern and throwing aside\nhis hat and sack, so as to merge the marks of Dunstan\'s feet on the\nsand in the marks of his own nailed boots. Then he moved his pork\nnearer to the fire, and sat down to the agreeable business of tending\nthe meat and warming himself at the same time.\n\nAny one who had looked at him as the red light shone upon his pale\nface, strange straining eyes, and meagre form, would perhaps have\nunderstood the mixture of contemptuous pity, dread, and suspicion with\nwhich he was regarded by his neighbours in Raveloe. Yet few men could\nbe more harmless than poor Marner. In his truthful simple soul, not\neven the growing greed and worship of gold could beget any vice\ndirectly injurious to others. The light of his faith quite put out,\nand his affections made desolate, he had clung with all the force of\nhis nature to his work and his money; and like all objects to which a\nman devotes himself, they had fashioned him into correspondence with\nthemselves. His loom, as he wrought in it without ceasing, had in its\nturn wrought on him, and confirmed more and more the monotonous craving\nfor its monotonous response. His gold, as he hung over it and saw it\ngrow, gathered his power of loving together into a hard isolation like\nits own.\n\nAs soon as he was warm he began to think it would be a long while to\nwait till after supper before he drew out his guineas, and it would be\npleasant to see them on the table before him as he ate his unwonted\nfeast. For joy is the best of wine, and Silas\'s guineas were a golden\nwine of that sort.\n\nHe rose and placed his candle unsuspectingly on the floor near his\nloom, swept away the sand without noticing any change, and removed the\nbricks. The sight of the empty hole made his heart leap violently, but\nthe belief that his gold was gone could not come at once--only terror,\nand the eager effort to put an end to the terror. He passed his\ntrembling hand all about the hole, trying to think it possible that his\neyes had deceived him; then he held the candle in the hole and examined\nit curiously, trembling more and more. At last he shook so violently\nthat he let fall the candle, and lifted his hands to his head, trying\nto steady himself, that he might think. Had he put his gold somewhere\nelse, by a sudden resolution last night, and then forgotten it? A man\nfalling into dark waters seeks a momentary footing even on sliding\nstones; and Silas, by acting as if he believed in false hopes, warded\noff the moment of despair. He searched in every corner, he turned his\nbed over, and shook it, and kneaded it; he looked in his brick oven\nwhere he laid his sticks. When there was no other place to be\nsearched, he kneeled down again and felt once more all round the hole.\nThere was no untried refuge left for a moment\'s shelter from the\nterrible truth.\n\nYes, there was a sort of refuge which always comes with the prostration\nof thought under an overpowering passion: it was that expectation of\nimpossibilities, that belief in contradictory images, which is still\ndistinct from madness, because it is capable of being dissipated by the\nexternal fact. Silas got up from his knees trembling, and looked round\nat the table: didn\'t the gold lie there after all? The table was bare.\nThen he turned and looked behind him--looked all round his dwelling,\nseeming to strain his brown eyes after some possible appearance of the\nbags where he had already sought them in vain. He could see every\nobject in his cottage--and his gold was not there.\n\nAgain he put his trembling hands to his head, and gave a wild ringing\nscream, the cry of desolation. For a few moments after, he stood\nmotionless; but the cry had relieved him from the first maddening\npressure of the truth. He turned, and tottered towards his loom, and\ngot into the seat where he worked, instinctively seeking this as the\nstrongest assurance of reality.\n\nAnd now that all the false hopes had vanished, and the first shock of\ncertainty was past, the idea of a thief began to present itself, and he\nentertained it eagerly, because a thief might be caught and made to\nrestore the gold. The thought brought some new strength with it, and\nhe started from his loom to the door. As he opened it the rain beat in\nupon him, for it was falling more and more heavily. There were no\nfootsteps to be tracked on such a night--footsteps? When had the thief\ncome? During Silas\'s absence in the daytime the door had been locked,\nand there had been no marks of any inroad on his return by daylight.\nAnd in the evening, too, he said to himself, everything was the same as\nwhen he had left it. The sand and bricks looked as if they had not\nbeen moved. _Was_ it a thief who had taken the bags? or was it a\ncruel power that no hands could reach, which had delighted in making\nhim a second time desolate? He shrank from this vaguer dread, and\nfixed his mind with struggling effort on the robber with hands, who\ncould be reached by hands. His thoughts glanced at all the neighbours\nwho had made any remarks, or asked any questions which he might now\nregard as a ground of suspicion. There was Jem Rodney, a known\npoacher, and otherwise disreputable: he had often met Marner in his\njourneys across the fields, and had said something jestingly about the\nweaver\'s money; nay, he had once irritated Marner, by lingering at the\nfire when he called to light his pipe, instead of going about his\nbusiness. Jem Rodney was the man--there was ease in the thought. Jem\ncould be found and made to restore the money: Marner did not want to\npunish him, but only to get back his gold which had gone from him, and\nleft his soul like a forlorn traveller on an unknown desert. The\nrobber must be laid hold of. Marner\'s ideas of legal authority were\nconfused, but he felt that he must go and proclaim his loss; and the\ngreat people in the village--the clergyman, the constable, and Squire\nCass--would make Jem Rodney, or somebody else, deliver up the stolen\nmoney. He rushed out in the rain, under the stimulus of this hope,\nforgetting to cover his head, not caring to fasten his door; for he\nfelt as if he had nothing left to lose. He ran swiftly, till want of\nbreath compelled him to slacken his pace as he was entering the village\nat the turning close to the Rainbow.\n\nThe Rainbow, in Marner\'s view, was a place of luxurious resort for rich\nand stout husbands, whose wives had superfluous stores of linen; it was\nthe place where he was likely to find the powers and dignities of\nRaveloe, and where he could most speedily make his loss public. He\nlifted the latch, and turned into the bright bar or kitchen on the\nright hand, where the less lofty customers of the house were in the\nhabit of assembling, the parlour on the left being reserved for the\nmore select society in which Squire Cass frequently enjoyed the double\npleasure of conviviality and condescension. But the parlour was dark\nto-night, the chief personages who ornamented its circle being all at\nMrs. Osgood\'s birthday dance, as Godfrey Cass was. And in consequence\nof this, the party on the high-screened seats in the kitchen was more\nnumerous than usual; several personages, who would otherwise have been\nadmitted into the parlour and enlarged the opportunity of hectoring and\ncondescension for their betters, being content this evening to vary\ntheir enjoyment by taking their spirits-and-water where they could\nthemselves hector and condescend in company that called for beer.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nThe conversation, which was at a high pitch of animation when Silas\napproached the door of the Rainbow, had, as usual, been slow and\nintermittent when the company first assembled. The pipes began to be\npuffed in a silence which had an air of severity; the more important\ncustomers, who drank spirits and sat nearest the fire, staring at each\nother as if a bet were depending on the first man who winked; while the\nbeer-drinkers, chiefly men in fustian jackets and smock-frocks, kept\ntheir eyelids down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, as if\ntheir draughts of beer were a funereal duty attended with embarrassing\nsadness. At last Mr. Snell, the landlord, a man of a neutral\ndisposition, accustomed to stand aloof from human differences as those\nof beings who were all alike in need of liquor, broke silence, by\nsaying in a doubtful tone to his cousin the butcher--\n\n\"Some folks \'ud say that was a fine beast you druv in yesterday, Bob?\"\n\nThe butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was not disposed to\nanswer rashly. He gave a few puffs before he spat and replied, \"And\nthey wouldn\'t be fur wrong, John.\"\n\nAfter this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as severely as\nbefore.\n\n\"Was it a red Durham?\" said the farrier, taking up the thread of\ndiscourse after the lapse of a few minutes.\n\nThe farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord looked at the\nbutcher, as the person who must take the responsibility of answering.\n\n\"Red it was,\" said the butcher, in his good-humoured husky treble--\"and\na Durham it was.\"\n\n\"Then you needn\'t tell _me_ who you bought it of,\" said the farrier,\nlooking round with some triumph; \"I know who it is has got the red\nDurhams o\' this country-side. And she\'d a white star on her brow, I\'ll\nbet a penny?\" The farrier leaned forward with his hands on his knees\nas he put this question, and his eyes twinkled knowingly.\n\n\"Well; yes--she might,\" said the butcher, slowly, considering that he\nwas giving a decided affirmative. \"I don\'t say contrairy.\"\n\n\"I knew that very well,\" said the farrier, throwing himself backward\nagain, and speaking defiantly; \"if _I_ don\'t know Mr. Lammeter\'s cows,\nI should like to know who does--that\'s all. And as for the cow you\'ve\nbought, bargain or no bargain, I\'ve been at the drenching of\nher--contradick me who will.\"\n\nThe farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher\'s conversational spirit\nwas roused a little.\n\n\"I\'m not for contradicking no man,\" he said; \"I\'m for peace and\nquietness. Some are for cutting long ribs--I\'m for cutting \'em short\nmyself; but _I_ don\'t quarrel with \'em. All I say is, it\'s a lovely\ncarkiss--and anybody as was reasonable, it \'ud bring tears into their\neyes to look at it.\"\n\n\"Well, it\'s the cow as I drenched, whatever it is,\" pursued the\nfarrier, angrily; \"and it was Mr. Lammeter\'s cow, else you told a lie\nwhen you said it was a red Durham.\"\n\n\"I tell no lies,\" said the butcher, with the same mild huskiness as\nbefore, \"and I contradick none--not if a man was to swear himself\nblack: he\'s no meat o\' mine, nor none o\' my bargains. All I say is,\nit\'s a lovely carkiss. And what I say, I\'ll stick to; but I\'ll quarrel\nwi\' no man.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the farrier, with bitter sarcasm, looking at the company\ngenerally; \"and p\'rhaps you aren\'t pig-headed; and p\'rhaps you didn\'t\nsay the cow was a red Durham; and p\'rhaps you didn\'t say she\'d got a\nstar on her brow--stick to that, now you\'re at it.\"\n\n\"Come, come,\" said the landlord; \"let the cow alone. The truth lies\natween you: you\'re both right and both wrong, as I allays say. And as\nfor the cow\'s being Mr. Lammeter\'s, I say nothing to that; but this I\nsay, as the Rainbow\'s the Rainbow. And for the matter o\' that, if the\ntalk is to be o\' the Lammeters, _you_ know the most upo\' that head, eh,\nMr. Macey? You remember when first Mr. Lammeter\'s father come into\nthese parts, and took the Warrens?\"\n\nMr. Macey, tailor and parish-clerk, the latter of which functions\nrheumatism had of late obliged him to share with a small-featured young\nman who sat opposite him, held his white head on one side, and twirled\nhis thumbs with an air of complacency, slightly seasoned with\ncriticism. He smiled pityingly, in answer to the landlord\'s appeal,\nand said--\n\n\"Aye, aye; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk. I\'ve laid by\nnow, and gev up to the young uns. Ask them as have been to school at\nTarley: they\'ve learnt pernouncing; that\'s come up since my day.\"\n\n\"If you\'re pointing at me, Mr. Macey,\" said the deputy clerk, with an\nair of anxious propriety, \"I\'m nowise a man to speak out of my place.\nAs the psalm says--\n\n \"I know what\'s right, nor only so,\n But also practise what I know.\"\n\n\n\"Well, then, I wish you\'d keep hold o\' the tune, when it\'s set for you;\nif you\'re for prac_tis_ing, I wish you\'d prac_tise_ that,\" said a large\njocose-looking man, an excellent wheelwright in his week-day capacity,\nbut on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as he spoke, at two of\nthe company, who were known officially as the \"bassoon\" and the\n\"key-bugle\", in the confidence that he was expressing the sense of the\nmusical profession in Raveloe.\n\nMr. Tookey, the deputy-clerk, who shared the unpopularity common to\ndeputies, turned very red, but replied, with careful moderation--\"Mr.\nWinthrop, if you\'ll bring me any proof as I\'m in the wrong, I\'m not the\nman to say I won\'t alter. But there\'s people set up their own ears for\na standard, and expect the whole choir to follow \'em. There may be two\nopinions, I hope.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied with this\nattack on youthful presumption; \"you\'re right there, Tookey: there\'s\nallays two \'pinions; there\'s the \'pinion a man has of himsen, and\nthere\'s the \'pinion other folks have on him. There\'d be two \'pinions\nabout a cracked bell, if the bell could hear itself.\"\n\n\"Well, Mr. Macey,\" said poor Tookey, serious amidst the general\nlaughter, \"I undertook to partially fill up the office of parish-clerk\nby Mr. Crackenthorp\'s desire, whenever your infirmities should make you\nunfitting; and it\'s one of the rights thereof to sing in the\nchoir--else why have you done the same yourself?\"\n\n\"Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks,\" said Ben Winthrop.\n\"The old gentleman\'s got a gift. Why, the Squire used to invite him to\ntake a glass, only to hear him sing the \"Red Rovier\"; didn\'t he, Mr.\nMacey? It\'s a nat\'ral gift. There\'s my little lad Aaron, he\'s got a\ngift--he can sing a tune off straight, like a throstle. But as for\nyou, Master Tookey, you\'d better stick to your \"Amens\": your voice is\nwell enough when you keep it up in your nose. It\'s your inside as\nisn\'t right made for music: it\'s no better nor a hollow stalk.\"\n\nThis kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant form of joke to\nthe company at the Rainbow, and Ben Winthrop\'s insult was felt by\neverybody to have capped Mr. Macey\'s epigram.\n\n\"I see what it is plain enough,\" said Mr. Tookey, unable to keep cool\nany longer. \"There\'s a consperacy to turn me out o\' the choir, as I\nshouldn\'t share the Christmas money--that\'s where it is. But I shall\nspeak to Mr. Crackenthorp; I\'ll not be put upon by no man.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, Tookey,\" said Ben Winthrop. \"We\'ll pay you your share to\nkeep out of it--that\'s what we\'ll do. There\'s things folks \'ud pay to\nbe rid on, besides varmin.\"\n\n\"Come, come,\" said the landlord, who felt that paying people for their\nabsence was a principle dangerous to society; \"a joke\'s a joke. We\'re\nall good friends here, I hope. We must give and take. You\'re both\nright and you\'re both wrong, as I say. I agree wi\' Mr. Macey here, as\nthere\'s two opinions; and if mine was asked, I should say they\'re both\nright. Tookey\'s right and Winthrop\'s right, and they\'ve only got to\nsplit the difference and make themselves even.\"\n\nThe farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in some contempt at\nthis trivial discussion. He had no ear for music himself, and never\nwent to church, as being of the medical profession, and likely to be in\nrequisition for delicate cows. But the butcher, having music in his\nsoul, had listened with a divided desire for Tookey\'s defeat and for\nthe preservation of the peace.\n\n\"To be sure,\" he said, following up the landlord\'s conciliatory view,\n\"we\'re fond of our old clerk; it\'s nat\'ral, and him used to be such a\nsinger, and got a brother as is known for the first fiddler in this\ncountry-side. Eh, it\'s a pity but what Solomon lived in our village,\nand could give us a tune when we liked; eh, Mr. Macey? I\'d keep him in\nliver and lights for nothing--that I would.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Mr. Macey, in the height of complacency; \"our family\'s\nbeen known for musicianers as far back as anybody can tell. But them\nthings are dying out, as I tell Solomon every time he comes round;\nthere\'s no voices like what there used to be, and there\'s nobody\nremembers what we remember, if it isn\'t the old crows.\"\n\n\"Aye, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter\'s father come into these\nparts, don\'t you, Mr. Macey?\" said the landlord.\n\n\"I should think I did,\" said the old man, who had now gone through that\ncomplimentary process necessary to bring him up to the point of\nnarration; \"and a fine old gentleman he was--as fine, and finer nor the\nMr. Lammeter as now is. He came from a bit north\'ard, so far as I\ncould ever make out. But there\'s nobody rightly knows about those\nparts: only it couldn\'t be far north\'ard, nor much different from this\ncountry, for he brought a fine breed o\' sheep with him, so there must\nbe pastures there, and everything reasonable. We heared tell as he\'d\nsold his own land to come and take the Warrens, and that seemed odd for\na man as had land of his own, to come and rent a farm in a strange\nplace. But they said it was along of his wife\'s dying; though there\'s\nreasons in things as nobody knows on--that\'s pretty much what I\'ve made\nout; yet some folks are so wise, they\'ll find you fifty reasons\nstraight off, and all the while the real reason\'s winking at \'em in the\ncorner, and they niver see\'t. Howsomever, it was soon seen as we\'d got\na new parish\'ner as know\'d the rights and customs o\' things, and kep a\ngood house, and was well looked on by everybody. And the young\nman--that\'s the Mr. Lammeter as now is, for he\'d niver a sister--soon\nbegun to court Miss Osgood, that\'s the sister o\' the Mr. Osgood as now\nis, and a fine handsome lass she was--eh, you can\'t think--they pretend\nthis young lass is like her, but that\'s the way wi\' people as don\'t\nknow what come before \'em. _I_ should know, for I helped the old\nrector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him marry \'em.\"\n\nHere Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative in instalments,\nexpecting to be questioned according to precedent.\n\n\"Aye, and a partic\'lar thing happened, didn\'t it, Mr. Macey, so as you\nwere likely to remember that marriage?\" said the landlord, in a\ncongratulatory tone.\n\n\"I should think there did--a _very_ partic\'lar thing,\" said Mr. Macey,\nnodding sideways. \"For Mr. Drumlow--poor old gentleman, I was fond on\nhim, though he\'d got a bit confused in his head, what wi\' age and wi\'\ntaking a drop o\' summat warm when the service come of a cold morning.\nAnd young Mr. Lammeter, he\'d have no way but he must be married in\nJaniwary, which, to be sure, \'s a unreasonable time to be married in,\nfor it isn\'t like a christening or a burying, as you can\'t help; and so\nMr. Drumlow--poor old gentleman, I was fond on him--but when he come to\nput the questions, he put \'em by the rule o\' contrairy, like, and he\nsays, \"Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded wife?\" says he, and then\nhe says, \"Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded husband?\" says he.\nBut the partic\'larest thing of all is, as nobody took any notice on it\nbut me, and they answered straight off \"yes\", like as if it had been me\nsaying \"Amen\" i\' the right place, without listening to what went\nbefore.\"\n\n\"But _you_ knew what was going on well enough, didn\'t you, Mr. Macey?\nYou were live enough, eh?\" said the butcher.\n\n\"Lor bless you!\" said Mr. Macey, pausing, and smiling in pity at the\nimpotence of his hearer\'s imagination--\"why, I was all of a tremble: it\nwas as if I\'d been a coat pulled by the two tails, like; for I couldn\'t\nstop the parson, I couldn\'t take upon me to do that; and yet I said to\nmyself, I says, \"Suppose they shouldn\'t be fast married, \'cause the\nwords are contrairy?\" and my head went working like a mill, for I was\nallays uncommon for turning things over and seeing all round \'em; and I\nsays to myself, \"Is\'t the meanin\' or the words as makes folks fast i\'\nwedlock?\" For the parson meant right, and the bride and bridegroom\nmeant right. But then, when I come to think on it, meanin\' goes but a\nlittle way i\' most things, for you may mean to stick things together\nand your glue may be bad, and then where are you? And so I says to\nmysen, \"It isn\'t the meanin\', it\'s the glue.\" And I was worreted as if\nI\'d got three bells to pull at once, when we went into the vestry, and\nthey begun to sign their names. But where\'s the use o\' talking?--you\ncan\'t think what goes on in a \'cute man\'s inside.\"\n\n\"But you held in for all that, didn\'t you, Mr. Macey?\" said the\nlandlord.\n\n\"Aye, I held in tight till I was by mysen wi\' Mr. Drumlow, and then I\nout wi\' everything, but respectful, as I allays did. And he made light\non it, and he says, \"Pooh, pooh, Macey, make yourself easy,\" he says;\n\"it\'s neither the meaning nor the words--it\'s the re_ges_ter does\nit--that\'s the glue.\" So you see he settled it easy; for parsons and\ndoctors know everything by heart, like, so as they aren\'t worreted wi\'\nthinking what\'s the rights and wrongs o\' things, as I\'n been many and\nmany\'s the time. And sure enough the wedding turned out all right,\non\'y poor Mrs. Lammeter--that\'s Miss Osgood as was--died afore the\nlasses was growed up; but for prosperity and everything respectable,\nthere\'s no family more looked on.\"\n\nEvery one of Mr. Macey\'s audience had heard this story many times, but\nit was listened to as if it had been a favourite tune, and at certain\npoints the puffing of the pipes was momentarily suspended, that the\nlisteners might give their whole minds to the expected words. But\nthere was more to come; and Mr. Snell, the landlord, duly put the\nleading question.\n\n\"Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn\'t they say, when he\ncome into these parts?\"\n\n\"Well, yes,\" said Mr. Macey; \"but I daresay it\'s as much as this Mr.\nLammeter\'s done to keep it whole. For there was allays a talk as\nnobody could get rich on the Warrens: though he holds it cheap, for\nit\'s what they call Charity Land.\"\n\n\"Aye, and there\'s few folks know so well as you how it come to be\nCharity Land, eh, Mr. Macey?\" said the butcher.\n\n\"How should they?\" said the old clerk, with some contempt. \"Why, my\ngrandfather made the grooms\' livery for that Mr. Cliff as came and\nbuilt the big stables at the Warrens. Why, they\'re stables four times\nas big as Squire Cass\'s, for he thought o\' nothing but hosses and\nhunting, Cliff didn\'t--a Lunnon tailor, some folks said, as had gone\nmad wi\' cheating. For he couldn\'t ride; lor bless you! they said he\'d\ngot no more grip o\' the hoss than if his legs had been cross-sticks: my\ngrandfather heared old Squire Cass say so many and many a time. But\nride he would, as if Old Harry had been a-driving him; and he\'d a son,\na lad o\' sixteen; and nothing would his father have him do, but he must\nride and ride--though the lad was frighted, they said. And it was a\ncommon saying as the father wanted to ride the tailor out o\' the lad,\nand make a gentleman on him--not but what I\'m a tailor myself, but in\nrespect as God made me such, I\'m proud on it, for \"Macey, tailor\", \'s\nbeen wrote up over our door since afore the Queen\'s heads went out on\nthe shillings. But Cliff, he was ashamed o\' being called a tailor, and\nhe was sore vexed as his riding was laughed at, and nobody o\' the\ngentlefolks hereabout could abide him. Howsomever, the poor lad got\nsickly and died, and the father didn\'t live long after him, for he got\nqueerer nor ever, and they said he used to go out i\' the dead o\' the\nnight, wi\' a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o\'\nlights burning, for he got as he couldn\'t sleep; and there he\'d stand,\ncracking his whip and looking at his hosses; and they said it was a\nmercy as the stables didn\'t get burnt down wi\' the poor dumb creaturs\nin \'em. But at last he died raving, and they found as he\'d left all\nhis property, Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity, and that\'s how the\nWarrens come to be Charity Land; though, as for the stables, Mr.\nLammeter never uses \'em--they\'re out o\' all charicter--lor bless you!\nif you was to set the doors a-banging in \'em, it \'ud sound like thunder\nhalf o\'er the parish.\"\n\n\"Aye, but there\'s more going on in the stables than what folks see by\ndaylight, eh, Mr. Macey?\" said the landlord.\n\n\"Aye, aye; go that way of a dark night, that\'s all,\" said Mr. Macey,\nwinking mysteriously, \"and then make believe, if you like, as you\ndidn\'t see lights i\' the stables, nor hear the stamping o\' the hosses,\nnor the cracking o\' the whips, and howling, too, if it\'s tow\'rt\ndaybreak. \"Cliff\'s Holiday\" has been the name of it ever sin\' I were a\nboy; that\'s to say, some said as it was the holiday Old Harry gev him\nfrom roasting, like. That\'s what my father told me, and he was a\nreasonable man, though there\'s folks nowadays know what happened afore\nthey were born better nor they know their own business.\"\n\n\"What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas?\" said the landlord, turning to\nthe farrier, who was swelling with impatience for his cue. \"There\'s a\nnut for _you_ to crack.\"\n\nMr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, and was proud of his\nposition.\n\n\"Say? I say what a man _should_ say as doesn\'t shut his eyes to look\nat a finger-post. I say, as I\'m ready to wager any man ten pound, if\nhe\'ll stand out wi\' me any dry night in the pasture before the Warren\nstables, as we shall neither see lights nor hear noises, if it isn\'t\nthe blowing of our own noses. That\'s what I say, and I\'ve said it many\na time; but there\'s nobody \'ull ventur a ten-pun\' note on their ghos\'es\nas they make so sure of.\"\n\n\"Why, Dowlas, that\'s easy betting, that is,\" said Ben Winthrop. \"You\nmight as well bet a man as he wouldn\'t catch the rheumatise if he stood\nup to \'s neck in the pool of a frosty night. It \'ud be fine fun for a\nman to win his bet as he\'d catch the rheumatise. Folks as believe in\nCliff\'s Holiday aren\'t agoing to ventur near it for a matter o\' ten\npound.\"\n\n\"If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it,\" said Mr. Macey, with\na sarcastic smile, tapping his thumbs together, \"he\'s no call to lay\nany bet--let him go and stan\' by himself--there\'s nobody \'ull hinder\nhim; and then he can let the parish\'ners know if they\'re wrong.\"\n\n\"Thank you! I\'m obliged to you,\" said the farrier, with a snort of\nscorn. \"If folks are fools, it\'s no business o\' mine. _I_ don\'t want\nto make out the truth about ghos\'es: I know it a\'ready. But I\'m not\nagainst a bet--everything fair and open. Let any man bet me ten pound\nas I shall see Cliff\'s Holiday, and I\'ll go and stand by myself. I\nwant no company. I\'d as lief do it as I\'d fill this pipe.\"\n\n\"Ah, but who\'s to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do it? That\'s no fair\nbet,\" said the butcher.\n\n\"No fair bet?\" replied Mr. Dowlas, angrily. \"I should like to hear\nany man stand up and say I want to bet unfair. Come now, Master Lundy,\nI should like to hear you say it.\"\n\n\"Very like you would,\" said the butcher. \"But it\'s no business o\'\nmine. You\'re none o\' my bargains, and I aren\'t a-going to try and\n\'bate your price. If anybody \'ll bid for you at your own vallying, let\nhim. I\'m for peace and quietness, I am.\"\n\n\"Yes, that\'s what every yapping cur is, when you hold a stick up at\nhim,\" said the farrier. \"But I\'m afraid o\' neither man nor ghost, and\nI\'m ready to lay a fair bet. _I_ aren\'t a turn-tail cur.\"\n\n\"Aye, but there\'s this in it, Dowlas,\" said the landlord, speaking in a\ntone of much candour and tolerance. \"There\'s folks, i\' my opinion,\nthey can\'t see ghos\'es, not if they stood as plain as a pike-staff\nbefore \'em. And there\'s reason i\' that. For there\'s my wife, now,\ncan\'t smell, not if she\'d the strongest o\' cheese under her nose. I\nnever see\'d a ghost myself; but then I says to myself, \"Very like I\nhaven\'t got the smell for \'em.\" I mean, putting a ghost for a smell,\nor else contrairiways. And so, I\'m for holding with both sides; for,\nas I say, the truth lies between \'em. And if Dowlas was to go and\nstand, and say he\'d never seen a wink o\' Cliff\'s Holiday all the night\nthrough, I\'d back him; and if anybody said as Cliff\'s Holiday was\ncertain sure, for all that, I\'d back _him_ too. For the smell\'s what I\ngo by.\"\n\nThe landlord\'s analogical argument was not well received by the\nfarrier--a man intensely opposed to compromise.\n\n\"Tut, tut,\" he said, setting down his glass with refreshed irritation;\n\"what\'s the smell got to do with it? Did ever a ghost give a man a\nblack eye? That\'s what I should like to know. If ghos\'es want me to\nbelieve in \'em, let \'em leave off skulking i\' the dark and i\' lone\nplaces--let \'em come where there\'s company and candles.\"\n\n\"As if ghos\'es \'ud want to be believed in by anybody so ignirant!\" said\nMr. Macey, in deep disgust at the farrier\'s crass incompetence to\napprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nYet the next moment there seemed to be some evidence that ghosts had a\nmore condescending disposition than Mr. Macey attributed to them; for\nthe pale thin figure of Silas Marner was suddenly seen standing in the\nwarm light, uttering no word, but looking round at the company with his\nstrange unearthly eyes. The long pipes gave a simultaneous movement,\nlike the antennae of startled insects, and every man present, not\nexcepting even the sceptical farrier, had an impression that he saw,\nnot Silas Marner in the flesh, but an apparition; for the door by which\nSilas had entered was hidden by the high-screened seats, and no one had\nnoticed his approach. Mr. Macey, sitting a long way off the ghost,\nmight be supposed to have felt an argumentative triumph, which would\ntend to neutralize his share of the general alarm. Had he not always\nsaid that when Silas Marner was in that strange trance of his, his soul\nwent loose from his body? Here was the demonstration: nevertheless, on\nthe whole, he would have been as well contented without it. For a few\nmoments there was a dead silence, Marner\'s want of breath and agitation\nnot allowing him to speak. The landlord, under the habitual sense that\nhe was bound to keep his house open to all company, and confident in\nthe protection of his unbroken neutrality, at last took on himself the\ntask of adjuring the ghost.\n\n\"Master Marner,\" he said, in a conciliatory tone, \"what\'s lacking to\nyou? What\'s your business here?\"\n\n\"Robbed!\" said Silas, gaspingly. \"I\'ve been robbed! I want the\nconstable--and the Justice--and Squire Cass--and Mr. Crackenthorp.\"\n\n\"Lay hold on him, Jem Rodney,\" said the landlord, the idea of a ghost\nsubsiding; \"he\'s off his head, I doubt. He\'s wet through.\"\n\nJem Rodney was the outermost man, and sat conveniently near Marner\'s\nstanding-place; but he declined to give his services.\n\n\"Come and lay hold on him yourself, Mr. Snell, if you\'ve a mind,\" said\nJem, rather sullenly. \"He\'s been robbed, and murdered too, for what I\nknow,\" he added, in a muttering tone.\n\n\"Jem Rodney!\" said Silas, turning and fixing his strange eyes on the\nsuspected man.\n\n\"Aye, Master Marner, what do you want wi\' me?\" said Jem, trembling a\nlittle, and seizing his drinking-can as a defensive weapon.\n\n\"If it was you stole my money,\" said Silas, clasping his hands\nentreatingly, and raising his voice to a cry, \"give it me back--and I\nwon\'t meddle with you. I won\'t set the constable on you. Give it me\nback, and I\'ll let you--I\'ll let you have a guinea.\"\n\n\"Me stole your money!\" said Jem, angrily. \"I\'ll pitch this can at\nyour eye if you talk o\' _my_ stealing your money.\"\n\n\"Come, come, Master Marner,\" said the landlord, now rising resolutely,\nand seizing Marner by the shoulder, \"if you\'ve got any information to\nlay, speak it out sensible, and show as you\'re in your right mind, if\nyou expect anybody to listen to you. You\'re as wet as a drownded rat.\nSit down and dry yourself, and speak straight forrard.\"\n\n\"Ah, to be sure, man,\" said the farrier, who began to feel that he had\nnot been quite on a par with himself and the occasion. \"Let\'s have no\nmore staring and screaming, else we\'ll have you strapped for a madman.\nThat was why I didn\'t speak at the first--thinks I, the man\'s run mad.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, make him sit down,\" said several voices at once, well\npleased that the reality of ghosts remained still an open question.\n\nThe landlord forced Marner to take off his coat, and then to sit down\non a chair aloof from every one else, in the centre of the circle and\nin the direct rays of the fire. The weaver, too feeble to have any\ndistinct purpose beyond that of getting help to recover his money,\nsubmitted unresistingly. The transient fears of the company were now\nforgotten in their strong curiosity, and all faces were turned towards\nSilas, when the landlord, having seated himself again, said--\n\n\"Now then, Master Marner, what\'s this you\'ve got to say--as you\'ve been\nrobbed? Speak out.\"\n\n\"He\'d better not say again as it was me robbed him,\" cried Jem Rodney,\nhastily. \"What could I ha\' done with his money? I could as easy steal\nthe parson\'s surplice, and wear it.\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue, Jem, and let\'s hear what he\'s got to say,\" said the\nlandlord. \"Now then, Master Marner.\"\n\nSilas now told his story, under frequent questioning as the mysterious\ncharacter of the robbery became evident.\n\nThis strangely novel situation of opening his trouble to his Raveloe\nneighbours, of sitting in the warmth of a hearth not his own, and\nfeeling the presence of faces and voices which were his nearest promise\nof help, had doubtless its influence on Marner, in spite of his\npassionate preoccupation with his loss. Our consciousness rarely\nregisters the beginning of a growth within us any more than without us:\nthere have been many circulations of the sap before we detect the\nsmallest sign of the bud.\n\nThe slight suspicion with which his hearers at first listened to him,\ngradually melted away before the convincing simplicity of his distress:\nit was impossible for the neighbours to doubt that Marner was telling\nthe truth, not because they were capable of arguing at once from the\nnature of his statements to the absence of any motive for making them\nfalsely, but because, as Mr. Macey observed, \"Folks as had the devil to\nback \'em were not likely to be so mushed\" as poor Silas was. Rather,\nfrom the strange fact that the robber had left no traces, and had\nhappened to know the nick of time, utterly incalculable by mortal\nagents, when Silas would go away from home without locking his door,\nthe more probable conclusion seemed to be, that his disreputable\nintimacy in that quarter, if it ever existed, had been broken up, and\nthat, in consequence, this ill turn had been done to Marner by somebody\nit was quite in vain to set the constable after. Why this\npreternatural felon should be obliged to wait till the door was left\nunlocked, was a question which did not present itself.\n\n\"It isn\'t Jem Rodney as has done this work, Master Marner,\" said the\nlandlord. \"You mustn\'t be a-casting your eye at poor Jem. There may be\na bit of a reckoning against Jem for the matter of a hare or so, if\nanybody was bound to keep their eyes staring open, and niver to wink;\nbut Jem\'s been a-sitting here drinking his can, like the decentest man\ni\' the parish, since before you left your house, Master Marner, by your\nown account.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Mr. Macey; \"let\'s have no accusing o\' the innicent.\nThat isn\'t the law. There must be folks to swear again\' a man before\nhe can be ta\'en up. Let\'s have no accusing o\' the innicent, Master\nMarner.\"\n\nMemory was not so utterly torpid in Silas that it could not be awakened\nby these words. With a movement of compunction as new and strange to\nhim as everything else within the last hour, he started from his chair\nand went close up to Jem, looking at him as if he wanted to assure\nhimself of the expression in his face.\n\n\"I was wrong,\" he said--\"yes, yes--I ought to have thought. There\'s\nnothing to witness against you, Jem. Only you\'d been into my house\noftener than anybody else, and so you came into my head. I don\'t accuse\nyou--I won\'t accuse anybody--only,\" he added, lifting up his hands to\nhis head, and turning away with bewildered misery, \"I try--I try to\nthink where my guineas can be.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, they\'re gone where it\'s hot enough to melt \'em, I doubt,\"\nsaid Mr. Macey.\n\n\"Tchuh!\" said the farrier. And then he asked, with a cross-examining\nair, \"How much money might there be in the bags, Master Marner?\"\n\n\"Two hundred and seventy-two pounds, twelve and sixpence, last night\nwhen I counted it,\" said Silas, seating himself again, with a groan.\n\n\"Pooh! why, they\'d be none so heavy to carry. Some tramp\'s been in,\nthat\'s all; and as for the no footmarks, and the bricks and the sand\nbeing all right--why, your eyes are pretty much like a insect\'s, Master\nMarner; they\'re obliged to look so close, you can\'t see much at a time.\nIt\'s my opinion as, if I\'d been you, or you\'d been me--for it comes to\nthe same thing--you wouldn\'t have thought you\'d found everything as you\nleft it. But what I vote is, as two of the sensiblest o\' the company\nshould go with you to Master Kench, the constable\'s--he\'s ill i\' bed, I\nknow that much--and get him to appoint one of us his deppity; for\nthat\'s the law, and I don\'t think anybody \'ull take upon him to\ncontradick me there. It isn\'t much of a walk to Kench\'s; and then, if\nit\'s me as is deppity, I\'ll go back with you, Master Marner, and\nexamine your premises; and if anybody\'s got any fault to find with\nthat, I\'ll thank him to stand up and say it out like a man.\"\n\nBy this pregnant speech the farrier had re-established his\nself-complacency, and waited with confidence to hear himself named as\none of the superlatively sensible men.\n\n\"Let us see how the night is, though,\" said the landlord, who also\nconsidered himself personally concerned in this proposition. \"Why, it\nrains heavy still,\" he said, returning from the door.\n\n\"Well, I\'m not the man to be afraid o\' the rain,\" said the farrier.\n\"For it\'ll look bad when Justice Malam hears as respectable men like us\nhad a information laid before \'em and took no steps.\"\n\nThe landlord agreed with this view, and after taking the sense of the\ncompany, and duly rehearsing a small ceremony known in high\necclesiastical life as the _nolo episcopari_, he consented to take on\nhimself the chill dignity of going to Kench\'s. But to the farrier\'s\nstrong disgust, Mr. Macey now started an objection to his proposing\nhimself as a deputy-constable; for that oracular old gentleman,\nclaiming to know the law, stated, as a fact delivered to him by his\nfather, that no doctor could be a constable.\n\n\"And you\'re a doctor, I reckon, though you\'re only a cow-doctor--for a\nfly\'s a fly, though it may be a hoss-fly,\" concluded Mr. Macey,\nwondering a little at his own \"\'cuteness\".\n\nThere was a hot debate upon this, the farrier being of course\nindisposed to renounce the quality of doctor, but contending that a\ndoctor could be a constable if he liked--the law meant, he needn\'t be\none if he didn\'t like. Mr. Macey thought this was nonsense, since the\nlaw was not likely to be fonder of doctors than of other folks.\nMoreover, if it was in the nature of doctors more than of other men not\nto like being constables, how came Mr. Dowlas to be so eager to act in\nthat capacity?\n\n\"_I_ don\'t want to act the constable,\" said the farrier, driven into a\ncorner by this merciless reasoning; \"and there\'s no man can say it of\nme, if he\'d tell the truth. But if there\'s to be any jealousy and\nen_vy_ing about going to Kench\'s in the rain, let them go as like\nit--you won\'t get me to go, I can tell you.\"\n\nBy the landlord\'s intervention, however, the dispute was accommodated.\nMr. Dowlas consented to go as a second person disinclined to act\nofficially; and so poor Silas, furnished with some old coverings,\nturned out with his two companions into the rain again, thinking of the\nlong night-hours before him, not as those do who long to rest, but as\nthose who expect to \"watch for the morning\".\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nWhen Godfrey Cass returned from Mrs. Osgood\'s party at midnight, he was\nnot much surprised to learn that Dunsey had not come home. Perhaps he\nhad not sold Wildfire, and was waiting for another chance--perhaps, on\nthat foggy afternoon, he had preferred housing himself at the Red Lion\nat Batherley for the night, if the run had kept him in that\nneighbourhood; for he was not likely to feel much concern about leaving\nhis brother in suspense. Godfrey\'s mind was too full of Nancy\nLammeter\'s looks and behaviour, too full of the exasperation against\nhimself and his lot, which the sight of her always produced in him, for\nhim to give much thought to Wildfire, or to the probabilities of\nDunstan\'s conduct.\n\nThe next morning the whole village was excited by the story of the\nrobbery, and Godfrey, like every one else, was occupied in gathering\nand discussing news about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits. The rain\nhad washed away all possibility of distinguishing foot-marks, but a\nclose investigation of the spot had disclosed, in the direction\nopposite to the village, a tinder-box, with a flint and steel, half\nsunk in the mud. It was not Silas\'s tinder-box, for the only one he\nhad ever had was still standing on his shelf; and the inference\ngenerally accepted was, that the tinder-box in the ditch was somehow\nconnected with the robbery. A small minority shook their heads, and\nintimated their opinion that it was not a robbery to have much light\nthrown on it by tinder-boxes, that Master Marner\'s tale had a queer\nlook with it, and that such things had been known as a man\'s doing\nhimself a mischief, and then setting the justice to look for the doer.\nBut when questioned closely as to their grounds for this opinion, and\nwhat Master Marner had to gain by such false pretences, they only shook\ntheir heads as before, and observed that there was no knowing what some\nfolks counted gain; moreover, that everybody had a right to their own\nopinions, grounds or no grounds, and that the weaver, as everybody\nknew, was partly crazy. Mr. Macey, though he joined in the defence of\nMarner against all suspicions of deceit, also pooh-poohed the\ntinder-box; indeed, repudiated it as a rather impious suggestion,\ntending to imply that everything must be done by human hands, and that\nthere was no power which could make away with the guineas without\nmoving the bricks. Nevertheless, he turned round rather sharply on Mr.\nTookey, when the zealous deputy, feeling that this was a view of the\ncase peculiarly suited to a parish-clerk, carried it still farther, and\ndoubted whether it was right to inquire into a robbery at all when the\ncircumstances were so mysterious.\n\n\"As if,\" concluded Mr. Tookey--\"as if there was nothing but what could\nbe made out by justices and constables.\"\n\n\"Now, don\'t you be for overshooting the mark, Tookey,\" said Mr. Macey,\nnodding his head aside admonishingly. \"That\'s what you\'re allays at;\nif I throw a stone and hit, you think there\'s summat better than\nhitting, and you try to throw a stone beyond. What I said was against\nthe tinder-box: I said nothing against justices and constables, for\nthey\'re o\' King George\'s making, and it \'ud be ill-becoming a man in a\nparish office to fly out again\' King George.\"\n\nWhile these discussions were going on amongst the group outside the\nRainbow, a higher consultation was being carried on within, under the\npresidency of Mr. Crackenthorp, the rector, assisted by Squire Cass and\nother substantial parishioners. It had just occurred to Mr. Snell, the\nlandlord--he being, as he observed, a man accustomed to put two and two\ntogether--to connect with the tinder-box, which, as deputy-constable,\nhe himself had had the honourable distinction of finding, certain\nrecollections of a pedlar who had called to drink at the house about a\nmonth before, and had actually stated that he carried a tinder-box\nabout with him to light his pipe. Here, surely, was a clue to be\nfollowed out. And as memory, when duly impregnated with ascertained\nfacts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile, Mr. Snell gradually recovered\na vivid impression of the effect produced on him by the pedlar\'s\ncountenance and conversation. He had a \"look with his eye\" which fell\nunpleasantly on Mr. Snell\'s sensitive organism. To be sure, he didn\'t\nsay anything particular--no, except that about the tinder-box--but it\nisn\'t what a man says, it\'s the way he says it. Moreover, he had a\nswarthy foreignness of complexion which boded little honesty.\n\n\"Did he wear ear-rings?\" Mr. Crackenthorp wished to know, having some\nacquaintance with foreign customs.\n\n\"Well--stay--let me see,\" said Mr. Snell, like a docile clairvoyante,\nwho would really not make a mistake if she could help it. After\nstretching the corners of his mouth and contracting his eyes, as if he\nwere trying to see the ear-rings, he appeared to give up the effort,\nand said, \"Well, he\'d got ear-rings in his box to sell, so it\'s nat\'ral\nto suppose he might wear \'em. But he called at every house, a\'most, in\nthe village; there\'s somebody else, mayhap, saw \'em in his ears, though\nI can\'t take upon me rightly to say.\"\n\nMr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that somebody else would remember\nthe pedlar\'s ear-rings. For on the spread of inquiry among the\nvillagers it was stated with gathering emphasis, that the parson had\nwanted to know whether the pedlar wore ear-rings in his ears, and an\nimpression was created that a great deal depended on the eliciting of\nthis fact. Of course, every one who heard the question, not having any\ndistinct image of the pedlar as _without_ ear-rings, immediately had an\nimage of him _with_ ear-rings, larger or smaller, as the case might be;\nand the image was presently taken for a vivid recollection, so that the\nglazier\'s wife, a well-intentioned woman, not given to lying, and whose\nhouse was among the cleanest in the village, was ready to declare, as\nsure as ever she meant to take the sacrament the very next Christmas\nthat was ever coming, that she had seen big ear-rings, in the shape of\nthe young moon, in the pedlar\'s two ears; while Jinny Oates, the\ncobbler\'s daughter, being a more imaginative person, stated not only\nthat she had seen them too, but that they had made her blood creep, as\nit did at that very moment while there she stood.\n\nAlso, by way of throwing further light on this clue of the tinder-box,\na collection was made of all the articles purchased from the pedlar at\nvarious houses, and carried to the Rainbow to be exhibited there. In\nfact, there was a general feeling in the village, that for the\nclearing-up of this robbery there must be a great deal done at the\nRainbow, and that no man need offer his wife an excuse for going there\nwhile it was the scene of severe public duties.\n\nSome disappointment was felt, and perhaps a little indignation also,\nwhen it became known that Silas Marner, on being questioned by the\nSquire and the parson, had retained no other recollection of the pedlar\nthan that he had called at his door, but had not entered his house,\nhaving turned away at once when Silas, holding the door ajar, had said\nthat he wanted nothing. This had been Silas\'s testimony, though he\nclutched strongly at the idea of the pedlar\'s being the culprit, if\nonly because it gave him a definite image of a whereabout for his gold\nafter it had been taken away from its hiding-place: he could see it now\nin the pedlar\'s box. But it was observed with some irritation in the\nvillage, that anybody but a \"blind creatur\" like Marner would have seen\nthe man prowling about, for how came he to leave his tinder-box in the\nditch close by, if he hadn\'t been lingering there? Doubtless, he had\nmade his observations when he saw Marner at the door. Anybody might\nknow--and only look at him--that the weaver was a half-crazy miser. It\nwas a wonder the pedlar hadn\'t murdered him; men of that sort, with\nrings in their ears, had been known for murderers often and often;\nthere had been one tried at the \'sizes, not so long ago but what there\nwere people living who remembered it.\n\nGodfrey Cass, indeed, entering the Rainbow during one of Mr. Snell\'s\nfrequently repeated recitals of his testimony, had treated it lightly,\nstating that he himself had bought a pen-knife of the pedlar, and\nthought him a merry grinning fellow enough; it was all nonsense, he\nsaid, about the man\'s evil looks. But this was spoken of in the\nvillage as the random talk of youth, \"as if it was only Mr. Snell who\nhad seen something odd about the pedlar!\" On the contrary, there were\nat least half-a-dozen who were ready to go before Justice Malam, and\ngive in much more striking testimony than any the landlord could\nfurnish. It was to be hoped Mr. Godfrey would not go to Tarley and\nthrow cold water on what Mr. Snell said there, and so prevent the\njustice from drawing up a warrant. He was suspected of intending this,\nwhen, after mid-day, he was seen setting off on horseback in the\ndirection of Tarley.\n\nBut by this time Godfrey\'s interest in the robbery had faded before his\ngrowing anxiety about Dunstan and Wildfire, and he was going, not to\nTarley, but to Batherley, unable to rest in uncertainty about them any\nlonger. The possibility that Dunstan had played him the ugly trick of\nriding away with Wildfire, to return at the end of a month, when he had\ngambled away or otherwise squandered the price of the horse, was a fear\nthat urged itself upon him more, even, than the thought of an\naccidental injury; and now that the dance at Mrs. Osgood\'s was past, he\nwas irritated with himself that he had trusted his horse to Dunstan.\nInstead of trying to still his fears, he encouraged them, with that\nsuperstitious impression which clings to us all, that if we expect evil\nvery strongly it is the less likely to come; and when he heard a horse\napproaching at a trot, and saw a hat rising above a hedge beyond an\nangle of the lane, he felt as if his conjuration had succeeded. But no\nsooner did the horse come within sight, than his heart sank again. It\nwas not Wildfire; and in a few moments more he discerned that the rider\nwas not Dunstan, but Bryce, who pulled up to speak, with a face that\nimplied something disagreeable.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Godfrey, that\'s a lucky brother of yours, that Master\nDunsey, isn\'t he?\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" said Godfrey, hastily.\n\n\"Why, hasn\'t he been home yet?\" said Bryce.\n\n\"Home? no. What has happened? Be quick. What has he done with my\nhorse?\"\n\n\"Ah, I thought it was yours, though he pretended you had parted with it\nto him.\"\n\n\"Has he thrown him down and broken his knees?\" said Godfrey, flushed\nwith exasperation.\n\n\"Worse than that,\" said Bryce. \"You see, I\'d made a bargain with him\nto buy the horse for a hundred and twenty--a swinging price, but I\nalways liked the horse. And what does he do but go and stake him--fly\nat a hedge with stakes in it, atop of a bank with a ditch before it.\nThe horse had been dead a pretty good while when he was found. So he\nhasn\'t been home since, has he?\"\n\n\"Home? no,\" said Godfrey, \"and he\'d better keep away. Confound me for\na fool! I might have known this would be the end of it.\"\n\n\"Well, to tell you the truth,\" said Bryce, \"after I\'d bargained for the\nhorse, it did come into my head that he might be riding and selling the\nhorse without your knowledge, for I didn\'t believe it was his own. I\nknew Master Dunsey was up to his tricks sometimes. But where can he be\ngone? He\'s never been seen at Batherley. He couldn\'t have been hurt,\nfor he must have walked off.\"\n\n\"Hurt?\" said Godfrey, bitterly. \"He\'ll never be hurt--he\'s made to\nhurt other people.\"\n\n\"And so you _did_ give him leave to sell the horse, eh?\" said Bryce.\n\n\"Yes; I wanted to part with the horse--he was always a little too hard\nin the mouth for me,\" said Godfrey; his pride making him wince under\nthe idea that Bryce guessed the sale to be a matter of necessity. \"I\nwas going to see after him--I thought some mischief had happened. I\'ll\ngo back now,\" he added, turning the horse\'s head, and wishing he could\nget rid of Bryce; for he felt that the long-dreaded crisis in his life\nwas close upon him. \"You\'re coming on to Raveloe, aren\'t you?\"\n\n\"Well, no, not now,\" said Bryce. \"I _was_ coming round there, for I\nhad to go to Flitton, and I thought I might as well take you in my way,\nand just let you know all I knew myself about the horse. I suppose\nMaster Dunsey didn\'t like to show himself till the ill news had blown\nover a bit. He\'s perhaps gone to pay a visit at the Three Crowns, by\nWhitbridge--I know he\'s fond of the house.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he is,\" said Godfrey, rather absently. Then rousing himself,\nhe said, with an effort at carelessness, \"We shall hear of him soon\nenough, I\'ll be bound.\"\n\n\"Well, here\'s my turning,\" said Bryce, not surprised to perceive that\nGodfrey was rather \"down\"; \"so I\'ll bid you good-day, and wish I may\nbring you better news another time.\"\n\nGodfrey rode along slowly, representing to himself the scene of\nconfession to his father from which he felt that there was now no\nlonger any escape. The revelation about the money must be made the\nvery next morning; and if he withheld the rest, Dunstan would be sure\nto come back shortly, and, finding that he must bear the brunt of his\nfather\'s anger, would tell the whole story out of spite, even though he\nhad nothing to gain by it. There was one step, perhaps, by which he\nmight still win Dunstan\'s silence and put off the evil day: he might\ntell his father that he had himself spent the money paid to him by\nFowler; and as he had never been guilty of such an offence before, the\naffair would blow over after a little storming. But Godfrey could not\nbend himself to this. He felt that in letting Dunstan have the money,\nhe had already been guilty of a breach of trust hardly less culpable\nthan that of spending the money directly for his own behoof; and yet\nthere was a distinction between the two acts which made him feel that\nthe one was so much more blackening than the other as to be intolerable\nto him.\n\n\"I don\'t pretend to be a good fellow,\" he said to himself; \"but I\'m not\na scoundrel--at least, I\'ll stop short somewhere. I\'ll bear the\nconsequences of what I _have_ done sooner than make believe I\'ve done\nwhat I never would have done. I\'d never have spent the money for my\nown pleasure--I was tortured into it.\"\n\nThrough the remainder of this day Godfrey, with only occasional\nfluctuations, kept his will bent in the direction of a complete avowal\nto his father, and he withheld the story of Wildfire\'s loss till the\nnext morning, that it might serve him as an introduction to heavier\nmatter. The old Squire was accustomed to his son\'s frequent absence\nfrom home, and thought neither Dunstan\'s nor Wildfire\'s non-appearance\na matter calling for remark. Godfrey said to himself again and again,\nthat if he let slip this one opportunity of confession, he might never\nhave another; the revelation might be made even in a more odious way\nthan by Dunstan\'s malignity: _she_ might come as she had threatened to\ndo. And then he tried to make the scene easier to himself by\nrehearsal: he made up his mind how he would pass from the admission of\nhis weakness in letting Dunstan have the money to the fact that Dunstan\nhad a hold on him which he had been unable to shake off, and how he\nwould work up his father to expect something very bad before he told\nhim the fact. The old Squire was an implacable man: he made\nresolutions in violent anger, and he was not to be moved from them\nafter his anger had subsided--as fiery volcanic matters cool and harden\ninto rock. Like many violent and implacable men, he allowed evils to\ngrow under favour of his own heedlessness, till they pressed upon him\nwith exasperating force, and then he turned round with fierce severity\nand became unrelentingly hard. This was his system with his tenants:\nhe allowed them to get into arrears, neglect their fences, reduce their\nstock, sell their straw, and otherwise go the wrong way,--and then,\nwhen he became short of money in consequence of this indulgence, he\ntook the hardest measures and would listen to no appeal. Godfrey knew\nall this, and felt it with the greater force because he had constantly\nsuffered annoyance from witnessing his father\'s sudden fits of\nunrelentingness, for which his own habitual irresolution deprived him\nof all sympathy. (He was not critical on the faulty indulgence which\npreceded these fits; _that_ seemed to him natural enough.) Still there\nwas just the chance, Godfrey thought, that his father\'s pride might see\nthis marriage in a light that would induce him to hush it up, rather\nthan turn his son out and make the family the talk of the country for\nten miles round.\n\nThis was the view of the case that Godfrey managed to keep before him\npretty closely till midnight, and he went to sleep thinking that he had\ndone with inward debating. But when he awoke in the still morning\ndarkness he found it impossible to reawaken his evening thoughts; it\nwas as if they had been tired out and were not to be roused to further\nwork. Instead of arguments for confession, he could now feel the\npresence of nothing but its evil consequences: the old dread of\ndisgrace came back--the old shrinking from the thought of raising a\nhopeless barrier between himself and Nancy--the old disposition to rely\non chances which might be favourable to him, and save him from\nbetrayal. Why, after all, should he cut off the hope of them by his\nown act? He had seen the matter in a wrong light yesterday. He had\nbeen in a rage with Dunstan, and had thought of nothing but a thorough\nbreak-up of their mutual understanding; but what it would be really\nwisest for him to do, was to try and soften his father\'s anger against\nDunsey, and keep things as nearly as possible in their old condition.\nIf Dunsey did not come back for a few days (and Godfrey did not know\nbut that the rascal had enough money in his pocket to enable him to\nkeep away still longer), everything might blow over.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nGodfrey rose and took his own breakfast earlier than usual, but\nlingered in the wainscoted parlour till his younger brothers had\nfinished their meal and gone out; awaiting his father, who always took\na walk with his managing-man before breakfast. Every one breakfasted\nat a different hour in the Red House, and the Squire was always the\nlatest, giving a long chance to a rather feeble morning appetite before\nhe tried it. The table had been spread with substantial eatables\nnearly two hours before he presented himself--a tall, stout man of\nsixty, with a face in which the knit brow and rather hard glance seemed\ncontradicted by the slack and feeble mouth. His person showed marks of\nhabitual neglect, his dress was slovenly; and yet there was something\nin the presence of the old Squire distinguishable from that of the\nordinary farmers in the parish, who were perhaps every whit as refined\nas he, but, having slouched their way through life with a consciousness\nof being in the vicinity of their \"betters\", wanted that\nself-possession and authoritativeness of voice and carriage which\nbelonged to a man who thought of superiors as remote existences with\nwhom he had personally little more to do than with America or the\nstars. The Squire had been used to parish homage all his life, used to\nthe presupposition that his family, his tankards, and everything that\nwas his, were the oldest and best; and as he never associated with any\ngentry higher than himself, his opinion was not disturbed by comparison.\n\nHe glanced at his son as he entered the room, and said, \"What, sir!\nhaven\'t _you_ had your breakfast yet?\" but there was no pleasant\nmorning greeting between them; not because of any unfriendliness, but\nbecause the sweet flower of courtesy is not a growth of such homes as\nthe Red House.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Godfrey, \"I\'ve had my breakfast, but I was waiting to\nspeak to you.\"\n\n\"Ah! well,\" said the Squire, throwing himself indifferently into his\nchair, and speaking in a ponderous coughing fashion, which was felt in\nRaveloe to be a sort of privilege of his rank, while he cut a piece of\nbeef, and held it up before the deer-hound that had come in with him.\n\"Ring the bell for my ale, will you? You youngsters\' business is your\nown pleasure, mostly. There\'s no hurry about it for anybody but\nyourselves.\"\n\nThe Squire\'s life was quite as idle as his sons\', but it was a fiction\nkept up by himself and his contemporaries in Raveloe that youth was\nexclusively the period of folly, and that their aged wisdom was\nconstantly in a state of endurance mitigated by sarcasm. Godfrey\nwaited, before he spoke again, until the ale had been brought and the\ndoor closed--an interval during which Fleet, the deer-hound, had\nconsumed enough bits of beef to make a poor man\'s holiday dinner.\n\n\"There\'s been a cursed piece of ill-luck with Wildfire,\" he began;\n\"happened the day before yesterday.\"\n\n\"What! broke his knees?\" said the Squire, after taking a draught of\nale. \"I thought you knew how to ride better than that, sir. I never\nthrew a horse down in my life. If I had, I might ha\' whistled for\nanother, for _my_ father wasn\'t quite so ready to unstring as some\nother fathers I know of. But they must turn over a new leaf--_they_\nmust. What with mortgages and arrears, I\'m as short o\' cash as a\nroadside pauper. And that fool Kimble says the newspaper\'s talking\nabout peace. Why, the country wouldn\'t have a leg to stand on. Prices\n\'ud run down like a jack, and I should never get my arrears, not if I\nsold all the fellows up. And there\'s that damned Fowler, I won\'t put\nup with him any longer; I\'ve told Winthrop to go to Cox this very day.\nThe lying scoundrel told me he\'d be sure to pay me a hundred last\nmonth. He takes advantage because he\'s on that outlying farm, and\nthinks I shall forget him.\"\n\nThe Squire had delivered this speech in a coughing and interrupted\nmanner, but with no pause long enough for Godfrey to make it a pretext\nfor taking up the word again. He felt that his father meant to ward\noff any request for money on the ground of the misfortune with\nWildfire, and that the emphasis he had thus been led to lay on his\nshortness of cash and his arrears was likely to produce an attitude of\nmind the utmost unfavourable for his own disclosure. But he must go on,\nnow he had begun.\n\n\"It\'s worse than breaking the horse\'s knees--he\'s been staked and\nkilled,\" he said, as soon as his father was silent, and had begun to\ncut his meat. \"But I wasn\'t thinking of asking you to buy me another\nhorse; I was only thinking I\'d lost the means of paying you with the\nprice of Wildfire, as I\'d meant to do. Dunsey took him to the hunt to\nsell him for me the other day, and after he\'d made a bargain for a\nhundred and twenty with Bryce, he went after the hounds, and took some\nfool\'s leap or other that did for the horse at once. If it hadn\'t been\nfor that, I should have paid you a hundred pounds this morning.\"\n\nThe Squire had laid down his knife and fork, and was staring at his son\nin amazement, not being sufficiently quick of brain to form a probable\nguess as to what could have caused so strange an inversion of the\npaternal and filial relations as this proposition of his son to pay him\na hundred pounds.\n\n\"The truth is, sir--I\'m very sorry--I was quite to blame,\" said\nGodfrey. \"Fowler did pay that hundred pounds. He paid it to me, when\nI was over there one day last month. And Dunsey bothered me for the\nmoney, and I let him have it, because I hoped I should be able to pay\nit you before this.\"\n\nThe Squire was purple with anger before his son had done speaking, and\nfound utterance difficult. \"You let Dunsey have it, sir? And how long\nhave you been so thick with Dunsey that you must _collogue_ with him to\nembezzle my money? Are you turning out a scamp? I tell you I won\'t\nhave it. I\'ll turn the whole pack of you out of the house together,\nand marry again. I\'d have you to remember, sir, my property\'s got no\nentail on it;--since my grandfather\'s time the Casses can do as they\nlike with their land. Remember that, sir. Let Dunsey have the money!\nWhy should you let Dunsey have the money? There\'s some lie at the\nbottom of it.\"\n\n\"There\'s no lie, sir,\" said Godfrey. \"I wouldn\'t have spent the money\nmyself, but Dunsey bothered me, and I was a fool, and let him have it.\nBut I meant to pay it, whether he did or not. That\'s the whole story.\nI never meant to embezzle money, and I\'m not the man to do it. You\nnever knew me do a dishonest trick, sir.\"\n\n\"Where\'s Dunsey, then? What do you stand talking there for? Go and\nfetch Dunsey, as I tell you, and let him give account of what he wanted\nthe money for, and what he\'s done with it. He shall repent it. I\'ll\nturn him out. I said I would, and I\'ll do it. He shan\'t brave me. Go\nand fetch him.\"\n\n\"Dunsey isn\'t come back, sir.\"\n\n\"What! did he break his own neck, then?\" said the Squire, with some\ndisgust at the idea that, in that case, he could not fulfil his threat.\n\n\"No, he wasn\'t hurt, I believe, for the horse was found dead, and\nDunsey must have walked off. I daresay we shall see him again\nby-and-by. I don\'t know where he is.\"\n\n\"And what must you be letting him have my money for? Answer me that,\"\nsaid the Squire, attacking Godfrey again, since Dunsey was not within\nreach.\n\n\"Well, sir, I don\'t know,\" said Godfrey, hesitatingly. That was a\nfeeble evasion, but Godfrey was not fond of lying, and, not being\nsufficiently aware that no sort of duplicity can long flourish without\nthe help of vocal falsehoods, he was quite unprepared with invented\nmotives.\n\n\"You don\'t know? I tell you what it is, sir. You\'ve been up to some\ntrick, and you\'ve been bribing him not to tell,\" said the Squire, with\na sudden acuteness which startled Godfrey, who felt his heart beat\nviolently at the nearness of his father\'s guess. The sudden alarm\npushed him on to take the next step--a very slight impulse suffices for\nthat on a downward road.\n\n\"Why, sir,\" he said, trying to speak with careless ease, \"it was a\nlittle affair between me and Dunsey; it\'s no matter to anybody else.\nIt\'s hardly worth while to pry into young men\'s fooleries: it wouldn\'t\nhave made any difference to you, sir, if I\'d not had the bad luck to\nlose Wildfire. I should have paid you the money.\"\n\n\"Fooleries! Pshaw! it\'s time you\'d done with fooleries. And I\'d have\nyou know, sir, you _must_ ha\' done with \'em,\" said the Squire, frowning\nand casting an angry glance at his son. \"Your goings-on are not what I\nshall find money for any longer. There\'s my grandfather had his\nstables full o\' horses, and kept a good house, too, and in worse times,\nby what I can make out; and so might I, if I hadn\'t four\ngood-for-nothing fellows to hang on me like horse-leeches. I\'ve been\ntoo good a father to you all--that\'s what it is. But I shall pull up,\nsir.\"\n\nGodfrey was silent. He was not likely to be very penetrating in his\njudgments, but he had always had a sense that his father\'s indulgence\nhad not been kindness, and had had a vague longing for some discipline\nthat would have checked his own errant weakness and helped his better\nwill. The Squire ate his bread and meat hastily, took a deep draught\nof ale, then turned his chair from the table, and began to speak again.\n\n\"It\'ll be all the worse for you, you know--you\'d need try and help me\nkeep things together.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, I\'ve often offered to take the management of things, but\nyou know you\'ve taken it ill always, and seemed to think I wanted to\npush you out of your place.\"\n\n\"I know nothing o\' your offering or o\' my taking it ill,\" said the\nSquire, whose memory consisted in certain strong impressions unmodified\nby detail; \"but I know, one while you seemed to be thinking o\'\nmarrying, and I didn\'t offer to put any obstacles in your way, as some\nfathers would. I\'d as lieve you married Lammeter\'s daughter as\nanybody. I suppose, if I\'d said you nay, you\'d ha\' kept on with it;\nbut, for want o\' contradiction, you\'ve changed your mind. You\'re a\nshilly-shally fellow: you take after your poor mother. She never had a\nwill of her own; a woman has no call for one, if she\'s got a proper man\nfor her husband. But _your_ wife had need have one, for you hardly\nknow your own mind enough to make both your legs walk one way. The\nlass hasn\'t said downright she won\'t have you, has she?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Godfrey, feeling very hot and uncomfortable; \"but I don\'t\nthink she will.\"\n\n\"Think! why haven\'t you the courage to ask her? Do you stick to it,\nyou want to have _her_--that\'s the thing?\"\n\n\"There\'s no other woman I want to marry,\" said Godfrey, evasively.\n\n\"Well, then, let me make the offer for you, that\'s all, if you haven\'t\nthe pluck to do it yourself. Lammeter isn\'t likely to be loath for his\ndaughter to marry into _my_ family, I should think. And as for the\npretty lass, she wouldn\'t have her cousin--and there\'s nobody else, as\nI see, could ha\' stood in your way.\"\n\n\"I\'d rather let it be, please sir, at present,\" said Godfrey, in alarm.\n\"I think she\'s a little offended with me just now, and I should like to\nspeak for myself. A man must manage these things for himself.\"\n\n\"Well, speak, then, and manage it, and see if you can\'t turn over a new\nleaf. That\'s what a man must do when he thinks o\' marrying.\"\n\n\"I don\'t see how I can think of it at present, sir. You wouldn\'t like\nto settle me on one of the farms, I suppose, and I don\'t think she\'d\ncome to live in this house with all my brothers. It\'s a different sort\nof life to what she\'s been used to.\"\n\n\"Not come to live in this house? Don\'t tell me. You ask her, that\'s\nall,\" said the Squire, with a short, scornful laugh.\n\n\"I\'d rather let the thing be, at present, sir,\" said Godfrey. \"I hope\nyou won\'t try to hurry it on by saying anything.\"\n\n\"I shall do what I choose,\" said the Squire, \"and I shall let you know\nI\'m master; else you may turn out and find an estate to drop into\nsomewhere else. Go out and tell Winthrop not to go to Cox\'s, but wait\nfor me. And tell \'em to get my horse saddled. And stop: look out and\nget that hack o\' Dunsey\'s sold, and hand me the money, will you? He\'ll\nkeep no more hacks at my expense. And if you know where he\'s\nsneaking--I daresay you do--you may tell him to spare himself the\njourney o\' coming back home. Let him turn ostler, and keep himself.\nHe shan\'t hang on me any more.\"\n\n\"I don\'t know where he is, sir; and if I did, it isn\'t my place to tell\nhim to keep away,\" said Godfrey, moving towards the door.\n\n\"Confound it, sir, don\'t stay arguing, but go and order my horse,\" said\nthe Squire, taking up a pipe.\n\nGodfrey left the room, hardly knowing whether he were more relieved by\nthe sense that the interview was ended without having made any change\nin his position, or more uneasy that he had entangled himself still\nfurther in prevarication and deceit. What had passed about his\nproposing to Nancy had raised a new alarm, lest by some after-dinner\nwords of his father\'s to Mr. Lammeter he should be thrown into the\nembarrassment of being obliged absolutely to decline her when she\nseemed to be within his reach. He fled to his usual refuge, that of\nhoping for some unforeseen turn of fortune, some favourable chance\nwhich would save him from unpleasant consequences--perhaps even justify\nhis insincerity by manifesting its prudence. And in this point of\ntrusting to some throw of fortune\'s dice, Godfrey can hardly be called\nspecially old-fashioned. Favourable Chance, I fancy, is the god of all\nmen who follow their own devices instead of obeying a law they believe\nin. Let even a polished man of these days get into a position he is\nashamed to avow, and his mind will be bent on all the possible issues\nthat may deliver him from the calculable results of that position. Let\nhim live outside his income, or shirk the resolute honest work that\nbrings wages, and he will presently find himself dreaming of a possible\nbenefactor, a possible simpleton who may be cajoled into using his\ninterest, a possible state of mind in some possible person not yet\nforthcoming. Let him neglect the responsibilities of his office, and he\nwill inevitably anchor himself on the chance that the thing left undone\nmay turn out not to be of the supposed importance. Let him betray his\nfriend\'s confidence, and he will adore that same cunning complexity\ncalled Chance, which gives him the hope that his friend will never\nknow. Let him forsake a decent craft that he may pursue the\ngentilities of a profession to which nature never called him, and his\nreligion will infallibly be the worship of blessed Chance, which he\nwill believe in as the mighty creator of success. The evil principle\ndeprecated in that religion is the orderly sequence by which the seed\nbrings forth a crop after its kind.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nJustice Malam was naturally regarded in Tarley and Raveloe as a man of\ncapacious mind, seeing that he could draw much wider conclusions\nwithout evidence than could be expected of his neighbours who were not\non the Commission of the Peace. Such a man was not likely to neglect\nthe clue of the tinder-box, and an inquiry was set on foot concerning a\npedlar, name unknown, with curly black hair and a foreign complexion,\ncarrying a box of cutlery and jewellery, and wearing large rings in his\nears. But either because inquiry was too slow-footed to overtake him,\nor because the description applied to so many pedlars that inquiry did\nnot know how to choose among them, weeks passed away, and there was no\nother result concerning the robbery than a gradual cessation of the\nexcitement it had caused in Raveloe. Dunstan Cass\'s absence was hardly\na subject of remark: he had once before had a quarrel with his father,\nand had gone off, nobody knew whither, to return at the end of six\nweeks, take up his old quarters unforbidden, and swagger as usual. His\nown family, who equally expected this issue, with the sole difference\nthat the Squire was determined this time to forbid him the old\nquarters, never mentioned his absence; and when his uncle Kimble or Mr.\nOsgood noticed it, the story of his having killed Wildfire, and\ncommitted some offence against his father, was enough to prevent\nsurprise. To connect the fact of Dunsey\'s disappearance with that of\nthe robbery occurring on the same day, lay quite away from the track of\nevery one\'s thought--even Godfrey\'s, who had better reason than any one\nelse to know what his brother was capable of. He remembered no mention\nof the weaver between them since the time, twelve years ago, when it\nwas their boyish sport to deride him; and, besides, his imagination\nconstantly created an _alibi_ for Dunstan: he saw him continually in\nsome congenial haunt, to which he had walked off on leaving\nWildfire--saw him sponging on chance acquaintances, and meditating a\nreturn home to the old amusement of tormenting his elder brother. Even\nif any brain in Raveloe had put the said two facts together, I doubt\nwhether a combination so injurious to the prescriptive respectability\nof a family with a mural monument and venerable tankards, would not\nhave been suppressed as of unsound tendency. But Christmas puddings,\nbrawn, and abundance of spirituous liquors, throwing the mental\noriginality into the channel of nightmare, are great preservatives\nagainst a dangerous spontaneity of waking thought.\n\nWhen the robbery was talked of at the Rainbow and elsewhere, in good\ncompany, the balance continued to waver between the rational\nexplanation founded on the tinder-box, and the theory of an\nimpenetrable mystery that mocked investigation. The advocates of the\ntinder-box-and-pedlar view considered the other side a muddle-headed\nand credulous set, who, because they themselves were wall-eyed,\nsupposed everybody else to have the same blank outlook; and the\nadherents of the inexplicable more than hinted that their antagonists\nwere animals inclined to crow before they had found any corn--mere\nskimming-dishes in point of depth--whose clear-sightedness consisted in\nsupposing there was nothing behind a barn-door because they couldn\'t\nsee through it; so that, though their controversy did not serve to\nelicit the fact concerning the robbery, it elicited some true opinions\nof collateral importance.\n\nBut while poor Silas\'s loss served thus to brush the slow current of\nRaveloe conversation, Silas himself was feeling the withering\ndesolation of that bereavement about which his neighbours were arguing\nat their ease. To any one who had observed him before he lost his\ngold, it might have seemed that so withered and shrunken a life as his\ncould hardly be susceptible of a bruise, could hardly endure any\nsubtraction but such as would put an end to it altogether. But in\nreality it had been an eager life, filled with immediate purpose which\nfenced him in from the wide, cheerless unknown. It had been a clinging\nlife; and though the object round which its fibres had clung was a dead\ndisrupted thing, it satisfied the need for clinging. But now the fence\nwas broken down--the support was snatched away. Marner\'s thoughts\ncould no longer move in their old round, and were baffled by a blank\nlike that which meets a plodding ant when the earth has broken away on\nits homeward path. The loom was there, and the weaving, and the\ngrowing pattern in the cloth; but the bright treasure in the hole under\nhis feet was gone; the prospect of handling and counting it was gone:\nthe evening had no phantasm of delight to still the poor soul\'s\ncraving. The thought of the money he would get by his actual work\ncould bring no joy, for its meagre image was only a fresh reminder of\nhis loss; and hope was too heavily crushed by the sudden blow for his\nimagination to dwell on the growth of a new hoard from that small\nbeginning.\n\nHe filled up the blank with grief. As he sat weaving, he every now and\nthen moaned low, like one in pain: it was the sign that his thoughts\nhad come round again to the sudden chasm--to the empty evening-time.\nAnd all the evening, as he sat in his loneliness by his dull fire, he\nleaned his elbows on his knees, and clasped his head with his hands,\nand moaned very low--not as one who seeks to be heard.\n\nAnd yet he was not utterly forsaken in his trouble. The repulsion\nMarner had always created in his neighbours was partly dissipated by\nthe new light in which this misfortune had shown him. Instead of a man\nwho had more cunning than honest folks could come by, and, what was\nworse, had not the inclination to use that cunning in a neighbourly\nway, it was now apparent that Silas had not cunning enough to keep his\nown. He was generally spoken of as a \"poor mushed creatur\"; and that\navoidance of his neighbours, which had before been referred to his\nill-will and to a probable addiction to worse company, was now\nconsidered mere craziness.\n\nThis change to a kindlier feeling was shown in various ways. The odour\nof Christmas cooking being on the wind, it was the season when\nsuperfluous pork and black puddings are suggestive of charity in\nwell-to-do families; and Silas\'s misfortune had brought him uppermost\nin the memory of housekeepers like Mrs. Osgood. Mr. Crackenthorp, too,\nwhile he admonished Silas that his money had probably been taken from\nhim because he thought too much of it and never came to church,\nenforced the doctrine by a present of pigs\' pettitoes, well calculated\nto dissipate unfounded prejudices against the clerical character.\nNeighbours who had nothing but verbal consolation to give showed a\ndisposition not only to greet Silas and discuss his misfortune at some\nlength when they encountered him in the village, but also to take the\ntrouble of calling at his cottage and getting him to repeat all the\ndetails on the very spot; and then they would try to cheer him by\nsaying, \"Well, Master Marner, you\'re no worse off nor other poor folks,\nafter all; and if you was to be crippled, the parish \'ud give you a\n\'lowance.\"\n\nI suppose one reason why we are seldom able to comfort our neighbours\nwith our words is that our goodwill gets adulterated, in spite of\nourselves, before it can pass our lips. We can send black puddings and\npettitoes without giving them a flavour of our own egoism; but language\nis a stream that is almost sure to smack of a mingled soil. There was\na fair proportion of kindness in Raveloe; but it was often of a beery\nand bungling sort, and took the shape least allied to the complimentary\nand hypocritical.\n\nMr. Macey, for example, coming one evening expressly to let Silas know\nthat recent events had given him the advantage of standing more\nfavourably in the opinion of a man whose judgment was not formed\nlightly, opened the conversation by saying, as soon as he had seated\nhimself and adjusted his thumbs--\n\n\"Come, Master Marner, why, you\'ve no call to sit a-moaning. You\'re a\ndeal better off to ha\' lost your money, nor to ha\' kep it by foul\nmeans. I used to think, when you first come into these parts, as you\nwere no better nor you should be; you were younger a deal than what you\nare now; but you were allays a staring, white-faced creatur, partly\nlike a bald-faced calf, as I may say. But there\'s no knowing: it isn\'t\nevery queer-looksed thing as Old Harry\'s had the making of--I mean,\nspeaking o\' toads and such; for they\'re often harmless, like, and\nuseful against varmin. And it\'s pretty much the same wi\' you, as fur\nas I can see. Though as to the yarbs and stuff to cure the breathing,\nif you brought that sort o\' knowledge from distant parts, you might ha\'\nbeen a bit freer of it. And if the knowledge wasn\'t well come by, why,\nyou might ha\' made up for it by coming to church reg\'lar; for, as for\nthe children as the Wise Woman charmed, I\'ve been at the christening of\n\'em again and again, and they took the water just as well. And that\'s\nreasonable; for if Old Harry\'s a mind to do a bit o\' kindness for a\nholiday, like, who\'s got anything against it? That\'s my thinking; and\nI\'ve been clerk o\' this parish forty year, and I know, when the parson\nand me does the cussing of a Ash Wednesday, there\'s no cussing o\' folks\nas have a mind to be cured without a doctor, let Kimble say what he\nwill. And so, Master Marner, as I was saying--for there\'s windings i\'\nthings as they may carry you to the fur end o\' the prayer-book afore\nyou get back to \'em--my advice is, as you keep up your sperrits; for as\nfor thinking you\'re a deep un, and ha\' got more inside you nor \'ull\nbear daylight, I\'m not o\' that opinion at all, and so I tell the\nneighbours. For, says I, you talk o\' Master Marner making out a\ntale--why, it\'s nonsense, that is: it \'ud take a \'cute man to make a\ntale like that; and, says I, he looked as scared as a rabbit.\"\n\nDuring this discursive address Silas had continued motionless in his\nprevious attitude, leaning his elbows on his knees, and pressing his\nhands against his head. Mr. Macey, not doubting that he had been\nlistened to, paused, in the expectation of some appreciatory reply, but\nMarner remained silent. He had a sense that the old man meant to be\ngood-natured and neighbourly; but the kindness fell on him as sunshine\nfalls on the wretched--he had no heart to taste it, and felt that it\nwas very far off him.\n\n\"Come, Master Marner, have you got nothing to say to that?\" said Mr.\nMacey at last, with a slight accent of impatience.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Marner, slowly, shaking his head between his hands, \"I thank\nyou--thank you--kindly.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, to be sure: I thought you would,\" said Mr. Macey; \"and my\nadvice is--have you got a Sunday suit?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Marner.\n\n\"I doubted it was so,\" said Mr. Macey. \"Now, let me advise you to get\na Sunday suit: there\'s Tookey, he\'s a poor creatur, but he\'s got my\ntailoring business, and some o\' my money in it, and he shall make a\nsuit at a low price, and give you trust, and then you can come to\nchurch, and be a bit neighbourly. Why, you\'ve never heared me say\n\"Amen\" since you come into these parts, and I recommend you to lose no\ntime, for it\'ll be poor work when Tookey has it all to himself, for I\nmayn\'t be equil to stand i\' the desk at all, come another winter.\"\nHere Mr. Macey paused, perhaps expecting some sign of emotion in his\nhearer; but not observing any, he went on. \"And as for the money for\nthe suit o\' clothes, why, you get a matter of a pound a-week at your\nweaving, Master Marner, and you\'re a young man, eh, for all you look so\nmushed. Why, you couldn\'t ha\' been five-and-twenty when you come into\nthese parts, eh?\"\n\nSilas started a little at the change to a questioning tone, and\nanswered mildly, \"I don\'t know; I can\'t rightly say--it\'s a long while\nsince.\"\n\nAfter receiving such an answer as this, it is not surprising that Mr.\nMacey observed, later on in the evening at the Rainbow, that Marner\'s\nhead was \"all of a muddle\", and that it was to be doubted if he ever\nknew when Sunday came round, which showed him a worse heathen than many\na dog.\n\nAnother of Silas\'s comforters, besides Mr. Macey, came to him with a\nmind highly charged on the same topic. This was Mrs. Winthrop, the\nwheelwright\'s wife. The inhabitants of Raveloe were not severely\nregular in their church-going, and perhaps there was hardly a person in\nthe parish who would not have held that to go to church every Sunday in\nthe calendar would have shown a greedy desire to stand well with\nHeaven, and get an undue advantage over their neighbours--a wish to be\nbetter than the \"common run\", that would have implied a reflection on\nthose who had had godfathers and godmothers as well as themselves, and\nhad an equal right to the burying-service. At the same time, it was\nunderstood to be requisite for all who were not household servants, or\nyoung men, to take the sacrament at one of the great festivals: Squire\nCass himself took it on Christmas-day; while those who were held to be\n\"good livers\" went to church with greater, though still with moderate,\nfrequency.\n\nMrs. Winthrop was one of these: she was in all respects a woman of\nscrupulous conscience, so eager for duties that life seemed to offer\nthem too scantily unless she rose at half-past four, though this threw\na scarcity of work over the more advanced hours of the morning, which\nit was a constant problem with her to remove. Yet she had not the\nvixenish temper which is sometimes supposed to be a necessary condition\nof such habits: she was a very mild, patient woman, whose nature it was\nto seek out all the sadder and more serious elements of life, and\npasture her mind upon them. She was the person always first thought of\nin Raveloe when there was illness or death in a family, when leeches\nwere to be applied, or there was a sudden disappointment in a monthly\nnurse. She was a \"comfortable woman\"--good-looking,\nfresh-complexioned, having her lips always slightly screwed, as if she\nfelt herself in a sick-room with the doctor or the clergyman present.\nBut she was never whimpering; no one had seen her shed tears; she was\nsimply grave and inclined to shake her head and sigh, almost\nimperceptibly, like a funereal mourner who is not a relation. It\nseemed surprising that Ben Winthrop, who loved his quart-pot and his\njoke, got along so well with Dolly; but she took her husband\'s jokes\nand joviality as patiently as everything else, considering that \"men\n_would_ be so\", and viewing the stronger sex in the light of animals\nwhom it had pleased Heaven to make naturally troublesome, like bulls\nand turkey-cocks.\n\nThis good wholesome woman could hardly fail to have her mind drawn\nstrongly towards Silas Marner, now that he appeared in the light of a\nsufferer; and one Sunday afternoon she took her little boy Aaron with\nher, and went to call on Silas, carrying in her hand some small\nlard-cakes, flat paste-like articles much esteemed in Raveloe. Aaron,\nan apple-cheeked youngster of seven, with a clean starched frill which\nlooked like a plate for the apples, needed all his adventurous\ncuriosity to embolden him against the possibility that the big-eyed\nweaver might do him some bodily injury; and his dubiety was much\nincreased when, on arriving at the Stone-pits, they heard the\nmysterious sound of the loom.\n\n\"Ah, it is as I thought,\" said Mrs. Winthrop, sadly.\n\nThey had to knock loudly before Silas heard them; but when he did come\nto the door he showed no impatience, as he would once have done, at a\nvisit that had been unasked for and unexpected. Formerly, his heart had\nbeen as a locked casket with its treasure inside; but now the casket\nwas empty, and the lock was broken. Left groping in darkness, with his\nprop utterly gone, Silas had inevitably a sense, though a dull and\nhalf-despairing one, that if any help came to him it must come from\nwithout; and there was a slight stirring of expectation at the sight of\nhis fellow-men, a faint consciousness of dependence on their goodwill.\nHe opened the door wide to admit Dolly, but without otherwise returning\nher greeting than by moving the armchair a few inches as a sign that\nshe was to sit down in it. Dolly, as soon as she was seated, removed\nthe white cloth that covered her lard-cakes, and said in her gravest\nway--\n\n\"I\'d a baking yisterday, Master Marner, and the lard-cakes turned out\nbetter nor common, and I\'d ha\' asked you to accept some, if you\'d\nthought well. I don\'t eat such things myself, for a bit o\' bread\'s\nwhat I like from one year\'s end to the other; but men\'s stomichs are\nmade so comical, they want a change--they do, I know, God help \'em.\"\n\nDolly sighed gently as she held out the cakes to Silas, who thanked her\nkindly and looked very close at them, absently, being accustomed to\nlook so at everything he took into his hand--eyed all the while by the\nwondering bright orbs of the small Aaron, who had made an outwork of\nhis mother\'s chair, and was peeping round from behind it.\n\n\"There\'s letters pricked on \'em,\" said Dolly. \"I can\'t read \'em\nmyself, and there\'s nobody, not Mr. Macey himself, rightly knows what\nthey mean; but they\'ve a good meaning, for they\'re the same as is on\nthe pulpit-cloth at church. What are they, Aaron, my dear?\"\n\nAaron retreated completely behind his outwork.\n\n\"Oh, go, that\'s naughty,\" said his mother, mildly. \"Well, whativer the\nletters are, they\'ve a good meaning; and it\'s a stamp as has been in\nour house, Ben says, ever since he was a little un, and his mother used\nto put it on the cakes, and I\'ve allays put it on too; for if there\'s\nany good, we\'ve need of it i\' this world.\"\n\n\"It\'s I. H. S.,\" said Silas, at which proof of learning Aaron peeped\nround the chair again.\n\n\"Well, to be sure, you can read \'em off,\" said Dolly. \"Ben\'s read \'em\nto me many and many a time, but they slip out o\' my mind again; the\nmore\'s the pity, for they\'re good letters, else they wouldn\'t be in the\nchurch; and so I prick \'em on all the loaves and all the cakes, though\nsometimes they won\'t hold, because o\' the rising--for, as I said, if\nthere\'s any good to be got we\'ve need of it i\' this world--that we\nhave; and I hope they\'ll bring good to you, Master Marner, for it\'s wi\'\nthat will I brought you the cakes; and you see the letters have held\nbetter nor common.\"\n\nSilas was as unable to interpret the letters as Dolly, but there was no\npossibility of misunderstanding the desire to give comfort that made\nitself heard in her quiet tones. He said, with more feeling than\nbefore--\"Thank you--thank you kindly.\" But he laid down the cakes and\nseated himself absently--drearily unconscious of any distinct benefit\ntowards which the cakes and the letters, or even Dolly\'s kindness,\ncould tend for him.\n\n\"Ah, if there\'s good anywhere, we\'ve need of it,\" repeated Dolly, who\ndid not lightly forsake a serviceable phrase. She looked at Silas\npityingly as she went on. \"But you didn\'t hear the church-bells this\nmorning, Master Marner? I doubt you didn\'t know it was Sunday. Living\nso lone here, you lose your count, I daresay; and then, when your loom\nmakes a noise, you can\'t hear the bells, more partic\'lar now the frost\nkills the sound.\"\n\n\"Yes, I did; I heard \'em,\" said Silas, to whom Sunday bells were a mere\naccident of the day, and not part of its sacredness. There had been no\nbells in Lantern Yard.\n\n\"Dear heart!\" said Dolly, pausing before she spoke again. \"But what a\npity it is you should work of a Sunday, and not clean yourself--if you\n_didn\'t_ go to church; for if you\'d a roasting bit, it might be as you\ncouldn\'t leave it, being a lone man. But there\'s the bakehus, if you\ncould make up your mind to spend a twopence on the oven now and\nthen,--not every week, in course--I shouldn\'t like to do that\nmyself,--you might carry your bit o\' dinner there, for it\'s nothing but\nright to have a bit o\' summat hot of a Sunday, and not to make it as\nyou can\'t know your dinner from Saturday. But now, upo\' Christmas-day,\nthis blessed Christmas as is ever coming, if you was to take your\ndinner to the bakehus, and go to church, and see the holly and the yew,\nand hear the anthim, and then take the sacramen\', you\'d be a deal the\nbetter, and you\'d know which end you stood on, and you could put your\ntrust i\' Them as knows better nor we do, seein\' you\'d ha\' done what it\nlies on us all to do.\"\n\nDolly\'s exhortation, which was an unusually long effort of speech for\nher, was uttered in the soothing persuasive tone with which she would\nhave tried to prevail on a sick man to take his medicine, or a basin of\ngruel for which he had no appetite. Silas had never before been\nclosely urged on the point of his absence from church, which had only\nbeen thought of as a part of his general queerness; and he was too\ndirect and simple to evade Dolly\'s appeal.\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" he said, \"I know nothing o\' church. I\'ve never been to\nchurch.\"\n\n\"No!\" said Dolly, in a low tone of wonderment. Then bethinking\nherself of Silas\'s advent from an unknown country, she said, \"Could it\nha\' been as they\'d no church where you was born?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Silas, meditatively, sitting in his usual posture of\nleaning on his knees, and supporting his head. \"There was churches--a\nmany--it was a big town. But I knew nothing of \'em--I went to chapel.\"\n\nDolly was much puzzled at this new word, but she was rather afraid of\ninquiring further, lest \"chapel\" might mean some haunt of wickedness.\nAfter a little thought, she said--\n\n\"Well, Master Marner, it\'s niver too late to turn over a new leaf, and\nif you\'ve niver had no church, there\'s no telling the good it\'ll do\nyou. For I feel so set up and comfortable as niver was, when I\'ve been\nand heard the prayers, and the singing to the praise and glory o\' God,\nas Mr. Macey gives out--and Mr. Crackenthorp saying good words, and\nmore partic\'lar on Sacramen\' Day; and if a bit o\' trouble comes, I feel\nas I can put up wi\' it, for I\'ve looked for help i\' the right quarter,\nand gev myself up to Them as we must all give ourselves up to at the\nlast; and if we\'n done our part, it isn\'t to be believed as Them as are\nabove us \'ull be worse nor we are, and come short o\' Their\'n.\"\n\nPoor Dolly\'s exposition of her simple Raveloe theology fell rather\nunmeaningly on Silas\'s ears, for there was no word in it that could\nrouse a memory of what he had known as religion, and his comprehension\nwas quite baffled by the plural pronoun, which was no heresy of\nDolly\'s, but only her way of avoiding a presumptuous familiarity. He\nremained silent, not feeling inclined to assent to the part of Dolly\'s\nspeech which he fully understood--her recommendation that he should go\nto church. Indeed, Silas was so unaccustomed to talk beyond the brief\nquestions and answers necessary for the transaction of his simple\nbusiness, that words did not easily come to him without the urgency of\na distinct purpose.\n\nBut now, little Aaron, having become used to the weaver\'s awful\npresence, had advanced to his mother\'s side, and Silas, seeming to\nnotice him for the first time, tried to return Dolly\'s signs of\ngood-will by offering the lad a bit of lard-cake. Aaron shrank back a\nlittle, and rubbed his head against his mother\'s shoulder, but still\nthought the piece of cake worth the risk of putting his hand out for it.\n\n\"Oh, for shame, Aaron,\" said his mother, taking him on her lap,\nhowever; \"why, you don\'t want cake again yet awhile. He\'s wonderful\nhearty,\" she went on, with a little sigh--\"that he is, God knows. He\'s\nmy youngest, and we spoil him sadly, for either me or the father must\nallays hev him in our sight--that we must.\"\n\nShe stroked Aaron\'s brown head, and thought it must do Master Marner\ngood to see such a \"pictur of a child\". But Marner, on the other side\nof the hearth, saw the neat-featured rosy face as a mere dim round,\nwith two dark spots in it.\n\n\"And he\'s got a voice like a bird--you wouldn\'t think,\" Dolly went on;\n\"he can sing a Christmas carril as his father\'s taught him; and I take\nit for a token as he\'ll come to good, as he can learn the good tunes so\nquick. Come, Aaron, stan\' up and sing the carril to Master Marner,\ncome.\"\n\nAaron replied by rubbing his forehead against his mother\'s shoulder.\n\n\"Oh, that\'s naughty,\" said Dolly, gently. \"Stan\' up, when mother tells\nyou, and let me hold the cake till you\'ve done.\"\n\nAaron was not indisposed to display his talents, even to an ogre, under\nprotecting circumstances; and after a few more signs of coyness,\nconsisting chiefly in rubbing the backs of his hands over his eyes, and\nthen peeping between them at Master Marner, to see if he looked anxious\nfor the \"carril\", he at length allowed his head to be duly adjusted,\nand standing behind the table, which let him appear above it only as\nfar as his broad frill, so that he looked like a cherubic head\nuntroubled with a body, he began with a clear chirp, and in a melody\nthat had the rhythm of an industrious hammer\n\n \"God rest you, merry gentlemen,\n Let nothing you dismay,\n For Jesus Christ our Savior\n Was born on Christmas-day.\"\n\n\nDolly listened with a devout look, glancing at Marner in some\nconfidence that this strain would help to allure him to church.\n\n\"That\'s Christmas music,\" she said, when Aaron had ended, and had\nsecured his piece of cake again. \"There\'s no other music equil to the\nChristmas music--\"Hark the erol angils sing.\" And you may judge what\nit is at church, Master Marner, with the bassoon and the voices, as you\ncan\'t help thinking you\'ve got to a better place a\'ready--for I\nwouldn\'t speak ill o\' this world, seeing as Them put us in it as knows\nbest--but what wi\' the drink, and the quarrelling, and the bad\nillnesses, and the hard dying, as I\'ve seen times and times, one\'s\nthankful to hear of a better. The boy sings pretty, don\'t he, Master\nMarner?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Silas, absently, \"very pretty.\"\n\nThe Christmas carol, with its hammer-like rhythm, had fallen on his\nears as strange music, quite unlike a hymn, and could have none of the\neffect Dolly contemplated. But he wanted to show her that he was\ngrateful, and the only mode that occurred to him was to offer Aaron a\nbit more cake.\n\n\"Oh, no, thank you, Master Marner,\" said Dolly, holding down Aaron\'s\nwilling hands. \"We must be going home now. And so I wish you\ngood-bye, Master Marner; and if you ever feel anyways bad in your\ninside, as you can\'t fend for yourself, I\'ll come and clean up for you,\nand get you a bit o\' victual, and willing. But I beg and pray of you\nto leave off weaving of a Sunday, for it\'s bad for soul and body--and\nthe money as comes i\' that way \'ull be a bad bed to lie down on at the\nlast, if it doesn\'t fly away, nobody knows where, like the white frost.\nAnd you\'ll excuse me being that free with you, Master Marner, for I\nwish you well--I do. Make your bow, Aaron.\"\n\nSilas said \"Good-bye, and thank you kindly,\" as he opened the door for\nDolly, but he couldn\'t help feeling relieved when she was\ngone--relieved that he might weave again and moan at his ease. Her\nsimple view of life and its comforts, by which she had tried to cheer\nhim, was only like a report of unknown objects, which his imagination\ncould not fashion. The fountains of human love and of faith in a\ndivine love had not yet been unlocked, and his soul was still the\nshrunken rivulet, with only this difference, that its little groove of\nsand was blocked up, and it wandered confusedly against dark\nobstruction.\n\nAnd so, notwithstanding the honest persuasions of Mr. Macey and Dolly\nWinthrop, Silas spent his Christmas-day in loneliness, eating his meat\nin sadness of heart, though the meat had come to him as a neighbourly\npresent. In the morning he looked out on the black frost that seemed\nto press cruelly on every blade of grass, while the half-icy red pool\nshivered under the bitter wind; but towards evening the snow began to\nfall, and curtained from him even that dreary outlook, shutting him\nclose up with his narrow grief. And he sat in his robbed home through\nthe livelong evening, not caring to close his shutters or lock his\ndoor, pressing his head between his hands and moaning, till the cold\ngrasped him and told him that his fire was grey.\n\nNobody in this world but himself knew that he was the same Silas Marner\nwho had once loved his fellow with tender love, and trusted in an\nunseen goodness. Even to himself that past experience had become dim.\n\nBut in Raveloe village the bells rang merrily, and the church was\nfuller than all through the rest of the year, with red faces among the\nabundant dark-green boughs--faces prepared for a longer service than\nusual by an odorous breakfast of toast and ale. Those green boughs,\nthe hymn and anthem never heard but at Christmas--even the Athanasian\nCreed, which was discriminated from the others only as being longer and\nof exceptional virtue, since it was only read on rare\noccasions--brought a vague exulting sense, for which the grown men\ncould as little have found words as the children, that something great\nand mysterious had been done for them in heaven above and in earth\nbelow, which they were appropriating by their presence. And then the\nred faces made their way through the black biting frost to their own\nhomes, feeling themselves free for the rest of the day to eat, drink,\nand be merry, and using that Christian freedom without diffidence.\n\nAt Squire Cass\'s family party that day nobody mentioned Dunstan--nobody\nwas sorry for his absence, or feared it would be too long. The doctor\nand his wife, uncle and aunt Kimble, were there, and the annual\nChristmas talk was carried through without any omissions, rising to the\nclimax of Mr. Kimble\'s experience when he walked the London hospitals\nthirty years back, together with striking professional anecdotes then\ngathered. Whereupon cards followed, with aunt Kimble\'s annual failure\nto follow suit, and uncle Kimble\'s irascibility concerning the odd\ntrick which was rarely explicable to him, when it was not on his side,\nwithout a general visitation of tricks to see that they were formed on\nsound principles: the whole being accompanied by a strong steaming\nodour of spirits-and-water.\n\nBut the party on Christmas-day, being a strictly family party, was not\nthe pre-eminently brilliant celebration of the season at the Red House.\nIt was the great dance on New Year\'s Eve that made the glory of Squire\nCass\'s hospitality, as of his forefathers\', time out of mind. This was\nthe occasion when all the society of Raveloe and Tarley, whether old\nacquaintances separated by long rutty distances, or cooled\nacquaintances separated by misunderstandings concerning runaway calves,\nor acquaintances founded on intermittent condescension, counted on\nmeeting and on comporting themselves with mutual appropriateness. This\nwas the occasion on which fair dames who came on pillions sent their\nbandboxes before them, supplied with more than their evening costume;\nfor the feast was not to end with a single evening, like a paltry town\nentertainment, where the whole supply of eatables is put on the table\nat once, and bedding is scanty. The Red House was provisioned as if\nfor a siege; and as for the spare feather-beds ready to be laid on\nfloors, they were as plentiful as might naturally be expected in a\nfamily that had killed its own geese for many generations.\n\nGodfrey Cass was looking forward to this New Year\'s Eve with a foolish\nreckless longing, that made him half deaf to his importunate companion,\nAnxiety.\n\n\"Dunsey will be coming home soon: there will be a great blow-up, and\nhow will you bribe his spite to silence?\" said Anxiety.\n\n\"Oh, he won\'t come home before New Year\'s Eve, perhaps,\" said Godfrey;\n\"and I shall sit by Nancy then, and dance with her, and get a kind look\nfrom her in spite of herself.\"\n\n\"But money is wanted in another quarter,\" said Anxiety, in a louder\nvoice, \"and how will you get it without selling your mother\'s diamond\npin? And if you don\'t get it...?\"\n\n\"Well, but something may happen to make things easier. At any rate,\nthere\'s one pleasure for me close at hand: Nancy is coming.\"\n\n\"Yes, and suppose your father should bring matters to a pass that will\noblige you to decline marrying her--and to give your reasons?\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue, and don\'t worry me. I can see Nancy\'s eyes, just as\nthey will look at me, and feel her hand in mine already.\"\n\nBut Anxiety went on, though in noisy Christmas company; refusing to be\nutterly quieted even by much drinking.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nSome women, I grant, would not appear to advantage seated on a pillion,\nand attired in a drab joseph and a drab beaver-bonnet, with a crown\nresembling a small stew-pan; for a garment suggesting a coachman\'s\ngreatcoat, cut out under an exiguity of cloth that would only allow of\nminiature capes, is not well adapted to conceal deficiencies of\ncontour, nor is drab a colour that will throw sallow cheeks into lively\ncontrast. It was all the greater triumph to Miss Nancy Lammeter\'s\nbeauty that she looked thoroughly bewitching in that costume, as,\nseated on the pillion behind her tall, erect father, she held one arm\nround him, and looked down, with open-eyed anxiety, at the treacherous\nsnow-covered pools and puddles, which sent up formidable splashings of\nmud under the stamp of Dobbin\'s foot. A painter would, perhaps, have\npreferred her in those moments when she was free from\nself-consciousness; but certainly the bloom on her cheeks was at its\nhighest point of contrast with the surrounding drab when she arrived at\nthe door of the Red House, and saw Mr. Godfrey Cass ready to lift her\nfrom the pillion. She wished her sister Priscilla had come up at the\nsame time behind the servant, for then she would have contrived that\nMr. Godfrey should have lifted off Priscilla first, and, in the\nmeantime, she would have persuaded her father to go round to the\nhorse-block instead of alighting at the door-steps. It was very\npainful, when you had made it quite clear to a young man that you were\ndetermined not to marry him, however much he might wish it, that he\nwould still continue to pay you marked attentions; besides, why didn\'t\nhe always show the same attentions, if he meant them sincerely, instead\nof being so strange as Mr. Godfrey Cass was, sometimes behaving as if\nhe didn\'t want to speak to her, and taking no notice of her for weeks\nand weeks, and then, all on a sudden, almost making love again?\nMoreover, it was quite plain he had no real love for her, else he would\nnot let people have _that_ to say of him which they did say. Did he\nsuppose that Miss Nancy Lammeter was to be won by any man, squire or no\nsquire, who led a bad life? That was not what she had been used to see\nin her own father, who was the soberest and best man in that\ncountry-side, only a little hot and hasty now and then, if things were\nnot done to the minute.\n\nAll these thoughts rushed through Miss Nancy\'s mind, in their habitual\nsuccession, in the moments between her first sight of Mr. Godfrey Cass\nstanding at the door and her own arrival there. Happily, the Squire\ncame out too and gave a loud greeting to her father, so that, somehow,\nunder cover of this noise she seemed to find concealment for her\nconfusion and neglect of any suitably formal behaviour, while she was\nbeing lifted from the pillion by strong arms which seemed to find her\nridiculously small and light. And there was the best reason for\nhastening into the house at once, since the snow was beginning to fall\nagain, threatening an unpleasant journey for such guests as were still\non the road. These were a small minority; for already the afternoon\nwas beginning to decline, and there would not be too much time for the\nladies who came from a distance to attire themselves in readiness for\nthe early tea which was to inspirit them for the dance.\n\nThere was a buzz of voices through the house, as Miss Nancy entered,\nmingled with the scrape of a fiddle preluding in the kitchen; but the\nLammeters were guests whose arrival had evidently been thought of so\nmuch that it had been watched for from the windows, for Mrs. Kimble,\nwho did the honours at the Red House on these great occasions, came\nforward to meet Miss Nancy in the hall, and conduct her up-stairs.\nMrs. Kimble was the Squire\'s sister, as well as the doctor\'s wife--a\ndouble dignity, with which her diameter was in direct proportion; so\nthat, a journey up-stairs being rather fatiguing to her, she did not\noppose Miss Nancy\'s request to be allowed to find her way alone to the\nBlue Room, where the Miss Lammeters\' bandboxes had been deposited on\ntheir arrival in the morning.\n\nThere was hardly a bedroom in the house where feminine compliments were\nnot passing and feminine toilettes going forward, in various stages, in\nspace made scanty by extra beds spread upon the floor; and Miss Nancy,\nas she entered the Blue Room, had to make her little formal curtsy to a\ngroup of six. On the one hand, there were ladies no less important\nthan the two Miss Gunns, the wine merchant\'s daughters from Lytherly,\ndressed in the height of fashion, with the tightest skirts and the\nshortest waists, and gazed at by Miss Ladbrook (of the Old Pastures)\nwith a shyness not unsustained by inward criticism. Partly, Miss\nLadbrook felt that her own skirt must be regarded as unduly lax by the\nMiss Gunns, and partly, that it was a pity the Miss Gunns did not show\nthat judgment which she herself would show if she were in their place,\nby stopping a little on this side of the fashion. On the other hand,\nMrs. Ladbrook was standing in skull-cap and front, with her turban in\nher hand, curtsying and smiling blandly and saying, \"After you, ma\'am,\"\nto another lady in similar circumstances, who had politely offered the\nprecedence at the looking-glass.\n\nBut Miss Nancy had no sooner made her curtsy than an elderly lady came\nforward, whose full white muslin kerchief, and mob-cap round her curls\nof smooth grey hair, were in daring contrast with the puffed yellow\nsatins and top-knotted caps of her neighbours. She approached Miss\nNancy with much primness, and said, with a slow, treble suavity--\n\n\"Niece, I hope I see you well in health.\" Miss Nancy kissed her aunt\'s\ncheek dutifully, and answered, with the same sort of amiable primness,\n\"Quite well, I thank you, aunt; and I hope I see you the same.\"\n\n\"Thank you, niece; I keep my health for the present. And how is my\nbrother-in-law?\"\n\nThese dutiful questions and answers were continued until it was\nascertained in detail that the Lammeters were all as well as usual, and\nthe Osgoods likewise, also that niece Priscilla must certainly arrive\nshortly, and that travelling on pillions in snowy weather was\nunpleasant, though a joseph was a great protection. Then Nancy was\nformally introduced to her aunt\'s visitors, the Miss Gunns, as being\nthe daughters of a mother known to _their_ mother, though now for the\nfirst time induced to make a journey into these parts; and these ladies\nwere so taken by surprise at finding such a lovely face and figure in\nan out-of-the-way country place, that they began to feel some curiosity\nabout the dress she would put on when she took off her joseph. Miss\nNancy, whose thoughts were always conducted with the propriety and\nmoderation conspicuous in her manners, remarked to herself that the\nMiss Gunns were rather hard-featured than otherwise, and that such very\nlow dresses as they wore might have been attributed to vanity if their\nshoulders had been pretty, but that, being as they were, it was not\nreasonable to suppose that they showed their necks from a love of\ndisplay, but rather from some obligation not inconsistent with sense\nand modesty. She felt convinced, as she opened her box, that this must\nbe her aunt Osgood\'s opinion, for Miss Nancy\'s mind resembled her\naunt\'s to a degree that everybody said was surprising, considering the\nkinship was on Mr. Osgood\'s side; and though you might not have\nsupposed it from the formality of their greeting, there was a devoted\nattachment and mutual admiration between aunt and niece. Even Miss\nNancy\'s refusal of her cousin Gilbert Osgood (on the ground solely that\nhe was her cousin), though it had grieved her aunt greatly, had not in\nthe least cooled the preference which had determined her to leave Nancy\nseveral of her hereditary ornaments, let Gilbert\'s future wife be whom\nshe might.\n\nThree of the ladies quickly retired, but the Miss Gunns were quite\ncontent that Mrs. Osgood\'s inclination to remain with her niece gave\nthem also a reason for staying to see the rustic beauty\'s toilette. And\nit was really a pleasure--from the first opening of the bandbox, where\neverything smelt of lavender and rose-leaves, to the clasping of the\nsmall coral necklace that fitted closely round her little white neck.\nEverything belonging to Miss Nancy was of delicate purity and\nnattiness: not a crease was where it had no business to be, not a bit\nof her linen professed whiteness without fulfilling its profession; the\nvery pins on her pincushion were stuck in after a pattern from which\nshe was careful to allow no aberration; and as for her own person, it\ngave the same idea of perfect unvarying neatness as the body of a\nlittle bird. It is true that her light-brown hair was cropped behind\nlike a boy\'s, and was dressed in front in a number of flat rings, that\nlay quite away from her face; but there was no sort of coiffure that\ncould make Miss Nancy\'s cheek and neck look otherwise than pretty; and\nwhen at last she stood complete in her silvery twilled silk, her lace\ntucker, her coral necklace, and coral ear-drops, the Miss Gunns could\nsee nothing to criticise except her hands, which bore the traces of\nbutter-making, cheese-crushing, and even still coarser work. But Miss\nNancy was not ashamed of that, for even while she was dressing she\nnarrated to her aunt how she and Priscilla had packed their boxes\nyesterday, because this morning was baking morning, and since they were\nleaving home, it was desirable to make a good supply of meat-pies for\nthe kitchen; and as she concluded this judicious remark, she turned to\nthe Miss Gunns that she might not commit the rudeness of not including\nthem in the conversation. The Miss Gunns smiled stiffly, and thought\nwhat a pity it was that these rich country people, who could afford to\nbuy such good clothes (really Miss Nancy\'s lace and silk were very\ncostly), should be brought up in utter ignorance and vulgarity. She\nactually said \"mate\" for \"meat\", \"\'appen\" for \"perhaps\", and \"oss\" for\n\"horse\", which, to young ladies living in good Lytherly society, who\nhabitually said \'orse, even in domestic privacy, and only said \'appen\non the right occasions, was necessarily shocking. Miss Nancy, indeed,\nhad never been to any school higher than Dame Tedman\'s: her\nacquaintance with profane literature hardly went beyond the rhymes she\nhad worked in her large sampler under the lamb and the shepherdess; and\nin order to balance an account, she was obliged to effect her\nsubtraction by removing visible metallic shillings and sixpences from a\nvisible metallic total. There is hardly a servant-maid in these days\nwho is not better informed than Miss Nancy; yet she had the essential\nattributes of a lady--high veracity, delicate honour in her dealings,\ndeference to others, and refined personal habits,--and lest these\nshould not suffice to convince grammatical fair ones that her feelings\ncan at all resemble theirs, I will add that she was slightly proud and\nexacting, and as constant in her affection towards a baseless opinion\nas towards an erring lover.\n\nThe anxiety about sister Priscilla, which had grown rather active by\nthe time the coral necklace was clasped, was happily ended by the\nentrance of that cheerful-looking lady herself, with a face made blowsy\nby cold and damp. After the first questions and greetings, she turned\nto Nancy, and surveyed her from head to foot--then wheeled her round,\nto ascertain that the back view was equally faultless.\n\n\"What do you think o\' _these_ gowns, aunt Osgood?\" said Priscilla,\nwhile Nancy helped her to unrobe.\n\n\"Very handsome indeed, niece,\" said Mrs. Osgood, with a slight increase\nof formality. She always thought niece Priscilla too rough.\n\n\"I\'m obliged to have the same as Nancy, you know, for all I\'m five\nyears older, and it makes me look yallow; for she never _will_ have\nanything without I have mine just like it, because she wants us to look\nlike sisters. And I tell her, folks \'ull think it\'s my weakness makes\nme fancy as I shall look pretty in what she looks pretty in. For I\n_am_ ugly--there\'s no denying that: I feature my father\'s family. But,\nlaw! I don\'t mind, do you?\" Priscilla here turned to the Miss Gunns,\nrattling on in too much preoccupation with the delight of talking, to\nnotice that her candour was not appreciated. \"The pretty uns do for\nfly-catchers--they keep the men off us. I\'ve no opinion o\' the men,\nMiss Gunn--I don\'t know what _you_ have. And as for fretting and\nstewing about what _they_\'ll think of you from morning till night, and\nmaking your life uneasy about what they\'re doing when they\'re out o\'\nyour sight--as I tell Nancy, it\'s a folly no woman need be guilty of,\nif she\'s got a good father and a good home: let her leave it to them as\nhave got no fortin, and can\'t help themselves. As I say, Mr.\nHave-your-own-way is the best husband, and the only one I\'d ever\npromise to obey. I know it isn\'t pleasant, when you\'ve been used to\nliving in a big way, and managing hogsheads and all that, to go and put\nyour nose in by somebody else\'s fireside, or to sit down by yourself to\na scrag or a knuckle; but, thank God! my father\'s a sober man and\nlikely to live; and if you\'ve got a man by the chimney-corner, it\ndoesn\'t matter if he\'s childish--the business needn\'t be broke up.\"\n\nThe delicate process of getting her narrow gown over her head without\ninjury to her smooth curls, obliged Miss Priscilla to pause in this\nrapid survey of life, and Mrs. Osgood seized the opportunity of rising\nand saying--\n\n\"Well, niece, you\'ll follow us. The Miss Gunns will like to go down.\"\n\n\"Sister,\" said Nancy, when they were alone, \"you\'ve offended the Miss\nGunns, I\'m sure.\"\n\n\"What have I done, child?\" said Priscilla, in some alarm.\n\n\"Why, you asked them if they minded about being ugly--you\'re so very\nblunt.\"\n\n\"Law, did I? Well, it popped out: it\'s a mercy I said no more, for I\'m\na bad un to live with folks when they don\'t like the truth. But as for\nbeing ugly, look at me, child, in this silver-coloured silk--I told you\nhow it \'ud be--I look as yallow as a daffadil. Anybody \'ud say you\nwanted to make a mawkin of me.\"\n\n\"No, Priscy, don\'t say so. I begged and prayed of you not to let us\nhave this silk if you\'d like another better. I was willing to have\n_your_ choice, you know I was,\" said Nancy, in anxious self-vindication.\n\n\"Nonsense, child! you know you\'d set your heart on this; and reason\ngood, for you\'re the colour o\' cream. It \'ud be fine doings for you to\ndress yourself to suit _my_ skin. What I find fault with, is that\nnotion o\' yours as I must dress myself just like you. But you do as you\nlike with me--you always did, from when first you begun to walk. If\nyou wanted to go the field\'s length, the field\'s length you\'d go; and\nthere was no whipping you, for you looked as prim and innicent as a\ndaisy all the while.\"\n\n\"Priscy,\" said Nancy, gently, as she fastened a coral necklace, exactly\nlike her own, round Priscilla\'s neck, which was very far from being\nlike her own, \"I\'m sure I\'m willing to give way as far as is right, but\nwho shouldn\'t dress alike if it isn\'t sisters? Would you have us go\nabout looking as if we were no kin to one another--us that have got no\nmother and not another sister in the world? I\'d do what was right, if\nI dressed in a gown dyed with cheese-colouring; and I\'d rather you\'d\nchoose, and let me wear what pleases you.\"\n\n\"There you go again! You\'d come round to the same thing if one talked\nto you from Saturday night till Saturday morning. It\'ll be fine fun to\nsee how you\'ll master your husband and never raise your voice above the\nsinging o\' the kettle all the while. I like to see the men mastered!\"\n\n\"Don\'t talk _so_, Priscy,\" said Nancy, blushing. \"You know I don\'t\nmean ever to be married.\"\n\n\"Oh, you never mean a fiddlestick\'s end!\" said Priscilla, as she\narranged her discarded dress, and closed her bandbox. \"Who shall _I_\nhave to work for when father\'s gone, if you are to go and take notions\nin your head and be an old maid, because some folks are no better than\nthey should be? I haven\'t a bit o\' patience with you--sitting on an\naddled egg for ever, as if there was never a fresh un in the world.\nOne old maid\'s enough out o\' two sisters; and I shall do credit to a\nsingle life, for God A\'mighty meant me for it. Come, we can go down\nnow. I\'m as ready as a mawkin _can_ be--there\'s nothing awanting to\nfrighten the crows, now I\'ve got my ear-droppers in.\"\n\nAs the two Miss Lammeters walked into the large parlour together, any\none who did not know the character of both might certainly have\nsupposed that the reason why the square-shouldered, clumsy,\nhigh-featured Priscilla wore a dress the facsimile of her pretty\nsister\'s, was either the mistaken vanity of the one, or the malicious\ncontrivance of the other in order to set off her own rare beauty. But\nthe good-natured self-forgetful cheeriness and common-sense of\nPriscilla would soon have dissipated the one suspicion; and the modest\ncalm of Nancy\'s speech and manners told clearly of a mind free from all\ndisavowed devices.\n\nPlaces of honour had been kept for the Miss Lammeters near the head of\nthe principal tea-table in the wainscoted parlour, now looking fresh\nand pleasant with handsome branches of holly, yew, and laurel, from the\nabundant growths of the old garden; and Nancy felt an inward flutter,\nthat no firmness of purpose could prevent, when she saw Mr. Godfrey\nCass advancing to lead her to a seat between himself and Mr.\nCrackenthorp, while Priscilla was called to the opposite side between\nher father and the Squire. It certainly did make some difference to\nNancy that the lover she had given up was the young man of quite the\nhighest consequence in the parish--at home in a venerable and unique\nparlour, which was the extremity of grandeur in her experience, a\nparlour where _she_ might one day have been mistress, with the\nconsciousness that she was spoken of as \"Madam Cass\", the Squire\'s\nwife. These circumstances exalted her inward drama in her own eyes,\nand deepened the emphasis with which she declared to herself that not\nthe most dazzling rank should induce her to marry a man whose conduct\nshowed him careless of his character, but that, \"love once, love\nalways\", was the motto of a true and pure woman, and no man should ever\nhave any right over her which would be a call on her to destroy the\ndried flowers that she treasured, and always would treasure, for\nGodfrey Cass\'s sake. And Nancy was capable of keeping her word to\nherself under very trying conditions. Nothing but a becoming blush\nbetrayed the moving thoughts that urged themselves upon her as she\naccepted the seat next to Mr. Crackenthorp; for she was so\ninstinctively neat and adroit in all her actions, and her pretty lips\nmet each other with such quiet firmness, that it would have been\ndifficult for her to appear agitated.\n\nIt was not the rector\'s practice to let a charming blush pass without\nan appropriate compliment. He was not in the least lofty or\naristocratic, but simply a merry-eyed, small-featured, grey-haired man,\nwith his chin propped by an ample, many-creased white neckcloth which\nseemed to predominate over every other point in his person, and somehow\nto impress its peculiar character on his remarks; so that to have\nconsidered his amenities apart from his cravat would have been a\nsevere, and perhaps a dangerous, effort of abstraction.\n\n\"Ha, Miss Nancy,\" he said, turning his head within his cravat and\nsmiling down pleasantly upon her, \"when anybody pretends this has been\na severe winter, I shall tell them I saw the roses blooming on New\nYear\'s Eve--eh, Godfrey, what do _you_ say?\"\n\nGodfrey made no reply, and avoided looking at Nancy very markedly; for\nthough these complimentary personalities were held to be in excellent\ntaste in old-fashioned Raveloe society, reverent love has a politeness\nof its own which it teaches to men otherwise of small schooling. But\nthe Squire was rather impatient at Godfrey\'s showing himself a dull\nspark in this way. By this advanced hour of the day, the Squire was\nalways in higher spirits than we have seen him in at the\nbreakfast-table, and felt it quite pleasant to fulfil the hereditary\nduty of being noisily jovial and patronizing: the large silver\nsnuff-box was in active service and was offered without fail to all\nneighbours from time to time, however often they might have declined\nthe favour. At present, the Squire had only given an express welcome\nto the heads of families as they appeared; but always as the evening\ndeepened, his hospitality rayed out more widely, till he had tapped the\nyoungest guests on the back and shown a peculiar fondness for their\npresence, in the full belief that they must feel their lives made happy\nby their belonging to a parish where there was such a hearty man as\nSquire Cass to invite them and wish them well. Even in this early\nstage of the jovial mood, it was natural that he should wish to supply\nhis son\'s deficiencies by looking and speaking for him.\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" he began, offering his snuff-box to Mr. Lammeter, who for\nthe second time bowed his head and waved his hand in stiff rejection of\nthe offer, \"us old fellows may wish ourselves young to-night, when we\nsee the mistletoe-bough in the White Parlour. It\'s true, most things\nare gone back\'ard in these last thirty years--the country\'s going down\nsince the old king fell ill. But when I look at Miss Nancy here, I\nbegin to think the lasses keep up their quality;--ding me if I remember\na sample to match her, not when I was a fine young fellow, and thought\na deal about my pigtail. No offence to you, madam,\" he added, bending\nto Mrs. Crackenthorp, who sat by him, \"I didn\'t know _you_ when you\nwere as young as Miss Nancy here.\"\n\nMrs. Crackenthorp--a small blinking woman, who fidgeted incessantly\nwith her lace, ribbons, and gold chain, turning her head about and\nmaking subdued noises, very much like a guinea-pig that twitches its\nnose and soliloquizes in all company indiscriminately--now blinked and\nfidgeted towards the Squire, and said, \"Oh, no--no offence.\"\n\nThis emphatic compliment of the Squire\'s to Nancy was felt by others\nbesides Godfrey to have a diplomatic significance; and her father gave\na slight additional erectness to his back, as he looked across the\ntable at her with complacent gravity. That grave and orderly senior\nwas not going to bate a jot of his dignity by seeming elated at the\nnotion of a match between his family and the Squire\'s: he was gratified\nby any honour paid to his daughter; but he must see an alteration in\nseveral ways before his consent would be vouchsafed. His spare but\nhealthy person, and high-featured firm face, that looked as if it had\nnever been flushed by excess, was in strong contrast, not only with the\nSquire\'s, but with the appearance of the Raveloe farmers generally--in\naccordance with a favourite saying of his own, that \"breed was stronger\nthan pasture\".\n\n\"Miss Nancy\'s wonderful like what her mother was, though; isn\'t she,\nKimble?\" said the stout lady of that name, looking round for her\nhusband.\n\nBut Doctor Kimble (country apothecaries in old days enjoyed that title\nwithout authority of diploma), being a thin and agile man, was flitting\nabout the room with his hands in his pockets, making himself agreeable\nto his feminine patients, with medical impartiality, and being welcomed\neverywhere as a doctor by hereditary right--not one of those miserable\napothecaries who canvass for practice in strange neighbourhoods, and\nspend all their income in starving their one horse, but a man of\nsubstance, able to keep an extravagant table like the best of his\npatients. Time out of mind the Raveloe doctor had been a Kimble;\nKimble was inherently a doctor\'s name; and it was difficult to\ncontemplate firmly the melancholy fact that the actual Kimble had no\nson, so that his practice might one day be handed over to a successor\nwith the incongruous name of Taylor or Johnson. But in that case the\nwiser people in Raveloe would employ Dr. Blick of Flitton--as less\nunnatural.\n\n\"Did you speak to me, my dear?\" said the authentic doctor, coming\nquickly to his wife\'s side; but, as if foreseeing that she would be too\nmuch out of breath to repeat her remark, he went on immediately--\"Ha,\nMiss Priscilla, the sight of you revives the taste of that\nsuper-excellent pork-pie. I hope the batch isn\'t near an end.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, it is, doctor,\" said Priscilla; \"but I\'ll answer for it\nthe next shall be as good. My pork-pies don\'t turn out well by chance.\"\n\n\"Not as your doctoring does, eh, Kimble?--because folks forget to take\nyour physic, eh?\" said the Squire, who regarded physic and doctors as\nmany loyal churchmen regard the church and the clergy--tasting a joke\nagainst them when he was in health, but impatiently eager for their aid\nwhen anything was the matter with him. He tapped his box, and looked\nround with a triumphant laugh.\n\n\"Ah, she has a quick wit, my friend Priscilla has,\" said the doctor,\nchoosing to attribute the epigram to a lady rather than allow a\nbrother-in-law that advantage over him. \"She saves a little pepper to\nsprinkle over her talk--that\'s the reason why she never puts too much\ninto her pies. There\'s my wife now, she never has an answer at her\ntongue\'s end; but if I offend her, she\'s sure to scarify my throat with\nblack pepper the next day, or else give me the colic with watery\ngreens. That\'s an awful tit-for-tat.\" Here the vivacious doctor made\na pathetic grimace.\n\n\"Did you ever hear the like?\" said Mrs. Kimble, laughing above her\ndouble chin with much good-humour, aside to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who\nblinked and nodded, and seemed to intend a smile, which, by the\ncorrelation of forces, went off in small twitchings and noises.\n\n\"I suppose that\'s the sort of tit-for-tat adopted in your profession,\nKimble, if you\'ve a grudge against a patient,\" said the rector.\n\n\"Never do have a grudge against our patients,\" said Mr. Kimble, \"except\nwhen they leave us: and then, you see, we haven\'t the chance of\nprescribing for \'em. Ha, Miss Nancy,\" he continued, suddenly skipping\nto Nancy\'s side, \"you won\'t forget your promise? You\'re to save a dance\nfor me, you know.\"\n\n\"Come, come, Kimble, don\'t you be too for\'ard,\" said the Squire. \"Give\nthe young uns fair-play. There\'s my son Godfrey\'ll be wanting to have\na round with you if you run off with Miss Nancy. He\'s bespoke her for\nthe first dance, I\'ll be bound. Eh, sir! what do you say?\" he\ncontinued, throwing himself backward, and looking at Godfrey. \"Haven\'t\nyou asked Miss Nancy to open the dance with you?\"\n\nGodfrey, sorely uncomfortable under this significant insistence about\nNancy, and afraid to think where it would end by the time his father\nhad set his usual hospitable example of drinking before and after\nsupper, saw no course open but to turn to Nancy and say, with as little\nawkwardness as possible--\n\n\"No; I\'ve not asked her yet, but I hope she\'ll consent--if somebody\nelse hasn\'t been before me.\"\n\n\"No, I\'ve not engaged myself,\" said Nancy, quietly, though blushingly.\n(If Mr. Godfrey founded any hopes on her consenting to dance with him,\nhe would soon be undeceived; but there was no need for her to be\nuncivil.)\n\n\"Then I hope you\'ve no objections to dancing with me,\" said Godfrey,\nbeginning to lose the sense that there was anything uncomfortable in\nthis arrangement.\n\n\"No, no objections,\" said Nancy, in a cold tone.\n\n\"Ah, well, you\'re a lucky fellow, Godfrey,\" said uncle Kimble; \"but\nyou\'re my godson, so I won\'t stand in your way. Else I\'m not so very\nold, eh, my dear?\" he went on, skipping to his wife\'s side again.\n\"You wouldn\'t mind my having a second after you were gone--not if I\ncried a good deal first?\"\n\n\"Come, come, take a cup o\' tea and stop your tongue, do,\" said\ngood-humoured Mrs. Kimble, feeling some pride in a husband who must be\nregarded as so clever and amusing by the company generally. If he had\nonly not been irritable at cards!\n\nWhile safe, well-tested personalities were enlivening the tea in this\nway, the sound of the fiddle approaching within a distance at which it\ncould be heard distinctly, made the young people look at each other\nwith sympathetic impatience for the end of the meal.\n\n\"Why, there\'s Solomon in the hall,\" said the Squire, \"and playing my\nfav\'rite tune, _I_ believe--\"The flaxen-headed ploughboy\"--he\'s for\ngiving us a hint as we aren\'t enough in a hurry to hear him play.\nBob,\" he called out to his third long-legged son, who was at the other\nend of the room, \"open the door, and tell Solomon to come in. He shall\ngive us a tune here.\"\n\nBob obeyed, and Solomon walked in, fiddling as he walked, for he would\non no account break off in the middle of a tune.\n\n\"Here, Solomon,\" said the Squire, with loud patronage. \"Round here, my\nman. Ah, I knew it was \"The flaxen-headed ploughboy\": there\'s no finer\ntune.\"\n\nSolomon Macey, a small hale old man with an abundant crop of long white\nhair reaching nearly to his shoulders, advanced to the indicated spot,\nbowing reverently while he fiddled, as much as to say that he respected\nthe company, though he respected the key-note more. As soon as he had\nrepeated the tune and lowered his fiddle, he bowed again to the Squire\nand the rector, and said, \"I hope I see your honour and your reverence\nwell, and wishing you health and long life and a happy New Year. And\nwishing the same to you, Mr. Lammeter, sir; and to the other gentlemen,\nand the madams, and the young lasses.\"\n\nAs Solomon uttered the last words, he bowed in all directions\nsolicitously, lest he should be wanting in due respect. But thereupon\nhe immediately began to prelude, and fell into the tune which he knew\nwould be taken as a special compliment by Mr. Lammeter.\n\n\"Thank ye, Solomon, thank ye,\" said Mr. Lammeter when the fiddle paused\nagain. \"That\'s \"Over the hills and far away\", that is. My father used\nto say to me, whenever we heard that tune, \"Ah, lad, _I_ come from over\nthe hills and far away.\" There\'s a many tunes I don\'t make head or\ntail of; but that speaks to me like the blackbird\'s whistle. I suppose\nit\'s the name: there\'s a deal in the name of a tune.\"\n\nBut Solomon was already impatient to prelude again, and presently broke\nwith much spirit into \"Sir Roger de Coverley\", at which there was a\nsound of chairs pushed back, and laughing voices.\n\n\"Aye, aye, Solomon, we know what that means,\" said the Squire, rising.\n\"It\'s time to begin the dance, eh? Lead the way, then, and we\'ll all\nfollow you.\"\n\nSo Solomon, holding his white head on one side, and playing vigorously,\nmarched forward at the head of the gay procession into the White\nParlour, where the mistletoe-bough was hung, and multitudinous tallow\ncandles made rather a brilliant effect, gleaming from among the berried\nholly-boughs, and reflected in the old-fashioned oval mirrors fastened\nin the panels of the white wainscot. A quaint procession! Old\nSolomon, in his seedy clothes and long white locks, seemed to be luring\nthat decent company by the magic scream of his fiddle--luring discreet\nmatrons in turban-shaped caps, nay, Mrs. Crackenthorp herself, the\nsummit of whose perpendicular feather was on a level with the Squire\'s\nshoulder--luring fair lasses complacently conscious of very short\nwaists and skirts blameless of front-folds--luring burly fathers in\nlarge variegated waistcoats, and ruddy sons, for the most part shy and\nsheepish, in short nether garments and very long coat-tails.\n\nAlready Mr. Macey and a few other privileged villagers, who were\nallowed to be spectators on these great occasions, were seated on\nbenches placed for them near the door; and great was the admiration and\nsatisfaction in that quarter when the couples had formed themselves for\nthe dance, and the Squire led off with Mrs. Crackenthorp, joining hands\nwith the rector and Mrs. Osgood. That was as it should be--that was\nwhat everybody had been used to--and the charter of Raveloe seemed to\nbe renewed by the ceremony. It was not thought of as an unbecoming\nlevity for the old and middle-aged people to dance a little before\nsitting down to cards, but rather as part of their social duties. For\nwhat were these if not to be merry at appropriate times, interchanging\nvisits and poultry with due frequency, paying each other\nold-established compliments in sound traditional phrases, passing\nwell-tried personal jokes, urging your guests to eat and drink too much\nout of hospitality, and eating and drinking too much in your\nneighbour\'s house to show that you liked your cheer? And the parson\nnaturally set an example in these social duties. For it would not have\nbeen possible for the Raveloe mind, without a peculiar revelation, to\nknow that a clergyman should be a pale-faced memento of solemnities,\ninstead of a reasonably faulty man whose exclusive authority to read\nprayers and preach, to christen, marry, and bury you, necessarily\ncoexisted with the right to sell you the ground to be buried in and to\ntake tithe in kind; on which last point, of course, there was a little\ngrumbling, but not to the extent of irreligion--not of deeper\nsignificance than the grumbling at the rain, which was by no means\naccompanied with a spirit of impious defiance, but with a desire that\nthe prayer for fine weather might be read forthwith.\n\nThere was no reason, then, why the rector\'s dancing should not be\nreceived as part of the fitness of things quite as much as the\nSquire\'s, or why, on the other hand, Mr. Macey\'s official respect\nshould restrain him from subjecting the parson\'s performance to that\ncriticism with which minds of extraordinary acuteness must necessarily\ncontemplate the doings of their fallible fellow-men.\n\n\"The Squire\'s pretty springe, considering his weight,\" said Mr. Macey,\n\"and he stamps uncommon well. But Mr. Lammeter beats \'em all for\nshapes: you see he holds his head like a sodger, and he isn\'t so\ncushiony as most o\' the oldish gentlefolks--they run fat in general;\nand he\'s got a fine leg. The parson\'s nimble enough, but he hasn\'t got\nmuch of a leg: it\'s a bit too thick down\'ard, and his knees might be a\nbit nearer wi\'out damage; but he might do worse, he might do worse.\nThough he hasn\'t that grand way o\' waving his hand as the Squire has.\"\n\n\"Talk o\' nimbleness, look at Mrs. Osgood,\" said Ben Winthrop, who was\nholding his son Aaron between his knees. \"She trips along with her\nlittle steps, so as nobody can see how she goes--it\'s like as if she\nhad little wheels to her feet. She doesn\'t look a day older nor last\nyear: she\'s the finest-made woman as is, let the next be where she\nwill.\"\n\n\"I don\'t heed how the women are made,\" said Mr. Macey, with some\ncontempt. \"They wear nayther coat nor breeches: you can\'t make much\nout o\' their shapes.\"\n\n\"Fayder,\" said Aaron, whose feet were busy beating out the tune, \"how\ndoes that big cock\'s-feather stick in Mrs. Crackenthorp\'s yead? Is\nthere a little hole for it, like in my shuttle-cock?\"\n\n\"Hush, lad, hush; that\'s the way the ladies dress theirselves, that\nis,\" said the father, adding, however, in an undertone to Mr. Macey,\n\"It does make her look funny, though--partly like a short-necked bottle\nwi\' a long quill in it. Hey, by jingo, there\'s the young Squire\nleading off now, wi\' Miss Nancy for partners! There\'s a lass for\nyou!--like a pink-and-white posy--there\'s nobody \'ud think as anybody\ncould be so pritty. I shouldn\'t wonder if she\'s Madam Cass some day,\narter all--and nobody more rightfuller, for they\'d make a fine match.\nYou can find nothing against Master Godfrey\'s shapes, Macey, _I_\'ll bet\na penny.\"\n\nMr. Macey screwed up his mouth, leaned his head further on one side,\nand twirled his thumbs with a presto movement as his eyes followed\nGodfrey up the dance. At last he summed up his opinion.\n\n\"Pretty well down\'ard, but a bit too round i\' the shoulder-blades. And\nas for them coats as he gets from the Flitton tailor, they\'re a poor\ncut to pay double money for.\"\n\n\"Ah, Mr. Macey, you and me are two folks,\" said Ben, slightly indignant\nat this carping. \"When I\'ve got a pot o\' good ale, I like to swaller\nit, and do my inside good, i\'stead o\' smelling and staring at it to see\nif I can\'t find faut wi\' the brewing. I should like you to pick me out\na finer-limbed young fellow nor Master Godfrey--one as \'ud knock you\ndown easier, or \'s more pleasanter-looksed when he\'s piert and merry.\"\n\n\"Tchuh!\" said Mr. Macey, provoked to increased severity, \"he isn\'t\ncome to his right colour yet: he\'s partly like a slack-baked pie. And\nI doubt he\'s got a soft place in his head, else why should he be turned\nround the finger by that offal Dunsey as nobody\'s seen o\' late, and let\nhim kill that fine hunting hoss as was the talk o\' the country? And\none while he was allays after Miss Nancy, and then it all went off\nagain, like a smell o\' hot porridge, as I may say. That wasn\'t my way\nwhen _I_ went a-coorting.\"\n\n\"Ah, but mayhap Miss Nancy hung off, like, and your lass didn\'t,\" said\nBen.\n\n\"I should say she didn\'t,\" said Mr. Macey, significantly. \"Before I\nsaid \"sniff\", I took care to know as she\'d say \"snaff\", and pretty\nquick too. I wasn\'t a-going to open _my_ mouth, like a dog at a fly,\nand snap it to again, wi\' nothing to swaller.\"\n\n\"Well, I think Miss Nancy\'s a-coming round again,\" said Ben, \"for\nMaster Godfrey doesn\'t look so down-hearted to-night. And I see he\'s\nfor taking her away to sit down, now they\'re at the end o\' the dance:\nthat looks like sweethearting, that does.\"\n\nThe reason why Godfrey and Nancy had left the dance was not so tender\nas Ben imagined. In the close press of couples a slight accident had\nhappened to Nancy\'s dress, which, while it was short enough to show her\nneat ankle in front, was long enough behind to be caught under the\nstately stamp of the Squire\'s foot, so as to rend certain stitches at\nthe waist, and cause much sisterly agitation in Priscilla\'s mind, as\nwell as serious concern in Nancy\'s. One\'s thoughts may be much\noccupied with love-struggles, but hardly so as to be insensible to a\ndisorder in the general framework of things. Nancy had no sooner\ncompleted her duty in the figure they were dancing than she said to\nGodfrey, with a deep blush, that she must go and sit down till\nPriscilla could come to her; for the sisters had already exchanged a\nshort whisper and an open-eyed glance full of meaning. No reason less\nurgent than this could have prevailed on Nancy to give Godfrey this\nopportunity of sitting apart with her. As for Godfrey, he was feeling\nso happy and oblivious under the long charm of the country-dance with\nNancy, that he got rather bold on the strength of her confusion, and\nwas capable of leading her straight away, without leave asked, into the\nadjoining small parlour, where the card-tables were set.\n\n\"Oh no, thank you,\" said Nancy, coldly, as soon as she perceived where\nhe was going, \"not in there. I\'ll wait here till Priscilla\'s ready to\ncome to me. I\'m sorry to bring you out of the dance and make myself\ntroublesome.\"\n\n\"Why, you\'ll be more comfortable here by yourself,\" said the artful\nGodfrey: \"I\'ll leave you here till your sister can come.\" He spoke in\nan indifferent tone.\n\nThat was an agreeable proposition, and just what Nancy desired; why,\nthen, was she a little hurt that Mr. Godfrey should make it? They\nentered, and she seated herself on a chair against one of the\ncard-tables, as the stiffest and most unapproachable position she could\nchoose.\n\n\"Thank you, sir,\" she said immediately. \"I needn\'t give you any more\ntrouble. I\'m sorry you\'ve had such an unlucky partner.\"\n\n\"That\'s very ill-natured of you,\" said Godfrey, standing by her without\nany sign of intended departure, \"to be sorry you\'ve danced with me.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, sir, I don\'t mean to say what\'s ill-natured at all,\" said\nNancy, looking distractingly prim and pretty. \"When gentlemen have so\nmany pleasures, one dance can matter but very little.\"\n\n\"You know that isn\'t true. You know one dance with you matters more to\nme than all the other pleasures in the world.\"\n\nIt was a long, long while since Godfrey had said anything so direct as\nthat, and Nancy was startled. But her instinctive dignity and\nrepugnance to any show of emotion made her sit perfectly still, and\nonly throw a little more decision into her voice, as she said--\n\n\"No, indeed, Mr. Godfrey, that\'s not known to me, and I have very good\nreasons for thinking different. But if it\'s true, I don\'t wish to hear\nit.\"\n\n\"Would you never forgive me, then, Nancy--never think well of me, let\nwhat would happen--would you never think the present made amends for\nthe past? Not if I turned a good fellow, and gave up everything you\ndidn\'t like?\"\n\nGodfrey was half conscious that this sudden opportunity of speaking to\nNancy alone had driven him beside himself; but blind feeling had got\nthe mastery of his tongue. Nancy really felt much agitated by the\npossibility Godfrey\'s words suggested, but this very pressure of\nemotion that she was in danger of finding too strong for her roused all\nher power of self-command.\n\n\"I should be glad to see a good change in anybody, Mr. Godfrey,\" she\nanswered, with the slightest discernible difference of tone, \"but it\n\'ud be better if no change was wanted.\"\n\n\"You\'re very hard-hearted, Nancy,\" said Godfrey, pettishly. \"You might\nencourage me to be a better fellow. I\'m very miserable--but you\'ve no\nfeeling.\"\n\n\"I think those have the least feeling that act wrong to begin with,\"\nsaid Nancy, sending out a flash in spite of herself. Godfrey was\ndelighted with that little flash, and would have liked to go on and\nmake her quarrel with him; Nancy was so exasperatingly quiet and firm.\nBut she was not indifferent to him _yet_, though--\n\nThe entrance of Priscilla, bustling forward and saying, \"Dear heart\nalive, child, let us look at this gown,\" cut off Godfrey\'s hopes of a\nquarrel.\n\n\"I suppose I must go now,\" he said to Priscilla.\n\n\"It\'s no matter to me whether you go or stay,\" said that frank lady,\nsearching for something in her pocket, with a preoccupied brow.\n\n\"Do _you_ want me to go?\" said Godfrey, looking at Nancy, who was now\nstanding up by Priscilla\'s order.\n\n\"As you like,\" said Nancy, trying to recover all her former coldness,\nand looking down carefully at the hem of her gown.\n\n\"Then I like to stay,\" said Godfrey, with a reckless determination to\nget as much of this joy as he could to-night, and think nothing of the\nmorrow.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nWhile Godfrey Cass was taking draughts of forgetfulness from the sweet\npresence of Nancy, willingly losing all sense of that hidden bond which\nat other moments galled and fretted him so as to mingle irritation with\nthe very sunshine, Godfrey\'s wife was walking with slow uncertain steps\nthrough the snow-covered Raveloe lanes, carrying her child in her arms.\n\nThis journey on New Year\'s Eve was a premeditated act of vengeance\nwhich she had kept in her heart ever since Godfrey, in a fit of\npassion, had told her he would sooner die than acknowledge her as his\nwife. There would be a great party at the Red House on New Year\'s Eve,\nshe knew: her husband would be smiling and smiled upon, hiding _her_\nexistence in the darkest corner of his heart. But she would mar his\npleasure: she would go in her dingy rags, with her faded face, once as\nhandsome as the best, with her little child that had its father\'s hair\nand eyes, and disclose herself to the Squire as his eldest son\'s wife.\nIt is seldom that the miserable can help regarding their misery as a\nwrong inflicted by those who are less miserable. Molly knew that the\ncause of her dingy rags was not her husband\'s neglect, but the demon\nOpium to whom she was enslaved, body and soul, except in the lingering\nmother\'s tenderness that refused to give him her hungry child. She\nknew this well; and yet, in the moments of wretched unbenumbed\nconsciousness, the sense of her want and degradation transformed itself\ncontinually into bitterness towards Godfrey. _He_ was well off; and if\nshe had her rights she would be well off too. The belief that he\nrepented his marriage, and suffered from it, only aggravated her\nvindictiveness. Just and self-reproving thoughts do not come to us too\nthickly, even in the purest air, and with the best lessons of heaven\nand earth; how should those white-winged delicate messengers make their\nway to Molly\'s poisoned chamber, inhabited by no higher memories than\nthose of a barmaid\'s paradise of pink ribbons and gentlemen\'s jokes?\n\nShe had set out at an early hour, but had lingered on the road,\ninclined by her indolence to believe that if she waited under a warm\nshed the snow would cease to fall. She had waited longer than she\nknew, and now that she found herself belated in the snow-hidden\nruggedness of the long lanes, even the animation of a vindictive\npurpose could not keep her spirit from failing. It was seven o\'clock,\nand by this time she was not very far from Raveloe, but she was not\nfamiliar enough with those monotonous lanes to know how near she was to\nher journey\'s end. She needed comfort, and she knew but one\ncomforter--the familiar demon in her bosom; but she hesitated a moment,\nafter drawing out the black remnant, before she raised it to her lips.\nIn that moment the mother\'s love pleaded for painful consciousness\nrather than oblivion--pleaded to be left in aching weariness, rather\nthan to have the encircling arms benumbed so that they could not feel\nthe dear burden. In another moment Molly had flung something away, but\nit was not the black remnant--it was an empty phial. And she walked on\nagain under the breaking cloud, from which there came now and then the\nlight of a quickly veiled star, for a freezing wind had sprung up since\nthe snowing had ceased. But she walked always more and more drowsily,\nand clutched more and more automatically the sleeping child at her\nbosom.\n\nSlowly the demon was working his will, and cold and weariness were his\nhelpers. Soon she felt nothing but a supreme immediate longing that\ncurtained off all futurity--the longing to lie down and sleep. She had\narrived at a spot where her footsteps were no longer checked by a\nhedgerow, and she had wandered vaguely, unable to distinguish any\nobjects, notwithstanding the wide whiteness around her, and the growing\nstarlight. She sank down against a straggling furze bush, an easy\npillow enough; and the bed of snow, too, was soft. She did not feel\nthat the bed was cold, and did not heed whether the child would wake\nand cry for her. But her arms had not yet relaxed their instinctive\nclutch; and the little one slumbered on as gently as if it had been\nrocked in a lace-trimmed cradle.\n\nBut the complete torpor came at last: the fingers lost their tension,\nthe arms unbent; then the little head fell away from the bosom, and the\nblue eyes opened wide on the cold starlight. At first there was a\nlittle peevish cry of \"mammy\", and an effort to regain the pillowing\narm and bosom; but mammy\'s ear was deaf, and the pillow seemed to be\nslipping away backward. Suddenly, as the child rolled downward on its\nmother\'s knees, all wet with snow, its eyes were caught by a bright\nglancing light on the white ground, and, with the ready transition of\ninfancy, it was immediately absorbed in watching the bright living\nthing running towards it, yet never arriving. That bright living thing\nmust be caught; and in an instant the child had slipped on all-fours,\nand held out one little hand to catch the gleam. But the gleam would\nnot be caught in that way, and now the head was held up to see where\nthe cunning gleam came from. It came from a very bright place; and the\nlittle one, rising on its legs, toddled through the snow, the old grimy\nshawl in which it was wrapped trailing behind it, and the queer little\nbonnet dangling at its back--toddled on to the open door of Silas\nMarner\'s cottage, and right up to the warm hearth, where there was a\nbright fire of logs and sticks, which had thoroughly warmed the old\nsack (Silas\'s greatcoat) spread out on the bricks to dry. The little\none, accustomed to be left to itself for long hours without notice from\nits mother, squatted down on the sack, and spread its tiny hands\ntowards the blaze, in perfect contentment, gurgling and making many\ninarticulate communications to the cheerful fire, like a new-hatched\ngosling beginning to find itself comfortable. But presently the warmth\nhad a lulling effect, and the little golden head sank down on the old\nsack, and the blue eyes were veiled by their delicate half-transparent\nlids.\n\nBut where was Silas Marner while this strange visitor had come to his\nhearth? He was in the cottage, but he did not see the child. During\nthe last few weeks, since he had lost his money, he had contracted the\nhabit of opening his door and looking out from time to time, as if he\nthought that his money might be somehow coming back to him, or that\nsome trace, some news of it, might be mysteriously on the road, and be\ncaught by the listening ear or the straining eye. It was chiefly at\nnight, when he was not occupied in his loom, that he fell into this\nrepetition of an act for which he could have assigned no definite\npurpose, and which can hardly be understood except by those who have\nundergone a bewildering separation from a supremely loved object. In\nthe evening twilight, and later whenever the night was not dark, Silas\nlooked out on that narrow prospect round the Stone-pits, listening and\ngazing, not with hope, but with mere yearning and unrest.\n\nThis morning he had been told by some of his neighbours that it was New\nYear\'s Eve, and that he must sit up and hear the old year rung out and\nthe new rung in, because that was good luck, and might bring his money\nback again. This was only a friendly Raveloe-way of jesting with the\nhalf-crazy oddities of a miser, but it had perhaps helped to throw\nSilas into a more than usually excited state. Since the on-coming of\ntwilight he had opened his door again and again, though only to shut it\nimmediately at seeing all distance veiled by the falling snow. But the\nlast time he opened it the snow had ceased, and the clouds were parting\nhere and there. He stood and listened, and gazed for a long\nwhile--there was really something on the road coming towards him then,\nbut he caught no sign of it; and the stillness and the wide trackless\nsnow seemed to narrow his solitude, and touched his yearning with the\nchill of despair. He went in again, and put his right hand on the\nlatch of the door to close it--but he did not close it: he was\narrested, as he had been already since his loss, by the invisible wand\nof catalepsy, and stood like a graven image, with wide but sightless\neyes, holding open his door, powerless to resist either the good or the\nevil that might enter there.\n\nWhen Marner\'s sensibility returned, he continued the action which had\nbeen arrested, and closed his door, unaware of the chasm in his\nconsciousness, unaware of any intermediate change, except that the\nlight had grown dim, and that he was chilled and faint. He thought he\nhad been too long standing at the door and looking out. Turning\ntowards the hearth, where the two logs had fallen apart, and sent forth\nonly a red uncertain glimmer, he seated himself on his fireside chair,\nand was stooping to push his logs together, when, to his blurred\nvision, it seemed as if there were gold on the floor in front of the\nhearth. Gold!--his own gold--brought back to him as mysteriously as it\nhad been taken away! He felt his heart begin to beat violently, and\nfor a few moments he was unable to stretch out his hand and grasp the\nrestored treasure. The heap of gold seemed to glow and get larger\nbeneath his agitated gaze. He leaned forward at last, and stretched\nforth his hand; but instead of the hard coin with the familiar\nresisting outline, his fingers encountered soft warm curls. In utter\namazement, Silas fell on his knees and bent his head low to examine the\nmarvel: it was a sleeping child--a round, fair thing, with soft yellow\nrings all over its head. Could this be his little sister come back to\nhim in a dream--his little sister whom he had carried about in his arms\nfor a year before she died, when he was a small boy without shoes or\nstockings? That was the first thought that darted across Silas\'s blank\nwonderment. _Was_ it a dream? He rose to his feet again, pushed his\nlogs together, and, throwing on some dried leaves and sticks, raised a\nflame; but the flame did not disperse the vision--it only lit up more\ndistinctly the little round form of the child, and its shabby clothing.\nIt was very much like his little sister. Silas sank into his chair\npowerless, under the double presence of an inexplicable surprise and a\nhurrying influx of memories. How and when had the child come in\nwithout his knowledge? He had never been beyond the door. But along\nwith that question, and almost thrusting it away, there was a vision of\nthe old home and the old streets leading to Lantern Yard--and within\nthat vision another, of the thoughts which had been present with him in\nthose far-off scenes. The thoughts were strange to him now, like old\nfriendships impossible to revive; and yet he had a dreamy feeling that\nthis child was somehow a message come to him from that far-off life: it\nstirred fibres that had never been moved in Raveloe--old quiverings of\ntenderness--old impressions of awe at the presentiment of some Power\npresiding over his life; for his imagination had not yet extricated\nitself from the sense of mystery in the child\'s sudden presence, and\nhad formed no conjectures of ordinary natural means by which the event\ncould have been brought about.\n\nBut there was a cry on the hearth: the child had awaked, and Marner\nstooped to lift it on his knee. It clung round his neck, and burst\nlouder and louder into that mingling of inarticulate cries with \"mammy\"\nby which little children express the bewilderment of waking. Silas\npressed it to him, and almost unconsciously uttered sounds of hushing\ntenderness, while he bethought himself that some of his porridge, which\nhad got cool by the dying fire, would do to feed the child with if it\nwere only warmed up a little.\n\nHe had plenty to do through the next hour. The porridge, sweetened\nwith some dry brown sugar from an old store which he had refrained from\nusing for himself, stopped the cries of the little one, and made her\nlift her blue eyes with a wide quiet gaze at Silas, as he put the spoon\ninto her mouth. Presently she slipped from his knee and began to\ntoddle about, but with a pretty stagger that made Silas jump up and\nfollow her lest she should fall against anything that would hurt her.\nBut she only fell in a sitting posture on the ground, and began to pull\nat her boots, looking up at him with a crying face as if the boots hurt\nher. He took her on his knee again, but it was some time before it\noccurred to Silas\'s dull bachelor mind that the wet boots were the\ngrievance, pressing on her warm ankles. He got them off with\ndifficulty, and baby was at once happily occupied with the primary\nmystery of her own toes, inviting Silas, with much chuckling, to\nconsider the mystery too. But the wet boots had at last suggested to\nSilas that the child had been walking on the snow, and this roused him\nfrom his entire oblivion of any ordinary means by which it could have\nentered or been brought into his house. Under the prompting of this\nnew idea, and without waiting to form conjectures, he raised the child\nin his arms, and went to the door. As soon as he had opened it, there\nwas the cry of \"mammy\" again, which Silas had not heard since the\nchild\'s first hungry waking. Bending forward, he could just discern\nthe marks made by the little feet on the virgin snow, and he followed\ntheir track to the furze bushes. \"Mammy!\" the little one cried again\nand again, stretching itself forward so as almost to escape from\nSilas\'s arms, before he himself was aware that there was something more\nthan the bush before him--that there was a human body, with the head\nsunk low in the furze, and half-covered with the shaken snow.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nIt was after the early supper-time at the Red House, and the\nentertainment was in that stage when bashfulness itself had passed into\neasy jollity, when gentlemen, conscious of unusual accomplishments,\ncould at length be prevailed on to dance a hornpipe, and when the\nSquire preferred talking loudly, scattering snuff, and patting his\nvisitors\' backs, to sitting longer at the whist-table--a choice\nexasperating to uncle Kimble, who, being always volatile in sober\nbusiness hours, became intense and bitter over cards and brandy,\nshuffled before his adversary\'s deal with a glare of suspicion, and\nturned up a mean trump-card with an air of inexpressible disgust, as if\nin a world where such things could happen one might as well enter on a\ncourse of reckless profligacy. When the evening had advanced to this\npitch of freedom and enjoyment, it was usual for the servants, the\nheavy duties of supper being well over, to get their share of amusement\nby coming to look on at the dancing; so that the back regions of the\nhouse were left in solitude.\n\nThere were two doors by which the White Parlour was entered from the\nhall, and they were both standing open for the sake of air; but the\nlower one was crowded with the servants and villagers, and only the\nupper doorway was left free. Bob Cass was figuring in a hornpipe, and\nhis father, very proud of this lithe son, whom he repeatedly declared\nto be just like himself in his young days in a tone that implied this\nto be the very highest stamp of juvenile merit, was the centre of a\ngroup who had placed themselves opposite the performer, not far from\nthe upper door. Godfrey was standing a little way off, not to admire\nhis brother\'s dancing, but to keep sight of Nancy, who was seated in\nthe group, near her father. He stood aloof, because he wished to avoid\nsuggesting himself as a subject for the Squire\'s fatherly jokes in\nconnection with matrimony and Miss Nancy Lammeter\'s beauty, which were\nlikely to become more and more explicit. But he had the prospect of\ndancing with her again when the hornpipe was concluded, and in the\nmeanwhile it was very pleasant to get long glances at her quite\nunobserved.\n\nBut when Godfrey was lifting his eyes from one of those long glances,\nthey encountered an object as startling to him at that moment as if it\nhad been an apparition from the dead. It _was_ an apparition from that\nhidden life which lies, like a dark by-street, behind the goodly\nornamented facade that meets the sunlight and the gaze of respectable\nadmirers. It was his own child, carried in Silas Marner\'s arms. That\nwas his instantaneous impression, unaccompanied by doubt, though he had\nnot seen the child for months past; and when the hope was rising that\nhe might possibly be mistaken, Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Lammeter had\nalready advanced to Silas, in astonishment at this strange advent.\nGodfrey joined them immediately, unable to rest without hearing every\nword--trying to control himself, but conscious that if any one noticed\nhim, they must see that he was white-lipped and trembling.\n\nBut now all eyes at that end of the room were bent on Silas Marner; the\nSquire himself had risen, and asked angrily, \"How\'s this?--what\'s\nthis?--what do you do coming in here in this way?\"\n\n\"I\'m come for the doctor--I want the doctor,\" Silas had said, in the\nfirst moment, to Mr. Crackenthorp.\n\n\"Why, what\'s the matter, Marner?\" said the rector. \"The doctor\'s\nhere; but say quietly what you want him for.\"\n\n\"It\'s a woman,\" said Silas, speaking low, and half-breathlessly, just\nas Godfrey came up. \"She\'s dead, I think--dead in the snow at the\nStone-pits--not far from my door.\"\n\nGodfrey felt a great throb: there was one terror in his mind at that\nmoment: it was, that the woman might _not_ be dead. That was an evil\nterror--an ugly inmate to have found a nestling-place in Godfrey\'s\nkindly disposition; but no disposition is a security from evil wishes\nto a man whose happiness hangs on duplicity.\n\n\"Hush, hush!\" said Mr. Crackenthorp. \"Go out into the hall there.\nI\'ll fetch the doctor to you. Found a woman in the snow--and thinks\nshe\'s dead,\" he added, speaking low to the Squire. \"Better say as\nlittle about it as possible: it will shock the ladies. Just tell them\na poor woman is ill from cold and hunger. I\'ll go and fetch Kimble.\"\n\nBy this time, however, the ladies had pressed forward, curious to know\nwhat could have brought the solitary linen-weaver there under such\nstrange circumstances, and interested in the pretty child, who, half\nalarmed and half attracted by the brightness and the numerous company,\nnow frowned and hid her face, now lifted up her head again and looked\nround placably, until a touch or a coaxing word brought back the frown,\nand made her bury her face with new determination.\n\n\"What child is it?\" said several ladies at once, and, among the rest,\nNancy Lammeter, addressing Godfrey.\n\n\"I don\'t know--some poor woman\'s who has been found in the snow, I\nbelieve,\" was the answer Godfrey wrung from himself with a terrible\neffort. (\"After all, _am_ I certain?\" he hastened to add, silently,\nin anticipation of his own conscience.)\n\n\"Why, you\'d better leave the child here, then, Master Marner,\" said\ngood-natured Mrs. Kimble, hesitating, however, to take those dingy\nclothes into contact with her own ornamented satin bodice. \"I\'ll tell\none o\' the girls to fetch it.\"\n\n\"No--no--I can\'t part with it, I can\'t let it go,\" said Silas,\nabruptly. \"It\'s come to me--I\'ve a right to keep it.\"\n\nThe proposition to take the child from him had come to Silas quite\nunexpectedly, and his speech, uttered under a strong sudden impulse,\nwas almost like a revelation to himself: a minute before, he had no\ndistinct intention about the child.\n\n\"Did you ever hear the like?\" said Mrs. Kimble, in mild surprise, to\nher neighbour.\n\n\"Now, ladies, I must trouble you to stand aside,\" said Mr. Kimble,\ncoming from the card-room, in some bitterness at the interruption, but\ndrilled by the long habit of his profession into obedience to\nunpleasant calls, even when he was hardly sober.\n\n\"It\'s a nasty business turning out now, eh, Kimble?\" said the Squire.\n\"He might ha\' gone for your young fellow--the \'prentice, there--what\'s\nhis name?\"\n\n\"Might? aye--what\'s the use of talking about might?\" growled uncle\nKimble, hastening out with Marner, and followed by Mr. Crackenthorp and\nGodfrey. \"Get me a pair of thick boots, Godfrey, will you? And stay,\nlet somebody run to Winthrop\'s and fetch Dolly--she\'s the best woman to\nget. Ben was here himself before supper; is he gone?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, I met him,\" said Marner; \"but I couldn\'t stop to tell him\nanything, only I said I was going for the doctor, and he said the\ndoctor was at the Squire\'s. And I made haste and ran, and there was\nnobody to be seen at the back o\' the house, and so I went in to where\nthe company was.\"\n\nThe child, no longer distracted by the bright light and the smiling\nwomen\'s faces, began to cry and call for \"mammy\", though always\nclinging to Marner, who had apparently won her thorough confidence.\nGodfrey had come back with the boots, and felt the cry as if some fibre\nwere drawn tight within him.\n\n\"I\'ll go,\" he said, hastily, eager for some movement; \"I\'ll go and\nfetch the woman--Mrs. Winthrop.\"\n\n\"Oh, pooh--send somebody else,\" said uncle Kimble, hurrying away with\nMarner.\n\n\"You\'ll let me know if I can be of any use, Kimble,\" said Mr.\nCrackenthorp. But the doctor was out of hearing.\n\nGodfrey, too, had disappeared: he was gone to snatch his hat and coat,\nhaving just reflection enough to remember that he must not look like a\nmadman; but he rushed out of the house into the snow without heeding\nhis thin shoes.\n\nIn a few minutes he was on his rapid way to the Stone-pits by the side\nof Dolly, who, though feeling that she was entirely in her place in\nencountering cold and snow on an errand of mercy, was much concerned at\na young gentleman\'s getting his feet wet under a like impulse.\n\n\"You\'d a deal better go back, sir,\" said Dolly, with respectful\ncompassion. \"You\'ve no call to catch cold; and I\'d ask you if you\'d be\nso good as tell my husband to come, on your way back--he\'s at the\nRainbow, I doubt--if you found him anyway sober enough to be o\' use.\nOr else, there\'s Mrs. Snell \'ud happen send the boy up to fetch and\ncarry, for there may be things wanted from the doctor\'s.\"\n\n\"No, I\'ll stay, now I\'m once out--I\'ll stay outside here,\" said\nGodfrey, when they came opposite Marner\'s cottage. \"You can come and\ntell me if I can do anything.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, you\'re very good: you\'ve a tender heart,\" said Dolly, going\nto the door.\n\nGodfrey was too painfully preoccupied to feel a twinge of self-reproach\nat this undeserved praise. He walked up and down, unconscious that he\nwas plunging ankle-deep in snow, unconscious of everything but\ntrembling suspense about what was going on in the cottage, and the\neffect of each alternative on his future lot. No, not quite\nunconscious of everything else. Deeper down, and half-smothered by\npassionate desire and dread, there was the sense that he ought not to\nbe waiting on these alternatives; that he ought to accept the\nconsequences of his deeds, own the miserable wife, and fulfil the\nclaims of the helpless child. But he had not moral courage enough to\ncontemplate that active renunciation of Nancy as possible for him: he\nhad only conscience and heart enough to make him for ever uneasy under\nthe weakness that forbade the renunciation. And at this moment his\nmind leaped away from all restraint toward the sudden prospect of\ndeliverance from his long bondage.\n\n\"Is she dead?\" said the voice that predominated over every other\nwithin him. \"If she is, I may marry Nancy; and then I shall be a good\nfellow in future, and have no secrets, and the child--shall be taken\ncare of somehow.\" But across that vision came the other\npossibility--\"She may live, and then it\'s all up with me.\"\n\nGodfrey never knew how long it was before the door of the cottage\nopened and Mr. Kimble came out. He went forward to meet his uncle,\nprepared to suppress the agitation he must feel, whatever news he was\nto hear.\n\n\"I waited for you, as I\'d come so far,\" he said, speaking first.\n\n\"Pooh, it was nonsense for you to come out: why didn\'t you send one of\nthe men? There\'s nothing to be done. She\'s dead--has been dead for\nhours, I should say.\"\n\n\"What sort of woman is she?\" said Godfrey, feeling the blood rush to\nhis face.\n\n\"A young woman, but emaciated, with long black hair. Some\nvagrant--quite in rags. She\'s got a wedding-ring on, however. They\nmust fetch her away to the workhouse to-morrow. Come, come along.\"\n\n\"I want to look at her,\" said Godfrey. \"I think I saw such a woman\nyesterday. I\'ll overtake you in a minute or two.\"\n\nMr. Kimble went on, and Godfrey turned back to the cottage. He cast\nonly one glance at the dead face on the pillow, which Dolly had\nsmoothed with decent care; but he remembered that last look at his\nunhappy hated wife so well, that at the end of sixteen years every line\nin the worn face was present to him when he told the full story of this\nnight.\n\nHe turned immediately towards the hearth, where Silas Marner sat\nlulling the child. She was perfectly quiet now, but not asleep--only\nsoothed by sweet porridge and warmth into that wide-gazing calm which\nmakes us older human beings, with our inward turmoil, feel a certain\nawe in the presence of a little child, such as we feel before some\nquiet majesty or beauty in the earth or sky--before a steady glowing\nplanet, or a full-flowered eglantine, or the bending trees over a\nsilent pathway. The wide-open blue eyes looked up at Godfrey\'s without\nany uneasiness or sign of recognition: the child could make no visible\naudible claim on its father; and the father felt a strange mixture of\nfeelings, a conflict of regret and joy, that the pulse of that little\nheart had no response for the half-jealous yearning in his own, when\nthe blue eyes turned away from him slowly, and fixed themselves on the\nweaver\'s queer face, which was bent low down to look at them, while the\nsmall hand began to pull Marner\'s withered cheek with loving\ndisfiguration.\n\n\"You\'ll take the child to the parish to-morrow?\" asked Godfrey,\nspeaking as indifferently as he could.\n\n\"Who says so?\" said Marner, sharply. \"Will they make me take her?\"\n\n\"Why, you wouldn\'t like to keep her, should you--an old bachelor like\nyou?\"\n\n\"Till anybody shows they\'ve a right to take her away from me,\" said\nMarner. \"The mother\'s dead, and I reckon it\'s got no father: it\'s a\nlone thing--and I\'m a lone thing. My money\'s gone, I don\'t know\nwhere--and this is come from I don\'t know where. I know nothing--I\'m\npartly mazed.\"\n\n\"Poor little thing!\" said Godfrey. \"Let me give something towards\nfinding it clothes.\"\n\nHe had put his hand in his pocket and found half-a-guinea, and,\nthrusting it into Silas\'s hand, he hurried out of the cottage to\novertake Mr. Kimble.\n\n\"Ah, I see it\'s not the same woman I saw,\" he said, as he came up.\n\"It\'s a pretty little child: the old fellow seems to want to keep it;\nthat\'s strange for a miser like him. But I gave him a trifle to help\nhim out: the parish isn\'t likely to quarrel with him for the right to\nkeep the child.\"\n\n\"No; but I\'ve seen the time when I might have quarrelled with him for\nit myself. It\'s too late now, though. If the child ran into the fire,\nyour aunt\'s too fat to overtake it: she could only sit and grunt like\nan alarmed sow. But what a fool you are, Godfrey, to come out in your\ndancing shoes and stockings in this way--and you one of the beaux of\nthe evening, and at your own house! What do you mean by such freaks,\nyoung fellow? Has Miss Nancy been cruel, and do you want to spite her\nby spoiling your pumps?\"\n\n\"Oh, everything has been disagreeable to-night. I was tired to death\nof jigging and gallanting, and that bother about the hornpipes. And\nI\'d got to dance with the other Miss Gunn,\" said Godfrey, glad of the\nsubterfuge his uncle had suggested to him.\n\nThe prevarication and white lies which a mind that keeps itself\nambitiously pure is as uneasy under as a great artist under the false\ntouches that no eye detects but his own, are worn as lightly as mere\ntrimmings when once the actions have become a lie.\n\nGodfrey reappeared in the White Parlour with dry feet, and, since the\ntruth must be told, with a sense of relief and gladness that was too\nstrong for painful thoughts to struggle with. For could he not venture\nnow, whenever opportunity offered, to say the tenderest things to Nancy\nLammeter--to promise her and himself that he would always be just what\nshe would desire to see him? There was no danger that his dead wife\nwould be recognized: those were not days of active inquiry and wide\nreport; and as for the registry of their marriage, that was a long way\noff, buried in unturned pages, away from every one\'s interest but his\nown. Dunsey might betray him if he came back; but Dunsey might be won\nto silence.\n\nAnd when events turn out so much better for a man than he has had\nreason to dread, is it not a proof that his conduct has been less\nfoolish and blameworthy than it might otherwise have appeared? When we\nare treated well, we naturally begin to think that we are not\naltogether unmeritorious, and that it is only just we should treat\nourselves well, and not mar our own good fortune. Where, after all,\nwould be the use of his confessing the past to Nancy Lammeter, and\nthrowing away his happiness?--nay, hers? for he felt some confidence\nthat she loved him. As for the child, he would see that it was cared\nfor: he would never forsake it; he would do everything but own it.\nPerhaps it would be just as happy in life without being owned by its\nfather, seeing that nobody could tell how things would turn out, and\nthat--is there any other reason wanted?--well, then, that the father\nwould be much happier without owning the child.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nThere was a pauper\'s burial that week in Raveloe, and up Kench Yard at\nBatherley it was known that the dark-haired woman with the fair child,\nwho had lately come to lodge there, was gone away again. That was all\nthe express note taken that Molly had disappeared from the eyes of men.\nBut the unwept death which, to the general lot, seemed as trivial as\nthe summer-shed leaf, was charged with the force of destiny to certain\nhuman lives that we know of, shaping their joys and sorrows even to the\nend.\n\nSilas Marner\'s determination to keep the \"tramp\'s child\" was matter of\nhardly less surprise and iterated talk in the village than the robbery\nof his money. That softening of feeling towards him which dated from\nhis misfortune, that merging of suspicion and dislike in a rather\ncontemptuous pity for him as lone and crazy, was now accompanied with a\nmore active sympathy, especially amongst the women. Notable mothers,\nwho knew what it was to keep children \"whole and sweet\"; lazy mothers,\nwho knew what it was to be interrupted in folding their arms and\nscratching their elbows by the mischievous propensities of children\njust firm on their legs, were equally interested in conjecturing how a\nlone man would manage with a two-year-old child on his hands, and were\nequally ready with their suggestions: the notable chiefly telling him\nwhat he had better do, and the lazy ones being emphatic in telling him\nwhat he would never be able to do.\n\nAmong the notable mothers, Dolly Winthrop was the one whose neighbourly\noffices were the most acceptable to Marner, for they were rendered\nwithout any show of bustling instruction. Silas had shown her the\nhalf-guinea given to him by Godfrey, and had asked her what he should\ndo about getting some clothes for the child.\n\n\"Eh, Master Marner,\" said Dolly, \"there\'s no call to buy, no more nor a\npair o\' shoes; for I\'ve got the little petticoats as Aaron wore five\nyears ago, and it\'s ill spending the money on them baby-clothes, for\nthe child \'ull grow like grass i\' May, bless it--that it will.\"\n\nAnd the same day Dolly brought her bundle, and displayed to Marner, one\nby one, the tiny garments in their due order of succession, most of\nthem patched and darned, but clean and neat as fresh-sprung herbs.\nThis was the introduction to a great ceremony with soap and water, from\nwhich Baby came out in new beauty, and sat on Dolly\'s knee, handling\nher toes and chuckling and patting her palms together with an air of\nhaving made several discoveries about herself, which she communicated\nby alternate sounds of \"gug-gug-gug\", and \"mammy\". The \"mammy\" was not\na cry of need or uneasiness: Baby had been used to utter it without\nexpecting either tender sound or touch to follow.\n\n\"Anybody \'ud think the angils in heaven couldn\'t be prettier,\" said\nDolly, rubbing the golden curls and kissing them. \"And to think of its\nbeing covered wi\' them dirty rags--and the poor mother--froze to death;\nbut there\'s Them as took care of it, and brought it to your door,\nMaster Marner. The door was open, and it walked in over the snow, like\nas if it had been a little starved robin. Didn\'t you say the door was\nopen?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Silas, meditatively. \"Yes--the door was open. The money\'s\ngone I don\'t know where, and this is come from I don\'t know where.\"\n\nHe had not mentioned to any one his unconsciousness of the child\'s\nentrance, shrinking from questions which might lead to the fact he\nhimself suspected--namely, that he had been in one of his trances.\n\n\"Ah,\" said Dolly, with soothing gravity, \"it\'s like the night and the\nmorning, and the sleeping and the waking, and the rain and the\nharvest--one goes and the other comes, and we know nothing how nor\nwhere. We may strive and scrat and fend, but it\'s little we can do\narter all--the big things come and go wi\' no striving o\' our\'n--they\ndo, that they do; and I think you\'re in the right on it to keep the\nlittle un, Master Marner, seeing as it\'s been sent to you, though\nthere\'s folks as thinks different. You\'ll happen be a bit moithered\nwith it while it\'s so little; but I\'ll come, and welcome, and see to it\nfor you: I\'ve a bit o\' time to spare most days, for when one gets up\nbetimes i\' the morning, the clock seems to stan\' still tow\'rt ten,\nafore it\'s time to go about the victual. So, as I say, I\'ll come and\nsee to the child for you, and welcome.\"\n\n\"Thank you... kindly,\" said Silas, hesitating a little. \"I\'ll be glad\nif you\'ll tell me things. But,\" he added, uneasily, leaning forward to\nlook at Baby with some jealousy, as she was resting her head backward\nagainst Dolly\'s arm, and eyeing him contentedly from a distance--\"But I\nwant to do things for it myself, else it may get fond o\' somebody else,\nand not fond o\' me. I\'ve been used to fending for myself in the\nhouse--I can learn, I can learn.\"\n\n\"Eh, to be sure,\" said Dolly, gently. \"I\'ve seen men as are wonderful\nhandy wi\' children. The men are awk\'ard and contrairy mostly, God help\n\'em--but when the drink\'s out of \'em, they aren\'t unsensible, though\nthey\'re bad for leeching and bandaging--so fiery and unpatient. You\nsee this goes first, next the skin,\" proceeded Dolly, taking up the\nlittle shirt, and putting it on.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Marner, docilely, bringing his eyes very close, that they\nmight be initiated in the mysteries; whereupon Baby seized his head\nwith both her small arms, and put her lips against his face with\npurring noises.\n\n\"See there,\" said Dolly, with a woman\'s tender tact, \"she\'s fondest o\'\nyou. She wants to go o\' your lap, I\'ll be bound. Go, then: take her,\nMaster Marner; you can put the things on, and then you can say as\nyou\'ve done for her from the first of her coming to you.\"\n\nMarner took her on his lap, trembling with an emotion mysterious to\nhimself, at something unknown dawning on his life. Thought and feeling\nwere so confused within him, that if he had tried to give them\nutterance, he could only have said that the child was come instead of\nthe gold--that the gold had turned into the child. He took the\ngarments from Dolly, and put them on under her teaching; interrupted,\nof course, by Baby\'s gymnastics.\n\n\"There, then! why, you take to it quite easy, Master Marner,\" said\nDolly; \"but what shall you do when you\'re forced to sit in your loom?\nFor she\'ll get busier and mischievouser every day--she will, bless her.\nIt\'s lucky as you\'ve got that high hearth i\'stead of a grate, for that\nkeeps the fire more out of her reach: but if you\'ve got anything as can\nbe spilt or broke, or as is fit to cut her fingers off, she\'ll be at\nit--and it is but right you should know.\"\n\nSilas meditated a little while in some perplexity. \"I\'ll tie her to\nthe leg o\' the loom,\" he said at last--\"tie her with a good long strip\no\' something.\"\n\n\"Well, mayhap that\'ll do, as it\'s a little gell, for they\'re easier\npersuaded to sit i\' one place nor the lads. I know what the lads are;\nfor I\'ve had four--four I\'ve had, God knows--and if you was to take and\ntie \'em up, they\'d make a fighting and a crying as if you was ringing\nthe pigs. But I\'ll bring you my little chair, and some bits o\' red rag\nand things for her to play wi\'; an\' she\'ll sit and chatter to \'em as if\nthey was alive. Eh, if it wasn\'t a sin to the lads to wish \'em made\ndifferent, bless \'em, I should ha\' been glad for one of \'em to be a\nlittle gell; and to think as I could ha\' taught her to scour, and mend,\nand the knitting, and everything. But I can teach \'em this little un,\nMaster Marner, when she gets old enough.\"\n\n\"But she\'ll be _my_ little un,\" said Marner, rather hastily. \"She\'ll be\nnobody else\'s.\"\n\n\"No, to be sure; you\'ll have a right to her, if you\'re a father to her,\nand bring her up according. But,\" added Dolly, coming to a point which\nshe had determined beforehand to touch upon, \"you must bring her up\nlike christened folks\'s children, and take her to church, and let her\nlearn her catechise, as my little Aaron can say off--the \"I believe\",\nand everything, and \"hurt nobody by word or deed\",--as well as if he\nwas the clerk. That\'s what you must do, Master Marner, if you\'d do the\nright thing by the orphin child.\"\n\nMarner\'s pale face flushed suddenly under a new anxiety. His mind was\ntoo busy trying to give some definite bearing to Dolly\'s words for him\nto think of answering her.\n\n\"And it\'s my belief,\" she went on, \"as the poor little creatur has\nnever been christened, and it\'s nothing but right as the parson should\nbe spoke to; and if you was noways unwilling, I\'d talk to Mr. Macey\nabout it this very day. For if the child ever went anyways wrong, and\nyou hadn\'t done your part by it, Master Marner--\'noculation, and\neverything to save it from harm--it \'ud be a thorn i\' your bed for ever\no\' this side the grave; and I can\'t think as it \'ud be easy lying down\nfor anybody when they\'d got to another world, if they hadn\'t done their\npart by the helpless children as come wi\'out their own asking.\"\n\nDolly herself was disposed to be silent for some time now, for she had\nspoken from the depths of her own simple belief, and was much concerned\nto know whether her words would produce the desired effect on Silas.\nHe was puzzled and anxious, for Dolly\'s word \"christened\" conveyed no\ndistinct meaning to him. He had only heard of baptism, and had only\nseen the baptism of grown-up men and women.\n\n\"What is it as you mean by \"christened\"?\" he said at last, timidly.\n\"Won\'t folks be good to her without it?\"\n\n\"Dear, dear! Master Marner,\" said Dolly, with gentle distress and\ncompassion. \"Had you never no father nor mother as taught you to say\nyour prayers, and as there\'s good words and good things to keep us from\nharm?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Silas, in a low voice; \"I know a deal about that--used to,\nused to. But your ways are different: my country was a good way off.\"\nHe paused a few moments, and then added, more decidedly, \"But I want to\ndo everything as can be done for the child. And whatever\'s right for\nit i\' this country, and you think \'ull do it good, I\'ll act according,\nif you\'ll tell me.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Master Marner,\" said Dolly, inwardly rejoiced, \"I\'ll ask\nMr. Macey to speak to the parson about it; and you must fix on a name\nfor it, because it must have a name giv\' it when it\'s christened.\"\n\n\"My mother\'s name was Hephzibah,\" said Silas, \"and my little sister was\nnamed after her.\"\n\n\"Eh, that\'s a hard name,\" said Dolly. \"I partly think it isn\'t a\nchristened name.\"\n\n\"It\'s a Bible name,\" said Silas, old ideas recurring.\n\n\"Then I\'ve no call to speak again\' it,\" said Dolly, rather startled by\nSilas\'s knowledge on this head; \"but you see I\'m no scholard, and I\'m\nslow at catching the words. My husband says I\'m allays like as if I\nwas putting the haft for the handle--that\'s what he says--for he\'s very\nsharp, God help him. But it was awk\'ard calling your little sister by\nsuch a hard name, when you\'d got nothing big to say, like--wasn\'t it,\nMaster Marner?\"\n\n\"We called her Eppie,\" said Silas.\n\n\"Well, if it was noways wrong to shorten the name, it \'ud be a deal\nhandier. And so I\'ll go now, Master Marner, and I\'ll speak about the\nchristening afore dark; and I wish you the best o\' luck, and it\'s my\nbelief as it\'ll come to you, if you do what\'s right by the orphin\nchild;--and there\'s the \'noculation to be seen to; and as to washing\nits bits o\' things, you need look to nobody but me, for I can do \'em\nwi\' one hand when I\'ve got my suds about. Eh, the blessed angil!\nYou\'ll let me bring my Aaron one o\' these days, and he\'ll show her his\nlittle cart as his father\'s made for him, and the black-and-white pup\nas he\'s got a-rearing.\"\n\nBaby _was_ christened, the rector deciding that a double baptism was\nthe lesser risk to incur; and on this occasion Silas, making himself as\nclean and tidy as he could, appeared for the first time within the\nchurch, and shared in the observances held sacred by his neighbours.\nHe was quite unable, by means of anything he heard or saw, to identify\nthe Raveloe religion with his old faith; if he could at any time in his\nprevious life have done so, it must have been by the aid of a strong\nfeeling ready to vibrate with sympathy, rather than by a comparison of\nphrases and ideas: and now for long years that feeling had been\ndormant. He had no distinct idea about the baptism and the\nchurch-going, except that Dolly had said it was for the good of the\nchild; and in this way, as the weeks grew to months, the child created\nfresh and fresh links between his life and the lives from which he had\nhitherto shrunk continually into narrower isolation. Unlike the gold\nwhich needed nothing, and must be worshipped in close-locked\nsolitude--which was hidden away from the daylight, was deaf to the song\nof birds, and started to no human tones--Eppie was a creature of\nendless claims and ever-growing desires, seeking and loving sunshine,\nand living sounds, and living movements; making trial of everything,\nwith trust in new joy, and stirring the human kindness in all eyes that\nlooked on her. The gold had kept his thoughts in an ever-repeated\ncircle, leading to nothing beyond itself; but Eppie was an object\ncompacted of changes and hopes that forced his thoughts onward, and\ncarried them far away from their old eager pacing towards the same\nblank limit--carried them away to the new things that would come with\nthe coming years, when Eppie would have learned to understand how her\nfather Silas cared for her; and made him look for images of that time\nin the ties and charities that bound together the families of his\nneighbours. The gold had asked that he should sit weaving longer and\nlonger, deafened and blinded more and more to all things except the\nmonotony of his loom and the repetition of his web; but Eppie called\nhim away from his weaving, and made him think all its pauses a holiday,\nreawakening his senses with her fresh life, even to the old\nwinter-flies that came crawling forth in the early spring sunshine, and\nwarming him into joy because _she_ had joy.\n\nAnd when the sunshine grew strong and lasting, so that the buttercups\nwere thick in the meadows, Silas might be seen in the sunny midday, or\nin the late afternoon when the shadows were lengthening under the\nhedgerows, strolling out with uncovered head to carry Eppie beyond the\nStone-pits to where the flowers grew, till they reached some favourite\nbank where he could sit down, while Eppie toddled to pluck the flowers,\nand make remarks to the winged things that murmured happily above the\nbright petals, calling \"Dad-dad\'s\" attention continually by bringing\nhim the flowers. Then she would turn her ear to some sudden bird-note,\nand Silas learned to please her by making signs of hushed stillness,\nthat they might listen for the note to come again: so that when it\ncame, she set up her small back and laughed with gurgling triumph.\nSitting on the banks in this way, Silas began to look for the once\nfamiliar herbs again; and as the leaves, with their unchanged outline\nand markings, lay on his palm, there was a sense of crowding\nremembrances from which he turned away timidly, taking refuge in\nEppie\'s little world, that lay lightly on his enfeebled spirit.\n\nAs the child\'s mind was growing into knowledge, his mind was growing\ninto memory: as her life unfolded, his soul, long stupefied in a cold\nnarrow prison, was unfolding too, and trembling gradually into full\nconsciousness.\n\nIt was an influence which must gather force with every new year: the\ntones that stirred Silas\'s heart grew articulate, and called for more\ndistinct answers; shapes and sounds grew clearer for Eppie\'s eyes and\nears, and there was more that \"Dad-dad\" was imperatively required to\nnotice and account for. Also, by the time Eppie was three years old,\nshe developed a fine capacity for mischief, and for devising ingenious\nways of being troublesome, which found much exercise, not only for\nSilas\'s patience, but for his watchfulness and penetration. Sorely was\npoor Silas puzzled on such occasions by the incompatible demands of\nlove. Dolly Winthrop told him that punishment was good for Eppie, and\nthat, as for rearing a child without making it tingle a little in soft\nand safe places now and then, it was not to be done.\n\n\"To be sure, there\'s another thing you might do, Master Marner,\" added\nDolly, meditatively: \"you might shut her up once i\' the coal-hole.\nThat was what I did wi\' Aaron; for I was that silly wi\' the youngest\nlad, as I could never bear to smack him. Not as I could find i\' my\nheart to let him stay i\' the coal-hole more nor a minute, but it was\nenough to colly him all over, so as he must be new washed and dressed,\nand it was as good as a rod to him--that was. But I put it upo\' your\nconscience, Master Marner, as there\'s one of \'em you must\nchoose--ayther smacking or the coal-hole--else she\'ll get so masterful,\nthere\'ll be no holding her.\"\n\nSilas was impressed with the melancholy truth of this last remark; but\nhis force of mind failed before the only two penal methods open to him,\nnot only because it was painful to him to hurt Eppie, but because he\ntrembled at a moment\'s contention with her, lest she should love him\nthe less for it. Let even an affectionate Goliath get himself tied to\na small tender thing, dreading to hurt it by pulling, and dreading\nstill more to snap the cord, and which of the two, pray, will be\nmaster? It was clear that Eppie, with her short toddling steps, must\nlead father Silas a pretty dance on any fine morning when circumstances\nfavoured mischief.\n\nFor example. He had wisely chosen a broad strip of linen as a means of\nfastening her to his loom when he was busy: it made a broad belt round\nher waist, and was long enough to allow of her reaching the truckle-bed\nand sitting down on it, but not long enough for her to attempt any\ndangerous climbing. One bright summer\'s morning Silas had been more\nengrossed than usual in \"setting up\" a new piece of work, an occasion\non which his scissors were in requisition. These scissors, owing to an\nespecial warning of Dolly\'s, had been kept carefully out of Eppie\'s\nreach; but the click of them had had a peculiar attraction for her ear,\nand watching the results of that click, she had derived the philosophic\nlesson that the same cause would produce the same effect. Silas had\nseated himself in his loom, and the noise of weaving had begun; but he\nhad left his scissors on a ledge which Eppie\'s arm was long enough to\nreach; and now, like a small mouse, watching her opportunity, she stole\nquietly from her corner, secured the scissors, and toddled to the bed\nagain, setting up her back as a mode of concealing the fact. She had a\ndistinct intention as to the use of the scissors; and having cut the\nlinen strip in a jagged but effectual manner, in two moments she had\nrun out at the open door where the sunshine was inviting her, while\npoor Silas believed her to be a better child than usual. It was not\nuntil he happened to need his scissors that the terrible fact burst\nupon him: Eppie had run out by herself--had perhaps fallen into the\nStone-pit. Silas, shaken by the worst fear that could have befallen\nhim, rushed out, calling \"Eppie!\" and ran eagerly about the unenclosed\nspace, exploring the dry cavities into which she might have fallen, and\nthen gazing with questioning dread at the smooth red surface of the\nwater. The cold drops stood on his brow. How long had she been out?\nThere was one hope--that she had crept through the stile and got into\nthe fields, where he habitually took her to stroll. But the grass was\nhigh in the meadow, and there was no descrying her, if she were there,\nexcept by a close search that would be a trespass on Mr. Osgood\'s crop.\nStill, that misdemeanour must be committed; and poor Silas, after\npeering all round the hedgerows, traversed the grass, beginning with\nperturbed vision to see Eppie behind every group of red sorrel, and to\nsee her moving always farther off as he approached. The meadow was\nsearched in vain; and he got over the stile into the next field,\nlooking with dying hope towards a small pond which was now reduced to\nits summer shallowness, so as to leave a wide margin of good adhesive\nmud. Here, however, sat Eppie, discoursing cheerfully to her own small\nboot, which she was using as a bucket to convey the water into a deep\nhoof-mark, while her little naked foot was planted comfortably on a\ncushion of olive-green mud. A red-headed calf was observing her with\nalarmed doubt through the opposite hedge.\n\nHere was clearly a case of aberration in a christened child which\ndemanded severe treatment; but Silas, overcome with convulsive joy at\nfinding his treasure again, could do nothing but snatch her up, and\ncover her with half-sobbing kisses. It was not until he had carried\nher home, and had begun to think of the necessary washing, that he\nrecollected the need that he should punish Eppie, and \"make her\nremember\". The idea that she might run away again and come to harm,\ngave him unusual resolution, and for the first time he determined to\ntry the coal-hole--a small closet near the hearth.\n\n\"Naughty, naughty Eppie,\" he suddenly began, holding her on his knee,\nand pointing to her muddy feet and clothes--\"naughty to cut with the\nscissors and run away. Eppie must go into the coal-hole for being\nnaughty. Daddy must put her in the coal-hole.\"\n\nHe half-expected that this would be shock enough, and that Eppie would\nbegin to cry. But instead of that, she began to shake herself on his\nknee, as if the proposition opened a pleasing novelty. Seeing that he\nmust proceed to extremities, he put her into the coal-hole, and held\nthe door closed, with a trembling sense that he was using a strong\nmeasure. For a moment there was silence, but then came a little cry,\n\"Opy, opy!\" and Silas let her out again, saying, \"Now Eppie \'ull never\nbe naughty again, else she must go in the coal-hole--a black naughty\nplace.\"\n\nThe weaving must stand still a long while this morning, for now Eppie\nmust be washed, and have clean clothes on; but it was to be hoped that\nthis punishment would have a lasting effect, and save time in\nfuture--though, perhaps, it would have been better if Eppie had cried\nmore.\n\nIn half an hour she was clean again, and Silas having turned his back\nto see what he could do with the linen band, threw it down again, with\nthe reflection that Eppie would be good without fastening for the rest\nof the morning. He turned round again, and was going to place her in\nher little chair near the loom, when she peeped out at him with black\nface and hands again, and said, \"Eppie in de toal-hole!\"\n\nThis total failure of the coal-hole discipline shook Silas\'s belief in\nthe efficacy of punishment. \"She\'d take it all for fun,\" he observed\nto Dolly, \"if I didn\'t hurt her, and that I can\'t do, Mrs. Winthrop.\nIf she makes me a bit o\' trouble, I can bear it. And she\'s got no\ntricks but what she\'ll grow out of.\"\n\n\"Well, that\'s partly true, Master Marner,\" said Dolly, sympathetically;\n\"and if you can\'t bring your mind to frighten her off touching things,\nyou must do what you can to keep \'em out of her way. That\'s what I do\nwi\' the pups as the lads are allays a-rearing. They _will_ worry and\ngnaw--worry and gnaw they will, if it was one\'s Sunday cap as hung\nanywhere so as they could drag it. They know no difference, God help\n\'em: it\'s the pushing o\' the teeth as sets \'em on, that\'s what it is.\"\n\nSo Eppie was reared without punishment, the burden of her misdeeds\nbeing borne vicariously by father Silas. The stone hut was made a soft\nnest for her, lined with downy patience: and also in the world that lay\nbeyond the stone hut she knew nothing of frowns and denials.\n\nNotwithstanding the difficulty of carrying her and his yarn or linen at\nthe same time, Silas took her with him in most of his journeys to the\nfarmhouses, unwilling to leave her behind at Dolly Winthrop\'s, who was\nalways ready to take care of her; and little curly-headed Eppie, the\nweaver\'s child, became an object of interest at several outlying\nhomesteads, as well as in the village. Hitherto he had been treated\nvery much as if he had been a useful gnome or brownie--a queer and\nunaccountable creature, who must necessarily be looked at with\nwondering curiosity and repulsion, and with whom one would be glad to\nmake all greetings and bargains as brief as possible, but who must be\ndealt with in a propitiatory way, and occasionally have a present of\npork or garden stuff to carry home with him, seeing that without him\nthere was no getting the yarn woven. But now Silas met with open\nsmiling faces and cheerful questioning, as a person whose satisfactions\nand difficulties could be understood. Everywhere he must sit a little\nand talk about the child, and words of interest were always ready for\nhim: \"Ah, Master Marner, you\'ll be lucky if she takes the measles soon\nand easy!\"--or, \"Why, there isn\'t many lone men \'ud ha\' been wishing to\ntake up with a little un like that: but I reckon the weaving makes you\nhandier than men as do out-door work--you\'re partly as handy as a\nwoman, for weaving comes next to spinning.\" Elderly masters and\nmistresses, seated observantly in large kitchen arm-chairs, shook their\nheads over the difficulties attendant on rearing children, felt Eppie\'s\nround arms and legs, and pronounced them remarkably firm, and told\nSilas that, if she turned out well (which, however, there was no\ntelling), it would be a fine thing for him to have a steady lass to do\nfor him when he got helpless. Servant maidens were fond of carrying\nher out to look at the hens and chickens, or to see if any cherries\ncould be shaken down in the orchard; and the small boys and girls\napproached her slowly, with cautious movement and steady gaze, like\nlittle dogs face to face with one of their own kind, till attraction\nhad reached the point at which the soft lips were put out for a kiss.\nNo child was afraid of approaching Silas when Eppie was near him: there\nwas no repulsion around him now, either for young or old; for the\nlittle child had come to link him once more with the whole world.\nThere was love between him and the child that blent them into one, and\nthere was love between the child and the world--from men and women with\nparental looks and tones, to the red lady-birds and the round pebbles.\n\nSilas began now to think of Raveloe life entirely in relation to Eppie:\nshe must have everything that was a good in Raveloe; and he listened\ndocilely, that he might come to understand better what this life was,\nfrom which, for fifteen years, he had stood aloof as from a strange\nthing, with which he could have no communion: as some man who has a\nprecious plant to which he would give a nurturing home in a new soil,\nthinks of the rain, and the sunshine, and all influences, in relation\nto his nursling, and asks industriously for all knowledge that will\nhelp him to satisfy the wants of the searching roots, or to guard leaf\nand bud from invading harm. The disposition to hoard had been utterly\ncrushed at the very first by the loss of his long-stored gold: the\ncoins he earned afterwards seemed as irrelevant as stones brought to\ncomplete a house suddenly buried by an earthquake; the sense of\nbereavement was too heavy upon him for the old thrill of satisfaction\nto arise again at the touch of the newly-earned coin. And now\nsomething had come to replace his hoard which gave a growing purpose to\nthe earnings, drawing his hope and joy continually onward beyond the\nmoney.\n\nIn old days there were angels who came and took men by the hand and led\nthem away from the city of destruction. We see no white-winged angels\nnow. But yet men are led away from threatening destruction: a hand is\nput into theirs, which leads them forth gently towards a calm and\nbright land, so that they look no more backward; and the hand may be a\nlittle child\'s.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nThere was one person, as you will believe, who watched with keener\nthough more hidden interest than any other, the prosperous growth of\nEppie under the weaver\'s care. He dared not do anything that would\nimply a stronger interest in a poor man\'s adopted child than could be\nexpected from the kindliness of the young Squire, when a chance meeting\nsuggested a little present to a simple old fellow whom others noticed\nwith goodwill; but he told himself that the time would come when he\nmight do something towards furthering the welfare of his daughter\nwithout incurring suspicion. Was he very uneasy in the meantime at his\ninability to give his daughter her birthright? I cannot say that he\nwas. The child was being taken care of, and would very likely be\nhappy, as people in humble stations often were--happier, perhaps, than\nthose brought up in luxury.\n\nThat famous ring that pricked its owner when he forgot duty and\nfollowed desire--I wonder if it pricked very hard when he set out on\nthe chase, or whether it pricked but lightly then, and only pierced to\nthe quick when the chase had long been ended, and hope, folding her\nwings, looked backward and became regret?\n\nGodfrey Cass\'s cheek and eye were brighter than ever now. He was so\nundivided in his aims, that he seemed like a man of firmness. No\nDunsey had come back: people had made up their minds that he was gone\nfor a soldier, or gone \"out of the country\", and no one cared to be\nspecific in their inquiries on a subject delicate to a respectable\nfamily. Godfrey had ceased to see the shadow of Dunsey across his\npath; and the path now lay straight forward to the accomplishment of\nhis best, longest-cherished wishes. Everybody said Mr. Godfrey had\ntaken the right turn; and it was pretty clear what would be the end of\nthings, for there were not many days in the week that he was not seen\nriding to the Warrens. Godfrey himself, when he was asked jocosely if\nthe day had been fixed, smiled with the pleasant consciousness of a\nlover who could say \"yes\", if he liked. He felt a reformed man,\ndelivered from temptation; and the vision of his future life seemed to\nhim as a promised land for which he had no cause to fight. He saw\nhimself with all his happiness centred on his own hearth, while Nancy\nwould smile on him as he played with the children.\n\nAnd that other child--not on the hearth--he would not forget it; he\nwould see that it was well provided for. That was a father\'s duty.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nIt was a bright autumn Sunday, sixteen years after Silas Marner had\nfound his new treasure on the hearth. The bells of the old Raveloe\nchurch were ringing the cheerful peal which told that the morning\nservice was ended; and out of the arched doorway in the tower came\nslowly, retarded by friendly greetings and questions, the richer\nparishioners who had chosen this bright Sunday morning as eligible for\nchurch-going. It was the rural fashion of that time for the more\nimportant members of the congregation to depart first, while their\nhumbler neighbours waited and looked on, stroking their bent heads or\ndropping their curtsies to any large ratepayer who turned to notice\nthem.\n\nForemost among these advancing groups of well-clad people, there are\nsome whom we shall recognize, in spite of Time, who has laid his hand\non them all. The tall blond man of forty is not much changed in\nfeature from the Godfrey Cass of six-and-twenty: he is only fuller in\nflesh, and has only lost the indefinable look of youth--a loss which is\nmarked even when the eye is undulled and the wrinkles are not yet come.\nPerhaps the pretty woman, not much younger than he, who is leaning on\nhis arm, is more changed than her husband: the lovely bloom that used\nto be always on her cheek now comes but fitfully, with the fresh\nmorning air or with some strong surprise; yet to all who love human\nfaces best for what they tell of human experience, Nancy\'s beauty has a\nheightened interest. Often the soul is ripened into fuller goodness\nwhile age has spread an ugly film, so that mere glances can never\ndivine the preciousness of the fruit. But the years have not been so\ncruel to Nancy. The firm yet placid mouth, the clear veracious glance\nof the brown eyes, speak now of a nature that has been tested and has\nkept its highest qualities; and even the costume, with its dainty\nneatness and purity, has more significance now the coquetries of youth\ncan have nothing to do with it.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass (any higher title has died away from Raveloe\nlips since the old Squire was gathered to his fathers and his\ninheritance was divided) have turned round to look for the tall aged\nman and the plainly dressed woman who are a little behind--Nancy having\nobserved that they must wait for \"father and Priscilla\"--and now they\nall turn into a narrower path leading across the churchyard to a small\ngate opposite the Red House. We will not follow them now; for may\nthere not be some others in this departing congregation whom we should\nlike to see again--some of those who are not likely to be handsomely\nclad, and whom we may not recognize so easily as the master and\nmistress of the Red House?\n\nBut it is impossible to mistake Silas Marner. His large brown eyes\nseem to have gathered a longer vision, as is the way with eyes that\nhave been short-sighted in early life, and they have a less vague, a\nmore answering gaze; but in everything else one sees signs of a frame\nmuch enfeebled by the lapse of the sixteen years. The weaver\'s bent\nshoulders and white hair give him almost the look of advanced age,\nthough he is not more than five-and-fifty; but there is the freshest\nblossom of youth close by his side--a blonde dimpled girl of eighteen,\nwho has vainly tried to chastise her curly auburn hair into smoothness\nunder her brown bonnet: the hair ripples as obstinately as a brooklet\nunder the March breeze, and the little ringlets burst away from the\nrestraining comb behind and show themselves below the bonnet-crown.\nEppie cannot help being rather vexed about her hair, for there is no\nother girl in Raveloe who has hair at all like it, and she thinks hair\nought to be smooth. She does not like to be blameworthy even in small\nthings: you see how neatly her prayer-book is folded in her spotted\nhandkerchief.\n\nThat good-looking young fellow, in a new fustian suit, who walks behind\nher, is not quite sure upon the question of hair in the abstract, when\nEppie puts it to him, and thinks that perhaps straight hair is the best\nin general, but he doesn\'t want Eppie\'s hair to be different. She\nsurely divines that there is some one behind her who is thinking about\nher very particularly, and mustering courage to come to her side as\nsoon as they are out in the lane, else why should she look rather shy,\nand take care not to turn away her head from her father Silas, to whom\nshe keeps murmuring little sentences as to who was at church and who\nwas not at church, and how pretty the red mountain-ash is over the\nRectory wall?\n\n\"I wish _we_ had a little garden, father, with double daisies in, like\nMrs. Winthrop\'s,\" said Eppie, when they were out in the lane; \"only\nthey say it \'ud take a deal of digging and bringing fresh soil--and you\ncouldn\'t do that, could you, father? Anyhow, I shouldn\'t like you to\ndo it, for it \'ud be too hard work for you.\"\n\n\"Yes, I could do it, child, if you want a bit o\' garden: these long\nevenings, I could work at taking in a little bit o\' the waste, just\nenough for a root or two o\' flowers for you; and again, i\' the morning,\nI could have a turn wi\' the spade before I sat down to the loom. Why\ndidn\'t you tell me before as you wanted a bit o\' garden?\"\n\n\"_I_ can dig it for you, Master Marner,\" said the young man in fustian,\nwho was now by Eppie\'s side, entering into the conversation without the\ntrouble of formalities. \"It\'ll be play to me after I\'ve done my day\'s\nwork, or any odd bits o\' time when the work\'s slack. And I\'ll bring\nyou some soil from Mr. Cass\'s garden--he\'ll let me, and willing.\"\n\n\"Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you there?\" said Silas; \"I wasn\'t aware of\nyou; for when Eppie\'s talking o\' things, I see nothing but what she\'s\na-saying. Well, if you could help me with the digging, we might get\nher a bit o\' garden all the sooner.\"\n\n\"Then, if you think well and good,\" said Aaron, \"I\'ll come to the\nStone-pits this afternoon, and we\'ll settle what land\'s to be taken in,\nand I\'ll get up an hour earlier i\' the morning, and begin on it.\"\n\n\"But not if you don\'t promise me not to work at the hard digging,\nfather,\" said Eppie. \"For I shouldn\'t ha\' said anything about it,\" she\nadded, half-bashfully, half-roguishly, \"only Mrs. Winthrop said as\nAaron \'ud be so good, and--\"\n\n\"And you might ha\' known it without mother telling you,\" said Aaron.\n\"And Master Marner knows too, I hope, as I\'m able and willing to do a\nturn o\' work for him, and he won\'t do me the unkindness to anyways take\nit out o\' my hands.\"\n\n\"There, now, father, you won\'t work in it till it\'s all easy,\" said\nEppie, \"and you and me can mark out the beds, and make holes and plant\nthe roots. It\'ll be a deal livelier at the Stone-pits when we\'ve got\nsome flowers, for I always think the flowers can see us and know what\nwe\'re talking about. And I\'ll have a bit o\' rosemary, and bergamot,\nand thyme, because they\'re so sweet-smelling; but there\'s no lavender\nonly in the gentlefolks\' gardens, I think.\"\n\n\"That\'s no reason why you shouldn\'t have some,\" said Aaron, \"for I can\nbring you slips of anything; I\'m forced to cut no end of \'em when I\'m\ngardening, and throw \'em away mostly. There\'s a big bed o\' lavender at\nthe Red House: the missis is very fond of it.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Silas, gravely, \"so as you don\'t make free for us, or ask\nfor anything as is worth much at the Red House: for Mr. Cass\'s been so\ngood to us, and built us up the new end o\' the cottage, and given us\nbeds and things, as I couldn\'t abide to be imposin\' for garden-stuff or\nanything else.\"\n\n\"No, no, there\'s no imposin\',\" said Aaron; \"there\'s never a garden in\nall the parish but what there\'s endless waste in it for want o\'\nsomebody as could use everything up. It\'s what I think to myself\nsometimes, as there need nobody run short o\' victuals if the land was\nmade the most on, and there was never a morsel but what could find its\nway to a mouth. It sets one thinking o\' that--gardening does. But I\nmust go back now, else mother \'ull be in trouble as I aren\'t there.\"\n\n\"Bring her with you this afternoon, Aaron,\" said Eppie; \"I shouldn\'t\nlike to fix about the garden, and her not know everything from the\nfirst--should _you_, father?\"\n\n\"Aye, bring her if you can, Aaron,\" said Silas; \"she\'s sure to have a\nword to say as\'ll help us to set things on their right end.\"\n\nAaron turned back up the village, while Silas and Eppie went on up the\nlonely sheltered lane.\n\n\"O daddy!\" she began, when they were in privacy, clasping and\nsqueezing Silas\'s arm, and skipping round to give him an energetic\nkiss. \"My little old daddy! I\'m so glad. I don\'t think I shall want\nanything else when we\'ve got a little garden; and I knew Aaron would\ndig it for us,\" she went on with roguish triumph--\"I knew that very\nwell.\"\n\n\"You\'re a deep little puss, you are,\" said Silas, with the mild passive\nhappiness of love-crowned age in his face; \"but you\'ll make yourself\nfine and beholden to Aaron.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, I shan\'t,\" said Eppie, laughing and frisking; \"he likes it.\"\n\n\"Come, come, let me carry your prayer-book, else you\'ll be dropping it,\njumping i\' that way.\"\n\nEppie was now aware that her behaviour was under observation, but it\nwas only the observation of a friendly donkey, browsing with a log\nfastened to his foot--a meek donkey, not scornfully critical of human\ntrivialities, but thankful to share in them, if possible, by getting\nhis nose scratched; and Eppie did not fail to gratify him with her\nusual notice, though it was attended with the inconvenience of his\nfollowing them, painfully, up to the very door of their home.\n\nBut the sound of a sharp bark inside, as Eppie put the key in the door,\nmodified the donkey\'s views, and he limped away again without bidding.\nThe sharp bark was the sign of an excited welcome that was awaiting\nthem from a knowing brown terrier, who, after dancing at their legs in\na hysterical manner, rushed with a worrying noise at a tortoise-shell\nkitten under the loom, and then rushed back with a sharp bark again, as\nmuch as to say, \"I have done my duty by this feeble creature, you\nperceive\"; while the lady-mother of the kitten sat sunning her white\nbosom in the window, and looked round with a sleepy air of expecting\ncaresses, though she was not going to take any trouble for them.\n\nThe presence of this happy animal life was not the only change which\nhad come over the interior of the stone cottage. There was no bed now\nin the living-room, and the small space was well filled with decent\nfurniture, all bright and clean enough to satisfy Dolly Winthrop\'s eye.\nThe oaken table and three-cornered oaken chair were hardly what was\nlikely to be seen in so poor a cottage: they had come, with the beds\nand other things, from the Red House; for Mr. Godfrey Cass, as every\none said in the village, did very kindly by the weaver; and it was\nnothing but right a man should be looked on and helped by those who\ncould afford it, when he had brought up an orphan child, and been\nfather and mother to her--and had lost his money too, so as he had\nnothing but what he worked for week by week, and when the weaving was\ngoing down too--for there was less and less flax spun--and Master\nMarner was none so young. Nobody was jealous of the weaver, for he was\nregarded as an exceptional person, whose claims on neighbourly help\nwere not to be matched in Raveloe. Any superstition that remained\nconcerning him had taken an entirely new colour; and Mr. Macey, now a\nvery feeble old man of fourscore and six, never seen except in his\nchimney-corner or sitting in the sunshine at his door-sill, was of\nopinion that when a man had done what Silas had done by an orphan\nchild, it was a sign that his money would come to light again, or\nleastwise that the robber would be made to answer for it--for, as Mr.\nMacey observed of himself, his faculties were as strong as ever.\n\nSilas sat down now and watched Eppie with a satisfied gaze as she\nspread the clean cloth, and set on it the potato-pie, warmed up slowly\nin a safe Sunday fashion, by being put into a dry pot over a\nslowly-dying fire, as the best substitute for an oven. For Silas would\nnot consent to have a grate and oven added to his conveniences: he\nloved the old brick hearth as he had loved his brown pot--and was it\nnot there when he had found Eppie? The gods of the hearth exist for us\nstill; and let all new faith be tolerant of that fetishism, lest it\nbruise its own roots.\n\nSilas ate his dinner more silently than usual, soon laying down his\nknife and fork, and watching half-abstractedly Eppie\'s play with Snap\nand the cat, by which her own dining was made rather a lengthy\nbusiness. Yet it was a sight that might well arrest wandering\nthoughts: Eppie, with the rippling radiance of her hair and the\nwhiteness of her rounded chin and throat set off by the dark-blue\ncotton gown, laughing merrily as the kitten held on with her four claws\nto one shoulder, like a design for a jug-handle, while Snap on the\nright hand and Puss on the other put up their paws towards a morsel\nwhich she held out of the reach of both--Snap occasionally desisting in\norder to remonstrate with the cat by a cogent worrying growl on the\ngreediness and futility of her conduct; till Eppie relented, caressed\nthem both, and divided the morsel between them.\n\nBut at last Eppie, glancing at the clock, checked the play, and said,\n\"O daddy, you\'re wanting to go into the sunshine to smoke your pipe.\nBut I must clear away first, so as the house may be tidy when godmother\ncomes. I\'ll make haste--I won\'t be long.\"\n\nSilas had taken to smoking a pipe daily during the last two years,\nhaving been strongly urged to it by the sages of Raveloe, as a practice\n\"good for the fits\"; and this advice was sanctioned by Dr. Kimble, on\nthe ground that it was as well to try what could do no harm--a\nprinciple which was made to answer for a great deal of work in that\ngentleman\'s medical practice. Silas did not highly enjoy smoking, and\noften wondered how his neighbours could be so fond of it; but a humble\nsort of acquiescence in what was held to be good, had become a strong\nhabit of that new self which had been developed in him since he had\nfound Eppie on his hearth: it had been the only clew his bewildered\nmind could hold by in cherishing this young life that had been sent to\nhim out of the darkness into which his gold had departed. By seeking\nwhat was needful for Eppie, by sharing the effect that everything\nproduced on her, he had himself come to appropriate the forms of custom\nand belief which were the mould of Raveloe life; and as, with\nreawakening sensibilities, memory also reawakened, he had begun to\nponder over the elements of his old faith, and blend them with his new\nimpressions, till he recovered a consciousness of unity between his\npast and present. The sense of presiding goodness and the human trust\nwhich come with all pure peace and joy, had given him a dim impression\nthat there had been some error, some mistake, which had thrown that\ndark shadow over the days of his best years; and as it grew more and\nmore easy to him to open his mind to Dolly Winthrop, he gradually\ncommunicated to her all he could describe of his early life. The\ncommunication was necessarily a slow and difficult process, for Silas\'s\nmeagre power of explanation was not aided by any readiness of\ninterpretation in Dolly, whose narrow outward experience gave her no\nkey to strange customs, and made every novelty a source of wonder that\narrested them at every step of the narrative. It was only by\nfragments, and at intervals which left Dolly time to revolve what she\nhad heard till it acquired some familiarity for her, that Silas at last\narrived at the climax of the sad story--the drawing of lots, and its\nfalse testimony concerning him; and this had to be repeated in several\ninterviews, under new questions on her part as to the nature of this\nplan for detecting the guilty and clearing the innocent.\n\n\"And yourn\'s the same Bible, you\'re sure o\' that, Master Marner--the\nBible as you brought wi\' you from that country--it\'s the same as what\nthey\'ve got at church, and what Eppie\'s a-learning to read in?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Silas, \"every bit the same; and there\'s drawing o\' lots in\nthe Bible, mind you,\" he added in a lower tone.\n\n\"Oh, dear, dear,\" said Dolly in a grieved voice, as if she were hearing\nan unfavourable report of a sick man\'s case. She was silent for some\nminutes; at last she said--\n\n\"There\'s wise folks, happen, as know how it all is; the parson knows,\nI\'ll be bound; but it takes big words to tell them things, and such as\npoor folks can\'t make much out on. I can never rightly know the\nmeaning o\' what I hear at church, only a bit here and there, but I know\nit\'s good words--I do. But what lies upo\' your mind--it\'s this, Master\nMarner: as, if Them above had done the right thing by you, They\'d never\nha\' let you be turned out for a wicked thief when you was innicent.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Silas, who had now come to understand Dolly\'s phraseology,\n\"that was what fell on me like as if it had been red-hot iron; because,\nyou see, there was nobody as cared for me or clave to me above nor\nbelow. And him as I\'d gone out and in wi\' for ten year and more, since\nwhen we was lads and went halves--mine own familiar friend in whom I\ntrusted, had lifted up his heel again\' me, and worked to ruin me.\"\n\n\"Eh, but he was a bad un--I can\'t think as there\'s another such,\" said\nDolly. \"But I\'m o\'ercome, Master Marner; I\'m like as if I\'d waked and\ndidn\'t know whether it was night or morning. I feel somehow as sure as\nI do when I\'ve laid something up though I can\'t justly put my hand on\nit, as there was a rights in what happened to you, if one could but\nmake it out; and you\'d no call to lose heart as you did. But we\'ll\ntalk on it again; for sometimes things come into my head when I\'m\nleeching or poulticing, or such, as I could never think on when I was\nsitting still.\"\n\nDolly was too useful a woman not to have many opportunities of\nillumination of the kind she alluded to, and she was not long before\nshe recurred to the subject.\n\n\"Master Marner,\" she said, one day that she came to bring home Eppie\'s\nwashing, \"I\'ve been sore puzzled for a good bit wi\' that trouble o\'\nyourn and the drawing o\' lots; and it got twisted back\'ards and\nfor\'ards, as I didn\'t know which end to lay hold on. But it come to me\nall clear like, that night when I was sitting up wi\' poor Bessy Fawkes,\nas is dead and left her children behind, God help \'em--it come to me as\nclear as daylight; but whether I\'ve got hold on it now, or can anyways\nbring it to my tongue\'s end, that I don\'t know. For I\'ve often a deal\ninside me as\'ll never come out; and for what you talk o\' your folks in\nyour old country niver saying prayers by heart nor saying \'em out of a\nbook, they must be wonderful cliver; for if I didn\'t know \"Our Father\",\nand little bits o\' good words as I can carry out o\' church wi\' me, I\nmight down o\' my knees every night, but nothing could I say.\"\n\n\"But you can mostly say something as I can make sense on, Mrs.\nWinthrop,\" said Silas.\n\n\"Well, then, Master Marner, it come to me summat like this: I can make\nnothing o\' the drawing o\' lots and the answer coming wrong; it \'ud\nmayhap take the parson to tell that, and he could only tell us i\' big\nwords. But what come to me as clear as the daylight, it was when I was\ntroubling over poor Bessy Fawkes, and it allays comes into my head when\nI\'m sorry for folks, and feel as I can\'t do a power to help \'em, not if\nI was to get up i\' the middle o\' the night--it comes into my head as\nThem above has got a deal tenderer heart nor what I\'ve got--for I can\'t\nbe anyways better nor Them as made me; and if anything looks hard to\nme, it\'s because there\'s things I don\'t know on; and for the matter o\'\nthat, there may be plenty o\' things I don\'t know on, for it\'s little as\nI know--that it is. And so, while I was thinking o\' that, you come into\nmy mind, Master Marner, and it all come pouring in:--if _I_ felt i\' my\ninside what was the right and just thing by you, and them as prayed and\ndrawed the lots, all but that wicked un, if _they_\'d ha\' done the right\nthing by you if they could, isn\'t there Them as was at the making on\nus, and knows better and has a better will? And that\'s all as ever I\ncan be sure on, and everything else is a big puzzle to me when I think\non it. For there was the fever come and took off them as were\nfull-growed, and left the helpless children; and there\'s the breaking\no\' limbs; and them as \'ud do right and be sober have to suffer by them\nas are contrairy--eh, there\'s trouble i\' this world, and there\'s things\nas we can niver make out the rights on. And all as we\'ve got to do is\nto trusten, Master Marner--to do the right thing as fur as we know, and\nto trusten. For if us as knows so little can see a bit o\' good and\nrights, we may be sure as there\'s a good and a rights bigger nor what\nwe can know--I feel it i\' my own inside as it must be so. And if you\ncould but ha\' gone on trustening, Master Marner, you wouldn\'t ha\' run\naway from your fellow-creaturs and been so lone.\"\n\n\"Ah, but that \'ud ha\' been hard,\" said Silas, in an under-tone; \"it \'ud\nha\' been hard to trusten then.\"\n\n\"And so it would,\" said Dolly, almost with compunction; \"them things\nare easier said nor done; and I\'m partly ashamed o\' talking.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Silas, \"you\'re i\' the right, Mrs. Winthrop--you\'re i\'\nthe right. There\'s good i\' this world--I\'ve a feeling o\' that now; and\nit makes a man feel as there\'s a good more nor he can see, i\' spite o\'\nthe trouble and the wickedness. That drawing o\' the lots is dark; but\nthe child was sent to me: there\'s dealings with us--there\'s dealings.\"\n\nThis dialogue took place in Eppie\'s earlier years, when Silas had to\npart with her for two hours every day, that she might learn to read at\nthe dame school, after he had vainly tried himself to guide her in that\nfirst step to learning. Now that she was grown up, Silas had often\nbeen led, in those moments of quiet outpouring which come to people who\nlive together in perfect love, to talk with _her_ too of the past, and\nhow and why he had lived a lonely man until she had been sent to him.\nFor it would have been impossible for him to hide from Eppie that she\nwas not his own child: even if the most delicate reticence on the point\ncould have been expected from Raveloe gossips in her presence, her own\nquestions about her mother could not have been parried, as she grew up,\nwithout that complete shrouding of the past which would have made a\npainful barrier between their minds. So Eppie had long known how her\nmother had died on the snowy ground, and how she herself had been found\non the hearth by father Silas, who had taken her golden curls for his\nlost guineas brought back to him. The tender and peculiar love with\nwhich Silas had reared her in almost inseparable companionship with\nhimself, aided by the seclusion of their dwelling, had preserved her\nfrom the lowering influences of the village talk and habits, and had\nkept her mind in that freshness which is sometimes falsely supposed to\nbe an invariable attribute of rusticity. Perfect love has a breath of\npoetry which can exalt the relations of the least-instructed human\nbeings; and this breath of poetry had surrounded Eppie from the time\nwhen she had followed the bright gleam that beckoned her to Silas\'s\nhearth; so that it is not surprising if, in other things besides her\ndelicate prettiness, she was not quite a common village maiden, but had\na touch of refinement and fervour which came from no other teaching\nthan that of tenderly-nurtured unvitiated feeling. She was too\nchildish and simple for her imagination to rove into questions about\nher unknown father; for a long while it did not even occur to her that\nshe must have had a father; and the first time that the idea of her\nmother having had a husband presented itself to her, was when Silas\nshowed her the wedding-ring which had been taken from the wasted\nfinger, and had been carefully preserved by him in a little lackered\nbox shaped like a shoe. He delivered this box into Eppie\'s charge when\nshe had grown up, and she often opened it to look at the ring: but\nstill she thought hardly at all about the father of whom it was the\nsymbol. Had she not a father very close to her, who loved her better\nthan any real fathers in the village seemed to love their daughters?\nOn the contrary, who her mother was, and how she came to die in that\nforlornness, were questions that often pressed on Eppie\'s mind. Her\nknowledge of Mrs. Winthrop, who was her nearest friend next to Silas,\nmade her feel that a mother must be very precious; and she had again\nand again asked Silas to tell her how her mother looked, whom she was\nlike, and how he had found her against the furze bush, led towards it\nby the little footsteps and the outstretched arms. The furze bush was\nthere still; and this afternoon, when Eppie came out with Silas into\nthe sunshine, it was the first object that arrested her eyes and\nthoughts.\n\n\"Father,\" she said, in a tone of gentle gravity, which sometimes came\nlike a sadder, slower cadence across her playfulness, \"we shall take\nthe furze bush into the garden; it\'ll come into the corner, and just\nagainst it I\'ll put snowdrops and crocuses, \'cause Aaron says they\nwon\'t die out, but\'ll always get more and more.\"\n\n\"Ah, child,\" said Silas, always ready to talk when he had his pipe in\nhis hand, apparently enjoying the pauses more than the puffs, \"it\nwouldn\'t do to leave out the furze bush; and there\'s nothing prettier,\nto my thinking, when it\'s yallow with flowers. But it\'s just come into\nmy head what we\'re to do for a fence--mayhap Aaron can help us to a\nthought; but a fence we must have, else the donkeys and things \'ull\ncome and trample everything down. And fencing\'s hard to be got at, by\nwhat I can make out.\"\n\n\"Oh, I\'ll tell you, daddy,\" said Eppie, clasping her hands suddenly,\nafter a minute\'s thought. \"There\'s lots o\' loose stones about, some of\n\'em not big, and we might lay \'em atop of one another, and make a wall.\nYou and me could carry the smallest, and Aaron \'ud carry the rest--I\nknow he would.\"\n\n\"Eh, my precious un,\" said Silas, \"there isn\'t enough stones to go all\nround; and as for you carrying, why, wi\' your little arms you couldn\'t\ncarry a stone no bigger than a turnip. You\'re dillicate made, my\ndear,\" he added, with a tender intonation--\"that\'s what Mrs. Winthrop\nsays.\"\n\n\"Oh, I\'m stronger than you think, daddy,\" said Eppie; \"and if there\nwasn\'t stones enough to go all round, why they\'ll go part o\' the way,\nand then it\'ll be easier to get sticks and things for the rest. See\nhere, round the big pit, what a many stones!\"\n\nShe skipped forward to the pit, meaning to lift one of the stones and\nexhibit her strength, but she started back in surprise.\n\n\"Oh, father, just come and look here,\" she exclaimed--\"come and see how\nthe water\'s gone down since yesterday. Why, yesterday the pit was ever\nso full!\"\n\n\"Well, to be sure,\" said Silas, coming to her side. \"Why, that\'s the\ndraining they\'ve begun on, since harvest, i\' Mr. Osgood\'s fields, I\nreckon. The foreman said to me the other day, when I passed by \'em,\n\"Master Marner,\" he said, \"I shouldn\'t wonder if we lay your bit o\'\nwaste as dry as a bone.\" It was Mr. Godfrey Cass, he said, had gone\ninto the draining: he\'d been taking these fields o\' Mr. Osgood.\"\n\n\"How odd it\'ll seem to have the old pit dried up!\" said Eppie, turning\naway, and stooping to lift rather a large stone. \"See, daddy, I can\ncarry this quite well,\" she said, going along with much energy for a\nfew steps, but presently letting it fall.\n\n\"Ah, you\'re fine and strong, aren\'t you?\" said Silas, while Eppie\nshook her aching arms and laughed. \"Come, come, let us go and sit down\non the bank against the stile there, and have no more lifting. You\nmight hurt yourself, child. You\'d need have somebody to work for\nyou--and my arm isn\'t over strong.\"\n\nSilas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it implied more than met\nthe ear; and Eppie, when they sat down on the bank, nestled close to\nhis side, and, taking hold caressingly of the arm that was not over\nstrong, held it on her lap, while Silas puffed again dutifully at the\npipe, which occupied his other arm. An ash in the hedgerow behind made\na fretted screen from the sun, and threw happy playful shadows all\nabout them.\n\n\"Father,\" said Eppie, very gently, after they had been sitting in\nsilence a little while, \"if I was to be married, ought I to be married\nwith my mother\'s ring?\"\n\nSilas gave an almost imperceptible start, though the question fell in\nwith the under-current of thought in his own mind, and then said, in a\nsubdued tone, \"Why, Eppie, have you been a-thinking on it?\"\n\n\"Only this last week, father,\" said Eppie, ingenuously, \"since Aaron\ntalked to me about it.\"\n\n\"And what did he say?\" said Silas, still in the same subdued way, as\nif he were anxious lest he should fall into the slightest tone that was\nnot for Eppie\'s good.\n\n\"He said he should like to be married, because he was a-going in\nfour-and-twenty, and had got a deal of gardening work, now Mr. Mott\'s\ngiven up; and he goes twice a-week regular to Mr. Cass\'s, and once to\nMr. Osgood\'s, and they\'re going to take him on at the Rectory.\"\n\n\"And who is it as he\'s wanting to marry?\" said Silas, with rather a\nsad smile.\n\n\"Why, me, to be sure, daddy,\" said Eppie, with dimpling laughter,\nkissing her father\'s cheek; \"as if he\'d want to marry anybody else!\"\n\n\"And you mean to have him, do you?\" said Silas.\n\n\"Yes, some time,\" said Eppie, \"I don\'t know when. Everybody\'s married\nsome time, Aaron says. But I told him that wasn\'t true: for, I said,\nlook at father--he\'s never been married.\"\n\n\"No, child,\" said Silas, \"your father was a lone man till you was sent\nto him.\"\n\n\"But you\'ll never be lone again, father,\" said Eppie, tenderly. \"That\nwas what Aaron said--\"I could never think o\' taking you away from\nMaster Marner, Eppie.\" And I said, \"It \'ud be no use if you did,\nAaron.\" And he wants us all to live together, so as you needn\'t work a\nbit, father, only what\'s for your own pleasure; and he\'d be as good as\na son to you--that was what he said.\"\n\n\"And should you like that, Eppie?\" said Silas, looking at her.\n\n\"I shouldn\'t mind it, father,\" said Eppie, quite simply. \"And I should\nlike things to be so as you needn\'t work much. But if it wasn\'t for\nthat, I\'d sooner things didn\'t change. I\'m very happy: I like Aaron to\nbe fond of me, and come and see us often, and behave pretty to you--he\nalways _does_ behave pretty to you, doesn\'t he, father?\"\n\n\"Yes, child, nobody could behave better,\" said Silas, emphatically.\n\"He\'s his mother\'s lad.\"\n\n\"But I don\'t want any change,\" said Eppie. \"I should like to go on a\nlong, long while, just as we are. Only Aaron does want a change; and\nhe made me cry a bit--only a bit--because he said I didn\'t care for\nhim, for if I cared for him I should want us to be married, as he did.\"\n\n\"Eh, my blessed child,\" said Silas, laying down his pipe as if it were\nuseless to pretend to smoke any longer, \"you\'re o\'er young to be\nmarried. We\'ll ask Mrs. Winthrop--we\'ll ask Aaron\'s mother what _she_\nthinks: if there\'s a right thing to do, she\'ll come at it. But there\'s\nthis to be thought on, Eppie: things _will_ change, whether we like it\nor no; things won\'t go on for a long while just as they are and no\ndifference. I shall get older and helplesser, and be a burden on you,\nbelike, if I don\'t go away from you altogether. Not as I mean you\'d\nthink me a burden--I know you wouldn\'t--but it \'ud be hard upon you;\nand when I look for\'ard to that, I like to think as you\'d have somebody\nelse besides me--somebody young and strong, as\'ll outlast your own\nlife, and take care on you to the end.\" Silas paused, and, resting his\nwrists on his knees, lifted his hands up and down meditatively as he\nlooked on the ground.\n\n\"Then, would you like me to be married, father?\" said Eppie, with a\nlittle trembling in her voice.\n\n\"I\'ll not be the man to say no, Eppie,\" said Silas, emphatically; \"but\nwe\'ll ask your godmother. She\'ll wish the right thing by you and her\nson too.\"\n\n\"There they come, then,\" said Eppie. \"Let us go and meet \'em. Oh, the\npipe! won\'t you have it lit again, father?\" said Eppie, lifting that\nmedicinal appliance from the ground.\n\n\"Nay, child,\" said Silas, \"I\'ve done enough for to-day. I think,\nmayhap, a little of it does me more good than so much at once.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nWhile Silas and Eppie were seated on the bank discoursing in the\nfleckered shade of the ash tree, Miss Priscilla Lammeter was resisting\nher sister\'s arguments, that it would be better to take tea at the Red\nHouse, and let her father have a long nap, than drive home to the\nWarrens so soon after dinner. The family party (of four only) were\nseated round the table in the dark wainscoted parlour, with the Sunday\ndessert before them, of fresh filberts, apples, and pears, duly\nornamented with leaves by Nancy\'s own hand before the bells had rung\nfor church.\n\nA great change has come over the dark wainscoted parlour since we saw\nit in Godfrey\'s bachelor days, and under the wifeless reign of the old\nSquire. Now all is polish, on which no yesterday\'s dust is ever\nallowed to rest, from the yard\'s width of oaken boards round the\ncarpet, to the old Squire\'s gun and whips and walking-sticks, ranged on\nthe stag\'s antlers above the mantelpiece. All other signs of sporting\nand outdoor occupation Nancy has removed to another room; but she has\nbrought into the Red House the habit of filial reverence, and preserves\nsacredly in a place of honour these relics of her husband\'s departed\nfather. The tankards are on the side-table still, but the bossed\nsilver is undimmed by handling, and there are no dregs to send forth\nunpleasant suggestions: the only prevailing scent is of the lavender\nand rose-leaves that fill the vases of Derbyshire spar. All is purity\nand order in this once dreary room, for, fifteen years ago, it was\nentered by a new presiding spirit.\n\n\"Now, father,\" said Nancy, \"_is_ there any call for you to go home to\ntea? Mayn\'t you just as well stay with us?--such a beautiful evening\nas it\'s likely to be.\"\n\nThe old gentleman had been talking with Godfrey about the increasing\npoor-rate and the ruinous times, and had not heard the dialogue between\nhis daughters.\n\n\"My dear, you must ask Priscilla,\" he said, in the once firm voice, now\nbecome rather broken. \"She manages me and the farm too.\"\n\n\"And reason good as I should manage you, father,\" said Priscilla, \"else\nyou\'d be giving yourself your death with rheumatism. And as for the\nfarm, if anything turns out wrong, as it can\'t but do in these times,\nthere\'s nothing kills a man so soon as having nobody to find fault with\nbut himself. It\'s a deal the best way o\' being master, to let somebody\nelse do the ordering, and keep the blaming in your own hands. It \'ud\nsave many a man a stroke, _I_ believe.\"\n\n\"Well, well, my dear,\" said her father, with a quiet laugh, \"I didn\'t\nsay you don\'t manage for everybody\'s good.\"\n\n\"Then manage so as you may stay tea, Priscilla,\" said Nancy, putting\nher hand on her sister\'s arm affectionately. \"Come now; and we\'ll go\nround the garden while father has his nap.\"\n\n\"My dear child, he\'ll have a beautiful nap in the gig, for I shall\ndrive. And as for staying tea, I can\'t hear of it; for there\'s this\ndairymaid, now she knows she\'s to be married, turned Michaelmas, she\'d\nas lief pour the new milk into the pig-trough as into the pans. That\'s\nthe way with \'em all: it\'s as if they thought the world \'ud be new-made\nbecause they\'re to be married. So come and let me put my bonnet on,\nand there\'ll be time for us to walk round the garden while the horse is\nbeing put in.\"\n\nWhen the sisters were treading the neatly-swept garden-walks, between\nthe bright turf that contrasted pleasantly with the dark cones and\narches and wall-like hedges of yew, Priscilla said--\n\n\"I\'m as glad as anything at your husband\'s making that exchange o\' land\nwith cousin Osgood, and beginning the dairying. It\'s a thousand pities\nyou didn\'t do it before; for it\'ll give you something to fill your\nmind. There\'s nothing like a dairy if folks want a bit o\' worrit to\nmake the days pass. For as for rubbing furniture, when you can once\nsee your face in a table there\'s nothing else to look for; but there\'s\nalways something fresh with the dairy; for even in the depths o\' winter\nthere\'s some pleasure in conquering the butter, and making it come\nwhether or no. My dear,\" added Priscilla, pressing her sister\'s hand\naffectionately as they walked side by side, \"you\'ll never be low when\nyou\'ve got a dairy.\"\n\n\"Ah, Priscilla,\" said Nancy, returning the pressure with a grateful\nglance of her clear eyes, \"but it won\'t make up to Godfrey: a dairy\'s\nnot so much to a man. And it\'s only what he cares for that ever makes\nme low. I\'m contented with the blessings we have, if he could be\ncontented.\"\n\n\"It drives me past patience,\" said Priscilla, impetuously, \"that way o\'\nthe men--always wanting and wanting, and never easy with what they\'ve\ngot: they can\'t sit comfortable in their chairs when they\'ve neither\nache nor pain, but either they must stick a pipe in their mouths, to\nmake \'em better than well, or else they must be swallowing something\nstrong, though they\'re forced to make haste before the next meal comes\nin. But joyful be it spoken, our father was never that sort o\' man.\nAnd if it had pleased God to make you ugly, like me, so as the men\nwouldn\'t ha\' run after you, we might have kept to our own family, and\nhad nothing to do with folks as have got uneasy blood in their veins.\"\n\n\"Oh, don\'t say so, Priscilla,\" said Nancy, repenting that she had\ncalled forth this outburst; \"nobody has any occasion to find fault with\nGodfrey. It\'s natural he should be disappointed at not having any\nchildren: every man likes to have somebody to work for and lay by for,\nand he always counted so on making a fuss with \'em when they were\nlittle. There\'s many another man \'ud hanker more than he does. He\'s\nthe best of husbands.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know,\" said Priscilla, smiling sarcastically, \"I know the way o\'\nwives; they set one on to abuse their husbands, and then they turn\nround on one and praise \'em as if they wanted to sell \'em. But\nfather\'ll be waiting for me; we must turn now.\"\n\nThe large gig with the steady old grey was at the front door, and Mr.\nLammeter was already on the stone steps, passing the time in recalling\nto Godfrey what very fine points Speckle had when his master used to\nride him.\n\n\"I always _would_ have a good horse, you know,\" said the old gentleman,\nnot liking that spirited time to be quite effaced from the memory of\nhis juniors.\n\n\"Mind you bring Nancy to the Warrens before the week\'s out, Mr. Cass,\"\nwas Priscilla\'s parting injunction, as she took the reins, and shook\nthem gently, by way of friendly incitement to Speckle.\n\n\"I shall just take a turn to the fields against the Stone-pits, Nancy,\nand look at the draining,\" said Godfrey.\n\n\"You\'ll be in again by tea-time, dear?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I shall be back in an hour.\"\n\nIt was Godfrey\'s custom on a Sunday afternoon to do a little\ncontemplative farming in a leisurely walk. Nancy seldom accompanied\nhim; for the women of her generation--unless, like Priscilla, they took\nto outdoor management--were not given to much walking beyond their own\nhouse and garden, finding sufficient exercise in domestic duties. So,\nwhen Priscilla was not with her, she usually sat with Mant\'s Bible\nbefore her, and after following the text with her eyes for a little\nwhile, she would gradually permit them to wander as her thoughts had\nalready insisted on wandering.\n\nBut Nancy\'s Sunday thoughts were rarely quite out of keeping with the\ndevout and reverential intention implied by the book spread open before\nher. She was not theologically instructed enough to discern very\nclearly the relation between the sacred documents of the past which she\nopened without method, and her own obscure, simple life; but the spirit\nof rectitude, and the sense of responsibility for the effect of her\nconduct on others, which were strong elements in Nancy\'s character, had\nmade it a habit with her to scrutinize her past feelings and actions\nwith self-questioning solicitude. Her mind not being courted by a\ngreat variety of subjects, she filled the vacant moments by living\ninwardly, again and again, through all her remembered experience,\nespecially through the fifteen years of her married time, in which her\nlife and its significance had been doubled. She recalled the small\ndetails, the words, tones, and looks, in the critical scenes which had\nopened a new epoch for her by giving her a deeper insight into the\nrelations and trials of life, or which had called on her for some\nlittle effort of forbearance, or of painful adherence to an imagined or\nreal duty--asking herself continually whether she had been in any\nrespect blamable. This excessive rumination and self-questioning is\nperhaps a morbid habit inevitable to a mind of much moral sensibility\nwhen shut out from its due share of outward activity and of practical\nclaims on its affections--inevitable to a noble-hearted, childless\nwoman, when her lot is narrow. \"I can do so little--have I done it all\nwell?\" is the perpetually recurring thought; and there are no voices\ncalling her away from that soliloquy, no peremptory demands to divert\nenergy from vain regret or superfluous scruple.\n\nThere was one main thread of painful experience in Nancy\'s married\nlife, and on it hung certain deeply-felt scenes, which were the\noftenest revived in retrospect. The short dialogue with Priscilla in\nthe garden had determined the current of retrospect in that frequent\ndirection this particular Sunday afternoon. The first wandering of her\nthought from the text, which she still attempted dutifully to follow\nwith her eyes and silent lips, was into an imaginary enlargement of the\ndefence she had set up for her husband against Priscilla\'s implied\nblame. The vindication of the loved object is the best balm affection\ncan find for its wounds:--\"A man must have so much on his mind,\" is the\nbelief by which a wife often supports a cheerful face under rough\nanswers and unfeeling words. And Nancy\'s deepest wounds had all come\nfrom the perception that the absence of children from their hearth was\ndwelt on in her husband\'s mind as a privation to which he could not\nreconcile himself.\n\nYet sweet Nancy might have been expected to feel still more keenly the\ndenial of a blessing to which she had looked forward with all the\nvaried expectations and preparations, solemn and prettily trivial,\nwhich fill the mind of a loving woman when she expects to become a\nmother. Was there not a drawer filled with the neat work of her hands,\nall unworn and untouched, just as she had arranged it there fourteen\nyears ago--just, but for one little dress, which had been made the\nburial-dress? But under this immediate personal trial Nancy was so\nfirmly unmurmuring, that years ago she had suddenly renounced the habit\nof visiting this drawer, lest she should in this way be cherishing a\nlonging for what was not given.\n\nPerhaps it was this very severity towards any indulgence of what she\nheld to be sinful regret in herself, that made her shrink from applying\nher own standard to her husband. \"It is very different--it is much\nworse for a man to be disappointed in that way: a woman can always be\nsatisfied with devoting herself to her husband, but a man wants\nsomething that will make him look forward more--and sitting by the fire\nis so much duller to him than to a woman.\" And always, when Nancy\nreached this point in her meditations--trying, with predetermined\nsympathy, to see everything as Godfrey saw it--there came a renewal of\nself-questioning. _Had_ she done everything in her power to lighten\nGodfrey\'s privation? Had she really been right in the resistance which\nhad cost her so much pain six years ago, and again four years ago--the\nresistance to her husband\'s wish that they should adopt a child?\nAdoption was more remote from the ideas and habits of that time than of\nour own; still Nancy had her opinion on it. It was as necessary to her\nmind to have an opinion on all topics, not exclusively masculine, that\nhad come under her notice, as for her to have a precisely marked place\nfor every article of her personal property: and her opinions were\nalways principles to be unwaveringly acted on. They were firm, not\nbecause of their basis, but because she held them with a tenacity\ninseparable from her mental action. On all the duties and proprieties\nof life, from filial behaviour to the arrangements of the evening\ntoilette, pretty Nancy Lammeter, by the time she was three-and-twenty,\nhad her unalterable little code, and had formed every one of her habits\nin strict accordance with that code. She carried these decided\njudgments within her in the most unobtrusive way: they rooted\nthemselves in her mind, and grew there as quietly as grass. Years ago,\nwe know, she insisted on dressing like Priscilla, because \"it was right\nfor sisters to dress alike\", and because \"she would do what was right\nif she wore a gown dyed with cheese-colouring\". That was a trivial but\ntypical instance of the mode in which Nancy\'s life was regulated.\n\nIt was one of those rigid principles, and no petty egoistic feeling,\nwhich had been the ground of Nancy\'s difficult resistance to her\nhusband\'s wish. To adopt a child, because children of your own had\nbeen denied you, was to try and choose your lot in spite of Providence:\nthe adopted child, she was convinced, would never turn out well, and\nwould be a curse to those who had wilfully and rebelliously sought what\nit was clear that, for some high reason, they were better without.\nWhen you saw a thing was not meant to be, said Nancy, it was a bounden\nduty to leave off so much as wishing for it. And so far, perhaps, the\nwisest of men could scarcely make more than a verbal improvement in her\nprinciple. But the conditions under which she held it apparent that a\nthing was not meant to be, depended on a more peculiar mode of\nthinking. She would have given up making a purchase at a particular\nplace if, on three successive times, rain, or some other cause of\nHeaven\'s sending, had formed an obstacle; and she would have\nanticipated a broken limb or other heavy misfortune to any one who\npersisted in spite of such indications.\n\n\"But why should you think the child would turn out ill?\" said Godfrey,\nin his remonstrances. \"She has thriven as well as child can do with\nthe weaver; and _he_ adopted her. There isn\'t such a pretty little\ngirl anywhere else in the parish, or one fitter for the station we\ncould give her. Where can be the likelihood of her being a curse to\nanybody?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear Godfrey,\" said Nancy, who was sitting with her hands\ntightly clasped together, and with yearning, regretful affection in her\neyes. \"The child may not turn out ill with the weaver. But, then, he\ndidn\'t go to seek her, as we should be doing. It will be wrong: I feel\nsure it will. Don\'t you remember what that lady we met at the Royston\nBaths told us about the child her sister adopted? That was the only\nadopting I ever heard of: and the child was transported when it was\ntwenty-three. Dear Godfrey, don\'t ask me to do what I know is wrong: I\nshould never be happy again. I know it\'s very hard for _you_--it\'s\neasier for me--but it\'s the will of Providence.\"\n\nIt might seem singular that Nancy--with her religious theory pieced\ntogether out of narrow social traditions, fragments of church doctrine\nimperfectly understood, and girlish reasonings on her small\nexperience--should have arrived by herself at a way of thinking so\nnearly akin to that of many devout people, whose beliefs are held in\nthe shape of a system quite remote from her knowledge--singular, if we\ndid not know that human beliefs, like all other natural growths, elude\nthe barriers of system.\n\nGodfrey had from the first specified Eppie, then about twelve years\nold, as a child suitable for them to adopt. It had never occurred to\nhim that Silas would rather part with his life than with Eppie. Surely\nthe weaver would wish the best to the child he had taken so much\ntrouble with, and would be glad that such good fortune should happen to\nher: she would always be very grateful to him, and he would be well\nprovided for to the end of his life--provided for as the excellent part\nhe had done by the child deserved. Was it not an appropriate thing for\npeople in a higher station to take a charge off the hands of a man in a\nlower? It seemed an eminently appropriate thing to Godfrey, for\nreasons that were known only to himself; and by a common fallacy, he\nimagined the measure would be easy because he had private motives for\ndesiring it. This was rather a coarse mode of estimating Silas\'s\nrelation to Eppie; but we must remember that many of the impressions\nwhich Godfrey was likely to gather concerning the labouring people\naround him would favour the idea that deep affections can hardly go\nalong with callous palms and scant means; and he had not had the\nopportunity, even if he had had the power, of entering intimately into\nall that was exceptional in the weaver\'s experience. It was only the\nwant of adequate knowledge that could have made it possible for Godfrey\ndeliberately to entertain an unfeeling project: his natural kindness\nhad outlived that blighting time of cruel wishes, and Nancy\'s praise of\nhim as a husband was not founded entirely on a wilful illusion.\n\n\"I was right,\" she said to herself, when she had recalled all their\nscenes of discussion--\"I feel I was right to say him nay, though it\nhurt me more than anything; but how good Godfrey has been about it!\nMany men would have been very angry with me for standing out against\ntheir wishes; and they might have thrown out that they\'d had ill-luck\nin marrying me; but Godfrey has never been the man to say me an unkind\nword. It\'s only what he can\'t hide: everything seems so blank to him,\nI know; and the land--what a difference it \'ud make to him, when he\ngoes to see after things, if he\'d children growing up that he was doing\nit all for! But I won\'t murmur; and perhaps if he\'d married a woman\nwho\'d have had children, she\'d have vexed him in other ways.\"\n\nThis possibility was Nancy\'s chief comfort; and to give it greater\nstrength, she laboured to make it impossible that any other wife should\nhave had more perfect tenderness. She had been _forced_ to vex him by\nthat one denial. Godfrey was not insensible to her loving effort, and\ndid Nancy no injustice as to the motives of her obstinacy. It was\nimpossible to have lived with her fifteen years and not be aware that\nan unselfish clinging to the right, and a sincerity clear as the\nflower-born dew, were her main characteristics; indeed, Godfrey felt\nthis so strongly, that his own more wavering nature, too averse to\nfacing difficulty to be unvaryingly simple and truthful, was kept in a\ncertain awe of this gentle wife who watched his looks with a yearning\nto obey them. It seemed to him impossible that he should ever confess\nto her the truth about Eppie: she would never recover from the\nrepulsion the story of his earlier marriage would create, told to her\nnow, after that long concealment. And the child, too, he thought, must\nbecome an object of repulsion: the very sight of her would be painful.\nThe shock to Nancy\'s mingled pride and ignorance of the world\'s evil\nmight even be too much for her delicate frame. Since he had married\nher with that secret on his heart, he must keep it there to the last.\nWhatever else he did, he could not make an irreparable breach between\nhimself and this long-loved wife.\n\nMeanwhile, why could he not make up his mind to the absence of children\nfrom a hearth brightened by such a wife? Why did his mind fly uneasily\nto that void, as if it were the sole reason why life was not thoroughly\njoyous to him? I suppose it is the way with all men and women who\nreach middle age without the clear perception that life never _can_ be\nthoroughly joyous: under the vague dullness of the grey hours,\ndissatisfaction seeks a definite object, and finds it in the privation\nof an untried good. Dissatisfaction seated musingly on a childless\nhearth, thinks with envy of the father whose return is greeted by young\nvoices--seated at the meal where the little heads rise one above\nanother like nursery plants, it sees a black care hovering behind every\none of them, and thinks the impulses by which men abandon freedom, and\nseek for ties, are surely nothing but a brief madness. In Godfrey\'s\ncase there were further reasons why his thoughts should be continually\nsolicited by this one point in his lot: his conscience, never\nthoroughly easy about Eppie, now gave his childless home the aspect of\na retribution; and as the time passed on, under Nancy\'s refusal to\nadopt her, any retrieval of his error became more and more difficult.\n\nOn this Sunday afternoon it was already four years since there had been\nany allusion to the subject between them, and Nancy supposed that it\nwas for ever buried.\n\n\"I wonder if he\'ll mind it less or more as he gets older,\" she thought;\n\"I\'m afraid more. Aged people feel the miss of children: what would\nfather do without Priscilla? And if I die, Godfrey will be very\nlonely--not holding together with his brothers much. But I won\'t be\nover-anxious, and trying to make things out beforehand: I must do my\nbest for the present.\"\n\nWith that last thought Nancy roused herself from her reverie, and\nturned her eyes again towards the forsaken page. It had been forsaken\nlonger than she imagined, for she was presently surprised by the\nappearance of the servant with the tea-things. It was, in fact, a\nlittle before the usual time for tea; but Jane had her reasons.\n\n\"Is your master come into the yard, Jane?\"\n\n\"No \'m, he isn\'t,\" said Jane, with a slight emphasis, of which,\nhowever, her mistress took no notice.\n\n\"I don\'t know whether you\'ve seen \'em, \'m,\" continued Jane, after a\npause, \"but there\'s folks making haste all one way, afore the front\nwindow. I doubt something\'s happened. There\'s niver a man to be seen\ni\' the yard, else I\'d send and see. I\'ve been up into the top attic,\nbut there\'s no seeing anything for trees. I hope nobody\'s hurt, that\'s\nall.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, I daresay there\'s nothing much the matter,\" said Nancy. \"It\'s\nperhaps Mr. Snell\'s bull got out again, as he did before.\"\n\n\"I wish he mayn\'t gore anybody then, that\'s all,\" said Jane, not\naltogether despising a hypothesis which covered a few imaginary\ncalamities.\n\n\"That girl is always terrifying me,\" thought Nancy; \"I wish Godfrey\nwould come in.\"\n\nShe went to the front window and looked as far as she could see along\nthe road, with an uneasiness which she felt to be childish, for there\nwere now no such signs of excitement as Jane had spoken of, and Godfrey\nwould not be likely to return by the village road, but by the fields.\nShe continued to stand, however, looking at the placid churchyard with\nthe long shadows of the gravestones across the bright green hillocks,\nand at the glowing autumn colours of the Rectory trees beyond. Before\nsuch calm external beauty the presence of a vague fear is more\ndistinctly felt--like a raven flapping its slow wing across the sunny\nair. Nancy wished more and more that Godfrey would come in.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nSome one opened the door at the other end of the room, and Nancy felt\nthat it was her husband. She turned from the window with gladness in\nher eyes, for the wife\'s chief dread was stilled.\n\n\"Dear, I\'m so thankful you\'re come,\" she said, going towards him. \"I\nbegan to get--\"\n\nShe paused abruptly, for Godfrey was laying down his hat with trembling\nhands, and turned towards her with a pale face and a strange\nunanswering glance, as if he saw her indeed, but saw her as part of a\nscene invisible to herself. She laid her hand on his arm, not daring\nto speak again; but he left the touch unnoticed, and threw himself into\nhis chair.\n\nJane was already at the door with the hissing urn. \"Tell her to keep\naway, will you?\" said Godfrey; and when the door was closed again he\nexerted himself to speak more distinctly.\n\n\"Sit down, Nancy--there,\" he said, pointing to a chair opposite him.\n\"I came back as soon as I could, to hinder anybody\'s telling you but\nme. I\'ve had a great shock--but I care most about the shock it\'ll be\nto you.\"\n\n\"It isn\'t father and Priscilla?\" said Nancy, with quivering lips,\nclasping her hands together tightly on her lap.\n\n\"No, it\'s nobody living,\" said Godfrey, unequal to the considerate\nskill with which he would have wished to make his revelation. \"It\'s\nDunstan--my brother Dunstan, that we lost sight of sixteen years ago.\nWe\'ve found him--found his body--his skeleton.\"\n\nThe deep dread Godfrey\'s look had created in Nancy made her feel these\nwords a relief. She sat in comparative calmness to hear what else he\nhad to tell. He went on:\n\n\"The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly--from the draining, I suppose; and\nthere he lies--has lain for sixteen years, wedged between two great\nstones. There\'s his watch and seals, and there\'s my gold-handled\nhunting-whip, with my name on: he took it away, without my knowing, the\nday he went hunting on Wildfire, the last time he was seen.\"\n\nGodfrey paused: it was not so easy to say what came next. \"Do you\nthink he drowned himself?\" said Nancy, almost wondering that her\nhusband should be so deeply shaken by what had happened all those years\nago to an unloved brother, of whom worse things had been augured.\n\n\"No, he fell in,\" said Godfrey, in a low but distinct voice, as if he\nfelt some deep meaning in the fact. Presently he added: \"Dunstan was\nthe man that robbed Silas Marner.\"\n\nThe blood rushed to Nancy\'s face and neck at this surprise and shame,\nfor she had been bred up to regard even a distant kinship with crime as\na dishonour.\n\n\"O Godfrey!\" she said, with compassion in her tone, for she had\nimmediately reflected that the dishonour must be felt still more keenly\nby her husband.\n\n\"There was the money in the pit,\" he continued--\"all the weaver\'s\nmoney. Everything\'s been gathered up, and they\'re taking the skeleton\nto the Rainbow. But I came back to tell you: there was no hindering\nit; you must know.\"\n\nHe was silent, looking on the ground for two long minutes. Nancy would\nhave said some words of comfort under this disgrace, but she refrained,\nfrom an instinctive sense that there was something behind--that Godfrey\nhad something else to tell her. Presently he lifted his eyes to her\nface, and kept them fixed on her, as he said--\n\n\"Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later. When God Almighty\nwills it, our secrets are found out. I\'ve lived with a secret on my\nmind, but I\'ll keep it from you no longer. I wouldn\'t have you know it\nby somebody else, and not by me--I wouldn\'t have you find it out after\nI\'m dead. I\'ll tell you now. It\'s been \"I will\" and \"I won\'t\" with me\nall my life--I\'ll make sure of myself now.\"\n\nNancy\'s utmost dread had returned. The eyes of the husband and wife\nmet with awe in them, as at a crisis which suspended affection.\n\n\"Nancy,\" said Godfrey, slowly, \"when I married you, I hid something\nfrom you--something I ought to have told you. That woman Marner found\ndead in the snow--Eppie\'s mother--that wretched woman--was my wife:\nEppie is my child.\"\n\nHe paused, dreading the effect of his confession. But Nancy sat quite\nstill, only that her eyes dropped and ceased to meet his. She was pale\nand quiet as a meditative statue, clasping her hands on her lap.\n\n\"You\'ll never think the same of me again,\" said Godfrey, after a little\nwhile, with some tremor in his voice.\n\nShe was silent.\n\n\"I oughtn\'t to have left the child unowned: I oughtn\'t to have kept it\nfrom you. But I couldn\'t bear to give you up, Nancy. I was led away\ninto marrying her--I suffered for it.\"\n\nStill Nancy was silent, looking down; and he almost expected that she\nwould presently get up and say she would go to her father\'s. How could\nshe have any mercy for faults that must seem so black to her, with her\nsimple, severe notions?\n\nBut at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and spoke. There was\nno indignation in her voice--only deep regret.\n\n\"Godfrey, if you had but told me this six years ago, we could have done\nsome of our duty by the child. Do you think I\'d have refused to take\nher in, if I\'d known she was yours?\"\n\nAt that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of an error that was not\nsimply futile, but had defeated its own end. He had not measured this\nwife with whom he had lived so long. But she spoke again, with more\nagitation.\n\n\"And--Oh, Godfrey--if we\'d had her from the first, if you\'d taken to\nher as you ought, she\'d have loved me for her mother--and you\'d have\nbeen happier with me: I could better have bore my little baby dying,\nand our life might have been more like what we used to think it \'ud be.\"\n\nThe tears fell, and Nancy ceased to speak.\n\n\"But you wouldn\'t have married me then, Nancy, if I\'d told you,\" said\nGodfrey, urged, in the bitterness of his self-reproach, to prove to\nhimself that his conduct had not been utter folly. \"You may think you\nwould now, but you wouldn\'t then. With your pride and your father\'s,\nyou\'d have hated having anything to do with me after the talk there\'d\nhave been.\"\n\n\"I can\'t say what I should have done about that, Godfrey. I should\nnever have married anybody else. But I wasn\'t worth doing wrong\nfor--nothing is in this world. Nothing is so good as it seems\nbeforehand--not even our marrying wasn\'t, you see.\" There was a faint\nsad smile on Nancy\'s face as she said the last words.\n\n\"I\'m a worse man than you thought I was, Nancy,\" said Godfrey, rather\ntremulously. \"Can you forgive me ever?\"\n\n\"The wrong to me is but little, Godfrey: you\'ve made it up to\nme--you\'ve been good to me for fifteen years. It\'s another you did the\nwrong to; and I doubt it can never be all made up for.\"\n\n\"But we can take Eppie now,\" said Godfrey. \"I won\'t mind the world\nknowing at last. I\'ll be plain and open for the rest o\' my life.\"\n\n\"It\'ll be different coming to us, now she\'s grown up,\" said Nancy,\nshaking her head sadly. \"But it\'s your duty to acknowledge her and\nprovide for her; and I\'ll do my part by her, and pray to God Almighty\nto make her love me.\"\n\n\"Then we\'ll go together to Silas Marner\'s this very night, as soon as\neverything\'s quiet at the Stone-pits.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nBetween eight and nine o\'clock that evening, Eppie and Silas were\nseated alone in the cottage. After the great excitement the weaver had\nundergone from the events of the afternoon, he had felt a longing for\nthis quietude, and had even begged Mrs. Winthrop and Aaron, who had\nnaturally lingered behind every one else, to leave him alone with his\nchild. The excitement had not passed away: it had only reached that\nstage when the keenness of the susceptibility makes external stimulus\nintolerable--when there is no sense of weariness, but rather an\nintensity of inward life, under which sleep is an impossibility. Any\none who has watched such moments in other men remembers the brightness\nof the eyes and the strange definiteness that comes over coarse\nfeatures from that transient influence. It is as if a new fineness of\near for all spiritual voices had sent wonder-working vibrations through\nthe heavy mortal frame--as if \"beauty born of murmuring sound\" had\npassed into the face of the listener.\n\nSilas\'s face showed that sort of transfiguration, as he sat in his\narm-chair and looked at Eppie. She had drawn her own chair towards his\nknees, and leaned forward, holding both his hands, while she looked up\nat him. On the table near them, lit by a candle, lay the recovered\ngold--the old long-loved gold, ranged in orderly heaps, as Silas used\nto range it in the days when it was his only joy. He had been telling\nher how he used to count it every night, and how his soul was utterly\ndesolate till she was sent to him.\n\n\"At first, I\'d a sort o\' feeling come across me now and then,\" he was\nsaying in a subdued tone, \"as if you might be changed into the gold\nagain; for sometimes, turn my head which way I would, I seemed to see\nthe gold; and I thought I should be glad if I could feel it, and find\nit was come back. But that didn\'t last long. After a bit, I should\nhave thought it was a curse come again, if it had drove you from me,\nfor I\'d got to feel the need o\' your looks and your voice and the touch\no\' your little fingers. You didn\'t know then, Eppie, when you were\nsuch a little un--you didn\'t know what your old father Silas felt for\nyou.\"\n\n\"But I know now, father,\" said Eppie. \"If it hadn\'t been for you,\nthey\'d have taken me to the workhouse, and there\'d have been nobody to\nlove me.\"\n\n\"Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If you hadn\'t been sent\nto save me, I should ha\' gone to the grave in my misery. The money was\ntaken away from me in time; and you see it\'s been kept--kept till it\nwas wanted for you. It\'s wonderful--our life is wonderful.\"\n\nSilas sat in silence a few minutes, looking at the money. \"It takes no\nhold of me now,\" he said, ponderingly--\"the money doesn\'t. I wonder if\nit ever could again--I doubt it might, if I lost you, Eppie. I might\ncome to think I was forsaken again, and lose the feeling that God was\ngood to me.\"\n\nAt that moment there was a knocking at the door; and Eppie was obliged\nto rise without answering Silas. Beautiful she looked, with the\ntenderness of gathering tears in her eyes and a slight flush on her\ncheeks, as she stepped to open the door. The flush deepened when she\nsaw Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass. She made her little rustic curtsy, and\nheld the door wide for them to enter.\n\n\"We\'re disturbing you very late, my dear,\" said Mrs. Cass, taking\nEppie\'s hand, and looking in her face with an expression of anxious\ninterest and admiration. Nancy herself was pale and tremulous.\n\nEppie, after placing chairs for Mr. and Mrs. Cass, went to stand\nagainst Silas, opposite to them.\n\n\"Well, Marner,\" said Godfrey, trying to speak with perfect firmness,\n\"it\'s a great comfort to me to see you with your money again, that\nyou\'ve been deprived of so many years. It was one of my family did you\nthe wrong--the more grief to me--and I feel bound to make up to you for\nit in every way. Whatever I can do for you will be nothing but paying\na debt, even if I looked no further than the robbery. But there are\nother things I\'m beholden--shall be beholden to you for, Marner.\"\n\nGodfrey checked himself. It had been agreed between him and his wife\nthat the subject of his fatherhood should be approached very carefully,\nand that, if possible, the disclosure should be reserved for the\nfuture, so that it might be made to Eppie gradually. Nancy had urged\nthis, because she felt strongly the painful light in which Eppie must\ninevitably see the relation between her father and mother.\n\nSilas, always ill at ease when he was being spoken to by \"betters\",\nsuch as Mr. Cass--tall, powerful, florid men, seen chiefly on\nhorseback--answered with some constraint--\n\n\"Sir, I\'ve a deal to thank you for a\'ready. As for the robbery, I\ncount it no loss to me. And if I did, you couldn\'t help it: you aren\'t\nanswerable for it.\"\n\n\"You may look at it in that way, Marner, but I never can; and I hope\nyou\'ll let me act according to my own feeling of what\'s just. I know\nyou\'re easily contented: you\'ve been a hard-working man all your life.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, yes,\" said Marner, meditatively. \"I should ha\' been bad off\nwithout my work: it was what I held by when everything else was gone\nfrom me.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Godfrey, applying Marner\'s words simply to his bodily wants,\n\"it was a good trade for you in this country, because there\'s been a\ngreat deal of linen-weaving to be done. But you\'re getting rather past\nsuch close work, Marner: it\'s time you laid by and had some rest. You\nlook a good deal pulled down, though you\'re not an old man, _are_ you?\"\n\n\"Fifty-five, as near as I can say, sir,\" said Silas.\n\n\"Oh, why, you may live thirty years longer--look at old Macey! And that\nmoney on the table, after all, is but little. It won\'t go far either\nway--whether it\'s put out to interest, or you were to live on it as\nlong as it would last: it wouldn\'t go far if you\'d nobody to keep but\nyourself, and you\'ve had two to keep for a good many years now.\"\n\n\"Eh, sir,\" said Silas, unaffected by anything Godfrey was saying, \"I\'m\nin no fear o\' want. We shall do very well--Eppie and me \'ull do well\nenough. There\'s few working-folks have got so much laid by as that. I\ndon\'t know what it is to gentlefolks, but I look upon it as a\ndeal--almost too much. And as for us, it\'s little we want.\"\n\n\"Only the garden, father,\" said Eppie, blushing up to the ears the\nmoment after.\n\n\"You love a garden, do you, my dear?\" said Nancy, thinking that this\nturn in the point of view might help her husband. \"We should agree in\nthat: I give a deal of time to the garden.\"\n\n\"Ah, there\'s plenty of gardening at the Red House,\" said Godfrey,\nsurprised at the difficulty he found in approaching a proposition which\nhad seemed so easy to him in the distance. \"You\'ve done a good part by\nEppie, Marner, for sixteen years. It \'ud be a great comfort to you to\nsee her well provided for, wouldn\'t it? She looks blooming and\nhealthy, but not fit for any hardships: she doesn\'t look like a\nstrapping girl come of working parents. You\'d like to see her taken\ncare of by those who can leave her well off, and make a lady of her;\nshe\'s more fit for it than for a rough life, such as she might come to\nhave in a few years\' time.\"\n\nA slight flush came over Marner\'s face, and disappeared, like a passing\ngleam. Eppie was simply wondering Mr. Cass should talk so about things\nthat seemed to have nothing to do with reality; but Silas was hurt and\nuneasy.\n\n\"I don\'t take your meaning, sir,\" he answered, not having words at\ncommand to express the mingled feelings with which he had heard Mr.\nCass\'s words.\n\n\"Well, my meaning is this, Marner,\" said Godfrey, determined to come to\nthe point. \"Mrs. Cass and I, you know, have no children--nobody to\nbenefit by our good home and everything else we have--more than enough\nfor ourselves. And we should like to have somebody in the place of a\ndaughter to us--we should like to have Eppie, and treat her in every\nway as our own child. It \'ud be a great comfort to you in your old\nage, I hope, to see her fortune made in that way, after you\'ve been at\nthe trouble of bringing her up so well. And it\'s right you should have\nevery reward for that. And Eppie, I\'m sure, will always love you and\nbe grateful to you: she\'d come and see you very often, and we should\nall be on the look-out to do everything we could towards making you\ncomfortable.\"\n\nA plain man like Godfrey Cass, speaking under some embarrassment,\nnecessarily blunders on words that are coarser than his intentions, and\nthat are likely to fall gratingly on susceptible feelings. While he had\nbeen speaking, Eppie had quietly passed her arm behind Silas\'s head,\nand let her hand rest against it caressingly: she felt him trembling\nviolently. He was silent for some moments when Mr. Cass had\nended--powerless under the conflict of emotions, all alike painful.\nEppie\'s heart was swelling at the sense that her father was in\ndistress; and she was just going to lean down and speak to him, when\none struggling dread at last gained the mastery over every other in\nSilas, and he said, faintly--\n\n\"Eppie, my child, speak. I won\'t stand in your way. Thank Mr. and\nMrs. Cass.\"\n\nEppie took her hand from her father\'s head, and came forward a step.\nHer cheeks were flushed, but not with shyness this time: the sense that\nher father was in doubt and suffering banished that sort of\nself-consciousness. She dropped a low curtsy, first to Mrs. Cass and\nthen to Mr. Cass, and said--\n\n\"Thank you, ma\'am--thank you, sir. But I can\'t leave my father, nor\nown anybody nearer than him. And I don\'t want to be a lady--thank you\nall the same\" (here Eppie dropped another curtsy). \"I couldn\'t give up\nthe folks I\'ve been used to.\"\n\nEppie\'s lips began to tremble a little at the last words. She\nretreated to her father\'s chair again, and held him round the neck:\nwhile Silas, with a subdued sob, put up his hand to grasp hers.\n\nThe tears were in Nancy\'s eyes, but her sympathy with Eppie was,\nnaturally, divided with distress on her husband\'s account. She dared\nnot speak, wondering what was going on in her husband\'s mind.\n\nGodfrey felt an irritation inevitable to almost all of us when we\nencounter an unexpected obstacle. He had been full of his own\npenitence and resolution to retrieve his error as far as the time was\nleft to him; he was possessed with all-important feelings, that were to\nlead to a predetermined course of action which he had fixed on as the\nright, and he was not prepared to enter with lively appreciation into\nother people\'s feelings counteracting his virtuous resolves. The\nagitation with which he spoke again was not quite unmixed with anger.\n\n\"But I\'ve a claim on you, Eppie--the strongest of all claims. It\'s my\nduty, Marner, to own Eppie as my child, and provide for her. She is my\nown child--her mother was my wife. I\'ve a natural claim on her that\nmust stand before every other.\"\n\nEppie had given a violent start, and turned quite pale. Silas, on the\ncontrary, who had been relieved, by Eppie\'s answer, from the dread lest\nhis mind should be in opposition to hers, felt the spirit of resistance\nin him set free, not without a touch of parental fierceness. \"Then,\nsir,\" he answered, with an accent of bitterness that had been silent in\nhim since the memorable day when his youthful hope had perished--\"then,\nsir, why didn\'t you say so sixteen year ago, and claim her before I\'d\ncome to love her, i\'stead o\' coming to take her from me now, when you\nmight as well take the heart out o\' my body? God gave her to me\nbecause you turned your back upon her, and He looks upon her as mine:\nyou\'ve no right to her! When a man turns a blessing from his door, it\nfalls to them as take it in.\"\n\n\"I know that, Marner. I was wrong. I\'ve repented of my conduct in\nthat matter,\" said Godfrey, who could not help feeling the edge of\nSilas\'s words.\n\n\"I\'m glad to hear it, sir,\" said Marner, with gathering excitement;\n\"but repentance doesn\'t alter what\'s been going on for sixteen year.\nYour coming now and saying \"I\'m her father\" doesn\'t alter the feelings\ninside us. It\'s me she\'s been calling her father ever since she could\nsay the word.\"\n\n\"But I think you might look at the thing more reasonably, Marner,\" said\nGodfrey, unexpectedly awed by the weaver\'s direct truth-speaking. \"It\nisn\'t as if she was to be taken quite away from you, so that you\'d\nnever see her again. She\'ll be very near you, and come to see you very\noften. She\'ll feel just the same towards you.\"\n\n\"Just the same?\" said Marner, more bitterly than ever. \"How\'ll she\nfeel just the same for me as she does now, when we eat o\' the same bit,\nand drink o\' the same cup, and think o\' the same things from one day\'s\nend to another? Just the same? that\'s idle talk. You\'d cut us i\' two.\"\n\nGodfrey, unqualified by experience to discern the pregnancy of Marner\'s\nsimple words, felt rather angry again. It seemed to him that the\nweaver was very selfish (a judgment readily passed by those who have\nnever tested their own power of sacrifice) to oppose what was\nundoubtedly for Eppie\'s welfare; and he felt himself called upon, for\nher sake, to assert his authority.\n\n\"I should have thought, Marner,\" he said, severely--\"I should have\nthought your affection for Eppie would make you rejoice in what was for\nher good, even if it did call upon you to give up something. You ought\nto remember your own life\'s uncertain, and she\'s at an age now when her\nlot may soon be fixed in a way very different from what it would be in\nher father\'s home: she may marry some low working-man, and then,\nwhatever I might do for her, I couldn\'t make her well-off. You\'re\nputting yourself in the way of her welfare; and though I\'m sorry to\nhurt you after what you\'ve done, and what I\'ve left undone, I feel now\nit\'s my duty to insist on taking care of my own daughter. I want to do\nmy duty.\"\n\nIt would be difficult to say whether it were Silas or Eppie that was\nmore deeply stirred by this last speech of Godfrey\'s. Thought had been\nvery busy in Eppie as she listened to the contest between her old\nlong-loved father and this new unfamiliar father who had suddenly come\nto fill the place of that black featureless shadow which had held the\nring and placed it on her mother\'s finger. Her imagination had darted\nbackward in conjectures, and forward in previsions, of what this\nrevealed fatherhood implied; and there were words in Godfrey\'s last\nspeech which helped to make the previsions especially definite. Not\nthat these thoughts, either of past or future, determined her\nresolution--_that_ was determined by the feelings which vibrated to\nevery word Silas had uttered; but they raised, even apart from these\nfeelings, a repulsion towards the offered lot and the newly-revealed\nfather.\n\nSilas, on the other hand, was again stricken in conscience, and alarmed\nlest Godfrey\'s accusation should be true--lest he should be raising his\nown will as an obstacle to Eppie\'s good. For many moments he was mute,\nstruggling for the self-conquest necessary to the uttering of the\ndifficult words. They came out tremulously.\n\n\"I\'ll say no more. Let it be as you will. Speak to the child. I\'ll\nhinder nothing.\"\n\nEven Nancy, with all the acute sensibility of her own affections,\nshared her husband\'s view, that Marner was not justifiable in his wish\nto retain Eppie, after her real father had avowed himself. She felt\nthat it was a very hard trial for the poor weaver, but her code allowed\nno question that a father by blood must have a claim above that of any\nfoster-father. Besides, Nancy, used all her life to plenteous\ncircumstances and the privileges of \"respectability\", could not enter\ninto the pleasures which early nurture and habit connect with all the\nlittle aims and efforts of the poor who are born poor: to her mind,\nEppie, in being restored to her birthright, was entering on a too long\nwithheld but unquestionable good. Hence she heard Silas\'s last words\nwith relief, and thought, as Godfrey did, that their wish was achieved.\n\n\"Eppie, my dear,\" said Godfrey, looking at his daughter, not without\nsome embarrassment, under the sense that she was old enough to judge\nhim, \"it\'ll always be our wish that you should show your love and\ngratitude to one who\'s been a father to you so many years, and we shall\nwant to help you to make him comfortable in every way. But we hope\nyou\'ll come to love us as well; and though I haven\'t been what a father\nshould ha\' been to you all these years, I wish to do the utmost in my\npower for you for the rest of my life, and provide for you as my only\nchild. And you\'ll have the best of mothers in my wife--that\'ll be a\nblessing you haven\'t known since you were old enough to know it.\"\n\n\"My dear, you\'ll be a treasure to me,\" said Nancy, in her gentle voice.\n\"We shall want for nothing when we have our daughter.\"\n\nEppie did not come forward and curtsy, as she had done before. She\nheld Silas\'s hand in hers, and grasped it firmly--it was a weaver\'s\nhand, with a palm and finger-tips that were sensitive to such\npressure--while she spoke with colder decision than before.\n\n\"Thank you, ma\'am--thank you, sir, for your offers--they\'re very great,\nand far above my wish. For I should have no delight i\' life any more\nif I was forced to go away from my father, and knew he was sitting at\nhome, a-thinking of me and feeling lone. We\'ve been used to be happy\ntogether every day, and I can\'t think o\' no happiness without him. And\nhe says he\'d nobody i\' the world till I was sent to him, and he\'d have\nnothing when I was gone. And he\'s took care of me and loved me from\nthe first, and I\'ll cleave to him as long as he lives, and nobody shall\never come between him and me.\"\n\n\"But you must make sure, Eppie,\" said Silas, in a low voice--\"you must\nmake sure as you won\'t ever be sorry, because you\'ve made your choice\nto stay among poor folks, and with poor clothes and things, when you\nmight ha\' had everything o\' the best.\"\n\nHis sensitiveness on this point had increased as he listened to Eppie\'s\nwords of faithful affection.\n\n\"I can never be sorry, father,\" said Eppie. \"I shouldn\'t know what to\nthink on or to wish for with fine things about me, as I haven\'t been\nused to. And it \'ud be poor work for me to put on things, and ride in\na gig, and sit in a place at church, as \'ud make them as I\'m fond of\nthink me unfitting company for \'em. What could _I_ care for then?\"\n\nNancy looked at Godfrey with a pained questioning glance. But his eyes\nwere fixed on the floor, where he was moving the end of his stick, as\nif he were pondering on something absently. She thought there was a\nword which might perhaps come better from her lips than from his.\n\n\"What you say is natural, my dear child--it\'s natural you should cling\nto those who\'ve brought you up,\" she said, mildly; \"but there\'s a duty\nyou owe to your lawful father. There\'s perhaps something to be given\nup on more sides than one. When your father opens his home to you, I\nthink it\'s right you shouldn\'t turn your back on it.\"\n\n\"I can\'t feel as I\'ve got any father but one,\" said Eppie, impetuously,\nwhile the tears gathered. \"I\'ve always thought of a little home where\nhe\'d sit i\' the corner, and I should fend and do everything for him: I\ncan\'t think o\' no other home. I wasn\'t brought up to be a lady, and I\ncan\'t turn my mind to it. I like the working-folks, and their\nvictuals, and their ways. And,\" she ended passionately, while the\ntears fell, \"I\'m promised to marry a working-man, as\'ll live with\nfather, and help me to take care of him.\"\n\nGodfrey looked up at Nancy with a flushed face and smarting dilated\neyes. This frustration of a purpose towards which he had set out under\nthe exalted consciousness that he was about to compensate in some\ndegree for the greatest demerit of his life, made him feel the air of\nthe room stifling.\n\n\"Let us go,\" he said, in an under-tone.\n\n\"We won\'t talk of this any longer now,\" said Nancy, rising. \"We\'re your\nwell-wishers, my dear--and yours too, Marner. We shall come and see\nyou again. It\'s getting late now.\"\n\nIn this way she covered her husband\'s abrupt departure, for Godfrey had\ngone straight to the door, unable to say more.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nNancy and Godfrey walked home under the starlight in silence. When\nthey entered the oaken parlour, Godfrey threw himself into his chair,\nwhile Nancy laid down her bonnet and shawl, and stood on the hearth\nnear her husband, unwilling to leave him even for a few minutes, and\nyet fearing to utter any word lest it might jar on his feeling. At\nlast Godfrey turned his head towards her, and their eyes met, dwelling\nin that meeting without any movement on either side. That quiet mutual\ngaze of a trusting husband and wife is like the first moment of rest or\nrefuge from a great weariness or a great danger--not to be interfered\nwith by speech or action which would distract the sensations from the\nfresh enjoyment of repose.\n\nBut presently he put out his hand, and as Nancy placed hers within it,\nhe drew her towards him, and said--\n\n\"That\'s ended!\"\n\nShe bent to kiss him, and then said, as she stood by his side, \"Yes,\nI\'m afraid we must give up the hope of having her for a daughter. It\nwouldn\'t be right to want to force her to come to us against her will.\nWe can\'t alter her bringing up and what\'s come of it.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Godfrey, with a keen decisiveness of tone, in contrast with\nhis usually careless and unemphatic speech--\"there\'s debts we can\'t pay\nlike money debts, by paying extra for the years that have slipped by.\nWhile I\'ve been putting off and putting off, the trees have been\ngrowing--it\'s too late now. Marner was in the right in what he said\nabout a man\'s turning away a blessing from his door: it falls to\nsomebody else. I wanted to pass for childless once, Nancy--I shall\npass for childless now against my wish.\"\n\nNancy did not speak immediately, but after a little while she\nasked--\"You won\'t make it known, then, about Eppie\'s being your\ndaughter?\"\n\n\"No: where would be the good to anybody?--only harm. I must do what I\ncan for her in the state of life she chooses. I must see who it is\nshe\'s thinking of marrying.\"\n\n\"If it won\'t do any good to make the thing known,\" said Nancy, who\nthought she might now allow herself the relief of entertaining a\nfeeling which she had tried to silence before, \"I should be very\nthankful for father and Priscilla never to be troubled with knowing\nwhat was done in the past, more than about Dunsey: it can\'t be helped,\ntheir knowing that.\"\n\n\"I shall put it in my will--I think I shall put it in my will. I\nshouldn\'t like to leave anything to be found out, like this of Dunsey,\"\nsaid Godfrey, meditatively. \"But I can\'t see anything but difficulties\nthat \'ud come from telling it now. I must do what I can to make her\nhappy in her own way. I\'ve a notion,\" he added, after a moment\'s\npause, \"it\'s Aaron Winthrop she meant she was engaged to. I remember\nseeing him with her and Marner going away from church.\"\n\n\"Well, he\'s very sober and industrious,\" said Nancy, trying to view the\nmatter as cheerfully as possible.\n\nGodfrey fell into thoughtfulness again. Presently he looked up at\nNancy sorrowfully, and said--\n\n\"She\'s a very pretty, nice girl, isn\'t she, Nancy?\"\n\n\"Yes, dear; and with just your hair and eyes: I wondered it had never\nstruck me before.\"\n\n\"I think she took a dislike to me at the thought of my being her\nfather: I could see a change in her manner after that.\"\n\n\"She couldn\'t bear to think of not looking on Marner as her father,\"\nsaid Nancy, not wishing to confirm her husband\'s painful impression.\n\n\"She thinks I did wrong by her mother as well as by her. She thinks me\nworse than I am. But she _must_ think it: she can never know all.\nIt\'s part of my punishment, Nancy, for my daughter to dislike me. I\nshould never have got into that trouble if I\'d been true to you--if I\nhadn\'t been a fool. I\'d no right to expect anything but evil could\ncome of that marriage--and when I shirked doing a father\'s part too.\"\n\nNancy was silent: her spirit of rectitude would not let her try to\nsoften the edge of what she felt to be a just compunction. He spoke\nagain after a little while, but the tone was rather changed: there was\ntenderness mingled with the previous self-reproach.\n\n\"And I got _you_, Nancy, in spite of all; and yet I\'ve been grumbling\nand uneasy because I hadn\'t something else--as if I deserved it.\"\n\n\"You\'ve never been wanting to me, Godfrey,\" said Nancy, with quiet\nsincerity. \"My only trouble would be gone if you resigned yourself to\nthe lot that\'s been given us.\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps it isn\'t too late to mend a bit there. Though it _is_\ntoo late to mend some things, say what they will.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nThe next morning, when Silas and Eppie were seated at their breakfast,\nhe said to her--\n\n\"Eppie, there\'s a thing I\'ve had on my mind to do this two year, and\nnow the money\'s been brought back to us, we can do it. I\'ve been\nturning it over and over in the night, and I think we\'ll set out\nto-morrow, while the fine days last. We\'ll leave the house and\neverything for your godmother to take care on, and we\'ll make a little\nbundle o\' things and set out.\"\n\n\"Where to go, daddy?\" said Eppie, in much surprise.\n\n\"To my old country--to the town where I was born--up Lantern Yard. I\nwant to see Mr. Paston, the minister: something may ha\' come out to\nmake \'em know I was innicent o\' the robbery. And Mr. Paston was a man\nwith a deal o\' light--I want to speak to him about the drawing o\' the\nlots. And I should like to talk to him about the religion o\' this\ncountry-side, for I partly think he doesn\'t know on it.\"\n\nEppie was very joyful, for there was the prospect not only of wonder\nand delight at seeing a strange country, but also of coming back to\ntell Aaron all about it. Aaron was so much wiser than she was about\nmost things--it would be rather pleasant to have this little advantage\nover him. Mrs. Winthrop, though possessed with a dim fear of dangers\nattendant on so long a journey, and requiring many assurances that it\nwould not take them out of the region of carriers\' carts and slow\nwaggons, was nevertheless well pleased that Silas should revisit his\nown country, and find out if he had been cleared from that false\naccusation.\n\n\"You\'d be easier in your mind for the rest o\' your life, Master\nMarner,\" said Dolly--\"that you would. And if there\'s any light to be\ngot up the yard as you talk on, we\'ve need of it i\' this world, and I\'d\nbe glad on it myself, if you could bring it back.\"\n\nSo on the fourth day from that time, Silas and Eppie, in their Sunday\nclothes, with a small bundle tied in a blue linen handkerchief, were\nmaking their way through the streets of a great manufacturing town.\nSilas, bewildered by the changes thirty years had brought over his\nnative place, had stopped several persons in succession to ask them the\nname of this town, that he might be sure he was not under a mistake\nabout it.\n\n\"Ask for Lantern Yard, father--ask this gentleman with the tassels on\nhis shoulders a-standing at the shop door; he isn\'t in a hurry like the\nrest,\" said Eppie, in some distress at her father\'s bewilderment, and\nill at ease, besides, amidst the noise, the movement, and the multitude\nof strange indifferent faces.\n\n\"Eh, my child, he won\'t know anything about it,\" said Silas;\n\"gentlefolks didn\'t ever go up the Yard. But happen somebody can tell\nme which is the way to Prison Street, where the jail is. I know the way\nout o\' that as if I\'d seen it yesterday.\"\n\nWith some difficulty, after many turnings and new inquiries, they\nreached Prison Street; and the grim walls of the jail, the first object\nthat answered to any image in Silas\'s memory, cheered him with the\ncertitude, which no assurance of the town\'s name had hitherto given\nhim, that he was in his native place.\n\n\"Ah,\" he said, drawing a long breath, \"there\'s the jail, Eppie; that\'s\njust the same: I aren\'t afraid now. It\'s the third turning on the left\nhand from the jail doors--that\'s the way we must go.\"\n\n\"Oh, what a dark ugly place!\" said Eppie. \"How it hides the sky!\nIt\'s worse than the Workhouse. I\'m glad you don\'t live in this town\nnow, father. Is Lantern Yard like this street?\"\n\n\"My precious child,\" said Silas, smiling, \"it isn\'t a big street like\nthis. I never was easy i\' this street myself, but I was fond o\'\nLantern Yard. The shops here are all altered, I think--I can\'t make\n\'em out; but I shall know the turning, because it\'s the third.\"\n\n\"Here it is,\" he said, in a tone of satisfaction, as they came to a\nnarrow alley. \"And then we must go to the left again, and then\nstraight for\'ard for a bit, up Shoe Lane: and then we shall be at the\nentry next to the o\'erhanging window, where there\'s the nick in the\nroad for the water to run. Eh, I can see it all.\"\n\n\"O father, I\'m like as if I was stifled,\" said Eppie. \"I couldn\'t ha\'\nthought as any folks lived i\' this way, so close together. How pretty\nthe Stone-pits \'ull look when we get back!\"\n\n\"It looks comical to _me_, child, now--and smells bad. I can\'t think\nas it usened to smell so.\"\n\nHere and there a sallow, begrimed face looked out from a gloomy doorway\nat the strangers, and increased Eppie\'s uneasiness, so that it was a\nlonged-for relief when they issued from the alleys into Shoe Lane,\nwhere there was a broader strip of sky.\n\n\"Dear heart!\" said Silas, \"why, there\'s people coming out o\' the Yard\nas if they\'d been to chapel at this time o\' day--a weekday noon!\"\n\nSuddenly he started and stood still with a look of distressed\namazement, that alarmed Eppie. They were before an opening in front of\na large factory, from which men and women were streaming for their\nmidday meal.\n\n\"Father,\" said Eppie, clasping his arm, \"what\'s the matter?\"\n\nBut she had to speak again and again before Silas could answer her.\n\n\"It\'s gone, child,\" he said, at last, in strong agitation--\"Lantern\nYard\'s gone. It must ha\' been here, because here\'s the house with the\no\'erhanging window--I know that--it\'s just the same; but they\'ve made\nthis new opening; and see that big factory! It\'s all gone--chapel and\nall.\"\n\n\"Come into that little brush-shop and sit down, father--they\'ll let you\nsit down,\" said Eppie, always on the watch lest one of her father\'s\nstrange attacks should come on. \"Perhaps the people can tell you all\nabout it.\"\n\nBut neither from the brush-maker, who had come to Shoe Lane only ten\nyears ago, when the factory was already built, nor from any other\nsource within his reach, could Silas learn anything of the old Lantern\nYard friends, or of Mr. Paston the minister.\n\n\"The old place is all swep\' away,\" Silas said to Dolly Winthrop on the\nnight of his return--\"the little graveyard and everything. The old\nhome\'s gone; I\'ve no home but this now. I shall never know whether\nthey got at the truth o\' the robbery, nor whether Mr. Paston could ha\'\ngiven me any light about the drawing o\' the lots. It\'s dark to me,\nMrs. Winthrop, that is; I doubt it\'ll be dark to the last.\"\n\n\"Well, yes, Master Marner,\" said Dolly, who sat with a placid listening\nface, now bordered by grey hairs; \"I doubt it may. It\'s the will o\'\nThem above as a many things should be dark to us; but there\'s some\nthings as I\'ve never felt i\' the dark about, and they\'re mostly what\ncomes i\' the day\'s work. You were hard done by that once, Master\nMarner, and it seems as you\'ll never know the rights of it; but that\ndoesn\'t hinder there _being_ a rights, Master Marner, for all it\'s dark\nto you and me.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Silas, \"no; that doesn\'t hinder. Since the time the child\nwas sent to me and I\'ve come to love her as myself, I\'ve had light\nenough to trusten by; and now she says she\'ll never leave me, I think I\nshall trusten till I die.\"\n\n\n\nCONCLUSION.\n\nThere was one time of the year which was held in Raveloe to be\nespecially suitable for a wedding. It was when the great lilacs and\nlaburnums in the old-fashioned gardens showed their golden and purple\nwealth above the lichen-tinted walls, and when there were calves still\nyoung enough to want bucketfuls of fragrant milk. People were not so\nbusy then as they must become when the full cheese-making and the\nmowing had set in; and besides, it was a time when a light bridal dress\ncould be worn with comfort and seen to advantage.\n\nHappily the sunshine fell more warmly than usual on the lilac tufts the\nmorning that Eppie was married, for her dress was a very light one.\nShe had often thought, though with a feeling of renunciation, that the\nperfection of a wedding-dress would be a white cotton, with the tiniest\npink sprig at wide intervals; so that when Mrs. Godfrey Cass begged to\nprovide one, and asked Eppie to choose what it should be, previous\nmeditation had enabled her to give a decided answer at once.\n\nSeen at a little distance as she walked across the churchyard and down\nthe village, she seemed to be attired in pure white, and her hair\nlooked like the dash of gold on a lily. One hand was on her husband\'s\narm, and with the other she clasped the hand of her father Silas.\n\n\"You won\'t be giving me away, father,\" she had said before they went to\nchurch; \"you\'ll only be taking Aaron to be a son to you.\"\n\nDolly Winthrop walked behind with her husband; and there ended the\nlittle bridal procession.\n\nThere were many eyes to look at it, and Miss Priscilla Lammeter was\nglad that she and her father had happened to drive up to the door of\nthe Red House just in time to see this pretty sight. They had come to\nkeep Nancy company to-day, because Mr. Cass had had to go away to\nLytherley, for special reasons. That seemed to be a pity, for\notherwise he might have gone, as Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Osgood\ncertainly would, to look on at the wedding-feast which he had ordered\nat the Rainbow, naturally feeling a great interest in the weaver who\nhad been wronged by one of his own family.\n\n\"I could ha\' wished Nancy had had the luck to find a child like that\nand bring her up,\" said Priscilla to her father, as they sat in the\ngig; \"I should ha\' had something young to think of then, besides the\nlambs and the calves.\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear, yes,\" said Mr. Lammeter; \"one feels that as one gets\nolder. Things look dim to old folks: they\'d need have some young eyes\nabout \'em, to let \'em know the world\'s the same as it used to be.\"\n\nNancy came out now to welcome her father and sister; and the wedding\ngroup had passed on beyond the Red House to the humbler part of the\nvillage.\n\nDolly Winthrop was the first to divine that old Mr. Macey, who had been\nset in his arm-chair outside his own door, would expect some special\nnotice as they passed, since he was too old to be at the wedding-feast.\n\n\"Mr. Macey\'s looking for a word from us,\" said Dolly; \"he\'ll be hurt if\nwe pass him and say nothing--and him so racked with rheumatiz.\"\n\nSo they turned aside to shake hands with the old man. He had looked\nforward to the occasion, and had his premeditated speech.\n\n\"Well, Master Marner,\" he said, in a voice that quavered a good deal,\n\"I\'ve lived to see my words come true. I was the first to say there\nwas no harm in you, though your looks might be again\' you; and I was\nthe first to say you\'d get your money back. And it\'s nothing but\nrightful as you should. And I\'d ha\' said the \"Amens\", and willing, at\nthe holy matrimony; but Tookey\'s done it a good while now, and I hope\nyou\'ll have none the worse luck.\"\n\nIn the open yard before the Rainbow the party of guests were already\nassembled, though it was still nearly an hour before the appointed\nfeast time. But by this means they could not only enjoy the slow\nadvent of their pleasure; they had also ample leisure to talk of Silas\nMarner\'s strange history, and arrive by due degrees at the conclusion\nthat he had brought a blessing on himself by acting like a father to a\nlone motherless child. Even the farrier did not negative this\nsentiment: on the contrary, he took it up as peculiarly his own, and\ninvited any hardy person present to contradict him. But he met with no\ncontradiction; and all differences among the company were merged in a\ngeneral agreement with Mr. Snell\'s sentiment, that when a man had\ndeserved his good luck, it was the part of his neighbours to wish him\njoy.\n\nAs the bridal group approached, a hearty cheer was raised in the\nRainbow yard; and Ben Winthrop, whose jokes had retained their\nacceptable flavour, found it agreeable to turn in there and receive\ncongratulations; not requiring the proposed interval of quiet at the\nStone-pits before joining the company.\n\nEppie had a larger garden than she had ever expected there now; and in\nother ways there had been alterations at the expense of Mr. Cass, the\nlandlord, to suit Silas\'s larger family. For he and Eppie had declared\nthat they would rather stay at the Stone-pits than go to any new home.\nThe garden was fenced with stones on two sides, but in front there was\nan open fence, through which the flowers shone with answering gladness,\nas the four united people came within sight of them.\n\n\"O father,\" said Eppie, \"what a pretty home ours is! I think nobody\ncould be happier than we are.\"'"