GIFT OF 
 
 PUBLISHER 
 
CALIFORNIA 
 
THE APPLETON 
 ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
THE APPLETON 
 ENGLISH CLASSICS 
 
 Shakspere's Tragedy of Macbeth 
 
 The Sir Roger De Coverley Papers. 
 
 George Ehot's Silas Marner. 
 
 Selections from Milton's Shorter Poems. 
 
 Macaulay's Essays on Milton, Addison and 
 Johnson. 
 
 Dryden's Palamon and Arcite 
 
 Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner, 
 and Other Poems. 
 
 Burke's Speech on Conciliation With the 
 American Colonies. 
 
 Select Addresses of Washington, Webster 
 and Lincoln. 
 
 Carlyle's Essay on Burns. 
 
 Huxley's Autobiography and Essays, 
 
 Lamb, Selected Essays. 
 
 Tennyson's Idylls of the King 
 
 Tennyson's The Princess 
 
 Shakspere's Julius Caesar 
 
 Shakspere's Merchant of Venice 
 
 Scott's Ivanhoe 
 
 Scott's Lady of the Lake 
 
 Scott's Quentin Durward 
 
 Goldsmith's The Traveller and The De- 
 serted Village 
 
 Goldsmith's The Vicar of Wakefield 
 
 Browning's Select Poems 
 
 Stevenson's Treasure Island 
 
GEORGE ELIOT 
 
SILAS MARNER 
 
 By GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
 
 BY 
 
 J. ROSE COLBY, Ph.D. 
 
 PROFESSOR OF LITERATURE IN THE ILLINOIS 
 STATE NORMAL UNIVERSITY 
 
 AND AN APPENDIX 
 BY 
 
 RICHARD JONES, Ph.D. 
 
 PROFESSOR OF LITERATURE IN VANDERBILT UNIVERSITIT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1900 
 By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 Printed in the United States of America , 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGS 
 
 Introduction, the study of fiction 1 
 
 The text of Silas Marner .25 
 
 Comments and questions 277 
 
 Appendix, college-entrance examinations in English , 297 
 
 r 
 
 611209 
 
SILAS MARNER 
 
 INTEODUCTIOlSr 
 
 The Study of Fiction 
 
 It is a matter of curious interest to the student of 
 literature to observe how from time to time the domi- 
 nant characteristics of an age create or find expression 
 in a prevailing literary type. Just why the Elizabethan 
 spirit sought and found expression in the drama may 
 puzzle us to say, but we recognize that it did. In fact^ 
 so potent was the sway of the drama then that it re- 
 duced to its service minds whose highest powers were 
 not dramatic. In the same way the genius of the age 
 of Queen Anne found expression in the essay and the 
 satire, and he who would know the age must study it 
 there. It can hardly be questioned that the character- 
 istic literary form of the nineteenth century is the 
 novel. To say this is, of course, to say that he who 
 would know the nineteenth century either now or here- 
 after must become a reader of novels; for while a type 
 prevails it is the voice through which the thought, the 
 passion, the baseness, and the aspiration of an age are 
 uttered. The prevalence of the novel-reading habit, 
 therefore, so much bemoaned by some, is really not so 
 much a subject of regret as evidence of an instinctive, 
 groping desire for self-knowledge. What is to be re- 
 
 1 
 
2 SIX i AS Marker 
 
 gretted is that the reading is often so unintelligent. One 
 has only to listen to the ordinary gossip about books to 
 discover that comparatively few persons ever do really 
 read one of our better novels — read it understand- 
 ingly; just as few ever really read Shakspere. But 
 this is not so much to be wondered at. " The world of 
 books is still the world.'^ We serve a long apprentice- 
 ship to life before we know much about it — before we 
 can even tell what has happened to us, can begin to 
 put things together, to feel the connection between our 
 own acts and our characters and the circumstances that 
 beset us. We are longer yet in learning to put ourselves 
 in others^ places, to give up our own point of view and 
 see the world and the acts of another through that 
 other^s eyes. Probably many persons never reach the 
 stage in which unity and meaning are given to life 
 through the perception of the relations in which life is 
 involved. It is small wonder^ therefore, if those to 
 whom life itself is only a succession of happenings more 
 or less joyful or painful read novels and plays for what 
 they call the story, the mere succession of events- 
 small wonder, but great pity. For this is to be in the 
 world but not of it, to be in the way of living yet never 
 live. 
 
 Now, since every r6al book is a presentation of life, 
 or of some phase of life, as it has been seen by one of 
 the larger minds among men, to read a book under- 
 standingly is to enter with intelligence into the life it 
 presents; to perceive the forces that make it, and the 
 relations that exist among them. The purpose of read- 
 ing, therefore, is to come through books of whatever 
 sort to a better knowledge of this human nature in us^ 
 which is all the time opening itself to our consciousness 
 
INTRODUCTION 3 
 
 in new and perplexing forms and making the world a 
 riddle. We all want and need help in the problem of 
 adjusting our lives to the social world, the organized life 
 of man. And aside from experience, the sternest of 
 teachers, from actual contact with living men and 
 women and institutions, we can perhaps do no better 
 than have recourse to the novel and the drama. 
 
 The subject-matter here is the most interesting pos- 
 sible — life in the concrete, life as lived by men and 
 women of all sorts, good and bad, meeting various ex- 
 periences and behaving in various ways, with conse- 
 quences to themselves of divers kinds. In the best 
 books, in short, we have to deal with a world in all 
 essentials like the actual world which is so fascinating 
 and bewildering to the more thoughtful reader, and 
 in which the more thoughtless heedlessly lose them- 
 selves. 
 
 In this world the true reader lives as seriously as 
 he may. He treats the men and women he finds there 
 as real men and women. He accepts their strength 
 and their weakness for what they are; recognizes in their 
 loves and hates and jealousies and ambitions and self- 
 abnegations, in their joy and in their suffering, emo- 
 tions, motives, and experiences natural to us all, com- 
 mon by virtue of the human nature that is in us all, 
 as therefore things not to be ignored, but to be frankly 
 and honestly met. We may take the common possession 
 of human nature for granted. We are then able to enter 
 into the life in a book and interpret it because we find 
 in it the very life we know in ourselves. In this power 
 the least experienced among us differ from the most ex- 
 perienced mainly in degree. The more of life and of 
 understanding of life we can bring to a book, the more 
 
4 SILAS MARKER 
 
 we find in it and take away from it. The reader of the 
 greater training in Hfe and books is able to place char- 
 acters more completely in their environment; to per- 
 ceive more clearly what a given environment offers for 
 the development of the native traits of a character, 
 whether for good or for evil. He has a keener eye to 
 trace the action of causes to their more subtle effects; 
 he better understands that acts can be properly judged 
 only in relation to circumstances and motives; he real- 
 izes more fully the part played by ignorance and inex- 
 perience in determining human fates, realizes more 
 fully, too, how much of the misery of the world is caused 
 by weakness rather than by positive evil. He distin- 
 guishes more sharply than the inexperienced can dis- 
 tinguish between an act and the doer of it; is at once 
 more strict in marking an evil act as evil, and more 
 compassionate in judging the evil-doer. And further, 
 while the inexperienced are still demanding the ren- 
 dering of poetic justice, still demanding that the deed 
 shall return upon the doer in its own kind in manner 
 visible to all, the reader of broader outlook has lived 
 and seen enough to know better. He is clear-eyed 
 enough to see and honest enough to acknowledge that 
 many a good man comes to grief, many a bad man 
 flourishes to the end. And yet, with this mystery 
 before him, he has gone deep enough into the heart of 
 things to feel the beauty and the compelling power of 
 goodness and to love it for itself. 
 
 In marking the ways in which the trained reader's 
 power to enter into the life in a book exceeds the power 
 of the untrained, we mark also the points at which the 
 latter should aim. The experienced reader's superiority, 
 as we have seen, lies mainly in his power of seeing facts 
 
INTRODUCTION 5 
 
 in relation; in seeing life as a unity made up of experi- 
 ences that find their meaning in their relation to the 
 laws that constitute human nature and create its social 
 and physical environments. It is thus that our greater 
 writers present life, and it is the power to see life in 
 this way that the student of literature should seek to 
 develop in himself. 
 
 In doing this he has hut to follow his author's lead. 
 'No book^ no writer, can possibly present more than a 
 fraction of human life. Life is too complex, too over- 
 whelming to be otherwise presented. But in his out- 
 look upon life, in his study of a thousand varying phe- 
 nomena, an author is arrested and fascinated by the 
 recurrence of something that he recognizes as the same 
 in each, a something, therefore, which he traces to the 
 underlying, persisting, essential nature of man. It thus 
 acquires the significance of a truth of human life, and 
 may be used as the motive of essay, sermon, poem, novel, 
 or play. If the author is essayist or preacher, he may, 
 if he wdll, present his truth in the abstract; if he is 
 novelist or playwright, he must present it as he found 
 it, embodied in real, individual men and women mov- 
 ing about on solid earth in an enviranment of men and 
 women and other natural things. The novelist, that 
 is, to present his theme, must create characters whose 
 lives shall reveal it to us, and place them in such cir- 
 cumstances and bring such influences to bear upon them 
 that the common human instincts in them shall natu- 
 rally behave in such a way as to make the truth he is 
 bent on telling manifest. If, then, characters and en- 
 vironment are created with this in view, everything in 
 a well-conceived and well-wrought-out novel becomes 
 significant. The physical setting of the story is neces- 
 
6 SILAS MARNER 
 
 sary to give solidity to the men and women in it; and 
 the very look of earth and sky are subtly associated with 
 their spiritual moods. The social setting, also, the 
 community life out of which the chief characters spring 
 or in the midst of which they lead their lives, is neces- 
 sary to give the chief characters a solid human reality, 
 and often to create the complications and entangle- 
 ments through which the theme is worked out. The 
 leading characters themselves, whose lives are made the 
 center of interest because they embody the human 
 truth with which the author is most concerned, neces- 
 sarily embody far more than this single truth, else the 
 presentation of human hfe would fade into mere alle- 
 gory. They must at least suggest the complexity and the 
 fullness of life that the central truth itself may gain sig- 
 nificance by being seen in its relations. Minor themes, 
 therefore, are properly associated with the main theme 
 in such wise that in the total impression the latter re- 
 mains clearly the most important. Finally, through 
 these complex characters thus conceived and thus placed 
 in their environment, the author presents to us his 
 theme in a story, every event in which gains its signifi- 
 cance by its bearing, direct or indirect, on the central 
 theme. 
 
 Even if the author proceed otherwise, the result, 
 as far as we are concerned, is the same. Even if he see 
 his story — that is, the series of events — first, he must 
 nevertheless make the story interesting and reasonable 
 to us by fitting its events into the lives of rationally 
 conceived characters; he must make them spring from 
 the laws that govern human action; he must make 
 them occur in a world that exists by the interaction 
 of laws. 
 
INTRODUCTION 7 
 
 The reader who accepts this view of the conception 
 and evolution of a novel becomes at once a student. 
 He sees the novel as a whole, each part involved in 
 every other part, and each contributing an element of 
 life necessary to the whole. Even in the beginning he 
 keeps the future course and end of the action in view, 
 and learns to see in the characters and conditions as first 
 presented possibilities of diverse future development. 
 He learns to isolate the facts that are vital to the under- 
 standing of all that follows; to detect in each the promise 
 of the future in germ; and again to combine them into 
 the present as the author creates it, with its conflicting 
 prophecies, its problematic foreshadowings of what is to 
 be. Later, also, when conditions change in the book- 
 world, when new characters are introduced and new 
 forces are set at work, he proceeds in the same way> 
 He studies the new with the old constantly in mind. 
 In any given character, for instance, he notes what the 
 new conditions appeal to, what motives they quicken, 
 what impulses they chill. He seeks to discover what it 
 is in the man's character, as thus far developed, that 
 makes him act as he does at a new juncture, and what 
 his present action is preparing for his future. He 
 observes what tendencies, widely different in nature as 
 first perceived, have here met at a common point and 
 merged in a single stream, and he follows the stream in 
 its course. And, finally, when the forces active in the 
 lives of the characters have worked out the natural con- 
 clusion, the student recalls once more the process. 
 Viewed in the light reflected back upon it from the con- 
 clusion every point acquires fuller significance. Nor 
 is this enlargement of meaning confined to the life in 
 the book-world alone. Insensibly life itself has grown 
 
8 SILAS MARNER 
 
 larger to the student of the book. He takes back into 
 it an augmented interest, a more intelligent curiosity, 
 ;and something more of power not merely to read books 
 with pleasure and understanding, but to meet life itself 
 intelligently. 
 
 We may say that this is the highest end not merely 
 of the reading of fiction, but of all intelligent reading 
 of literature of any sort. It is just as truly the guerdon 
 of him who reads The Daffodils, The Ancient Mariner, 
 Julius Ccesar, Self -Reliance, or On Conciliation with 
 America, as of him who reads Silas Marner or Henry 
 Esmond. The student who has wandered lonely as a 
 cloud with the poet, and come upon the daffodils and 
 caught the spirit of that jocund company, carries away 
 with him not only the joy of the verse, but senses made 
 more responsive to the beauty of the world, an increased 
 activity of feeling. We turn from The Ancient Mariner 
 as from the revelation of a world of sweeter melodies, 
 of diviner harmonies, of more subtle and mysterious 
 relationships — and behold, we find it again in the world 
 we have known all our lives. We make our own the fair- 
 ness of statement, the persuasive massing of facts, the 
 common sense, and the love of justice in Burke^s great 
 speech, and somehow we find ourselves looking upon 
 public questions in a new light, judging public policies 
 in a new spirit. From all these studies we return with 
 increased power to read intelligently, and just as truly 
 with increased power to live intelligently. The ulti- 
 mate end of all teaching of literature, then, seems to be 
 the same, and is an immediate consequence of the nature 
 of literature. 
 
 On the other hand, the means by which the end is to 
 be accomplished must vary with the department of lit- 
 
INTRODUCTION 9 
 
 erature. In dealing with literature we are dealing with 
 life, not directly, but through the medium of an art. 
 Our method, therefore, must be determined with an eye 
 to the conditions created for us by the art. These vary 
 so widely in the several departments of literature that 
 he would be foolish indeed who should endeavor to apply 
 one method rigidly in all. As we pass from lyric poetry 
 to the epic, the drama, the novel, the essay, the speech, 
 we nowhere fail to be occupied with human life and 
 its interests; yet we can not reach the emotional secret 
 of the lyric by the same logical analysis that opens the 
 treasures of the speech, nor will the means to be em- 
 ployed in either of these cases serve us with the novel. 
 The cases of the novel and the drama are more nearly 
 alike, and a comparison of the two is helpful. 
 
 Even here we are far from identity of conditions. 
 Both the novel and the drama deal with men and 
 women acting. But the liberty accorded the novelist 
 to appear in his own person and tell us how his charac- 
 ters act, what makes them act so, and what he thinks of 
 them for it, affects both the form of his work and, to 
 some extent, our study of it. The complete suppression 
 of the dramatist, the strict limitations of length within 
 which he must work, create conditions that make the 
 task of his reader in some respects more difficult and in 
 some respects easier than that of the novel reader. But 
 in the most fundamental points the drama and the novel 
 present similar problems. In each we have a central 
 character or group of characters, involved in a plot, an 
 action, that carries the theme. In each we ordinarily 
 have subordinate characters either instruments in de- 
 veloping the main action or principals or subordinates 
 in a second plot, itself subsidiary to the main action. 
 
10 SILAS MARNER 
 
 In the drama we have the action developed in five acts 
 with a varying number of scenes; in the novel the action 
 runs through an indefinite number of chapters. Here 
 is more difference in seeming than in reality. The 
 novelist just as much as the dramatist must introduce 
 his personages^ create the situation that supplies them: 
 with motives for various choices; show us their choice 
 and make it explicable by their characteristics; start the 
 consequent action into motion; complicate it with other 
 actions which shall constantly renew the opportunity 
 for choice; and finally bring it to a conclusion that 
 shall both justify itself to our reason as a natural effect 
 of the causes that produce it, and leave us in a deeper 
 harmony with universal law. /The novelist may, if 
 he will, linger over the introduction of his charac- 
 ters, and he may move more slowly toward his goal; 
 yet the limitations of time and space and unity of ac- 
 tion are upon him as well as upon the dramatist. Even 
 he can not give a complete panorama of the lives he 
 has created. Out of the myriad situations and events 
 that he might present, he must select such as are most 
 significant in the light of his theme; and, rigidly sup- 
 pressing everything else, he must so combine and order 
 these that their significance shall be unmistakable. In 
 the drama we study each act, each scene, and every 
 speech of every character, to make it yield its contribu- 
 tion to the main action. So, too, in the novel. • We 
 study the chapters as marking stages in the action, to 
 discover what were to the author the critical conditions^ 
 the determining influences, and the decisive moments 
 in the lives he is narrating. We analyze the dialogue to 
 make acquaintance with the characters and to pene- 
 trate the secret of their interaction. And we note at- 
 
 •W 
 
INTRODUCTION H 
 
 tentively every word the author drops by way of eom- 
 ment upon his characters and explanation of their feel- 
 ings and conduct. 
 
 This close study of the novel, following the lines of 
 its structure and accepting the conditions imposed upon 
 both writer and reader by the very nature of the art, 
 achieves two results of more or less profit to the student. 
 The first, and the more important, result is that already 
 pointed out. It lies in the enlargement of life that 
 €omes to the student through living so intimately and 
 intelligently in the lives of others. The second result, 
 though distinctly inferior to this, is of undoubted value 
 «ven to the general reader, while to the special student 
 of literature it is indispensable — namely, the quickening 
 and strengthening of the critical instinct and the de- 
 velopment of the literary judgment. It is indeed only 
 through the reading of many authors and books, 
 through the spontaneous appropriation and assimila- 
 tion of the best they have to give both in substance 
 and in manner, and later through a conscious and in- 
 telligent comparison of them, that anything like ca- 
 tholicity of taste and soundness of judgment is devel- 
 oped. No class study of two or three or half a dozen 
 books can take the place of this gradual and half- 
 unconscious growth. But such study as is here urged 
 can at any rate suggest that literature of every sort 
 is an art, with problems of its own arising out of the 
 subject it handles, the audience it addresses, and the 
 medium of expression it employs. Such study may even 
 beget a curiosity to know how different authors have 
 solved or attacked these problems, and it may give 
 something like intelligent direction to this curiosity. 
 It certainly enables the student more easily to enter 
 
12 SILAS MARNER 
 
 into every new book he takes up, and to make his own 
 whatever truth and beauty of form and substance it 
 may have. 
 
 \ George Eliot's Aim and Method 
 
 That George Eliot was not out of sympathy with 
 the theory of fiction and its spiritual uses here pre- 
 sented can hardly be questioned by her readers. She 
 took her work seriously, looked upon the writing of 
 fiction as an art, and strove almost religiously to be 
 true to the artist's function. She held herself to be 
 a teacher; but not after the fashion of the preacher 
 or the fabulist, with a set lesson to inculcate by every 
 work. Hers was a more difficult and more delicate task 
 — to teach high lessons through noble joys. She sought 
 to ennoble the emotions by rousing them to a purify- 
 ing activity. She sought to extend and quicken our 
 sympathies by helping us to find ourselves in lives ap- 
 parently most unlike our own. She sought to give 
 '* nobler values to familiar ties, to broaden the horizon 
 and lift the heavens that shut us in. And all this she 
 sought to do, not by creating an impossible world, but 
 by showing us this world as it is, or as she saw it; by 
 interesting us in common men and women; by giv- 
 ing us the aesthetic joy — ^which is also moral — of 
 escape from the narrow limits of our own lives into 
 the freedom of the artist's incarnation in a hundred 
 lives. 
 
 Her own words assure us of her feeling about her 
 work, her aim, and her method. Writing * to M. D' Al- 
 bert she says, " My books are deeply serious things to 
 
 * October 18, 1859. Life, M, 105. 
 
INTRODUCTION 13 
 
 me^ and come out of all the painful discipline, all the 
 most hardly learnt lessons of my past life." 
 
 To John Blackwood, her first publisher, she writes,* 
 ^' It is a comfort to me to read any criticism which rec- 
 ognizes the high responsibilities of literature that un- 
 dertakes to represent life. The ordinary tone about 
 art is that the artist may do what he will, provided he 
 pleases the public." 
 
 She assures her friend Mrs. Peter Taylor that she 
 looks upon her function as " that of the aesthetic, not 
 doctrinal teacher — the rousing of the nobler emotions, 
 which make mankind desire the social right, not the 
 prescribing of special measures." f To the same effect 
 she writes to Charles Bray.J ^^ If art does not enlarge 
 men's sympathies, it does nothing morally. . . . The 
 only effect I ardently long to produce by my writings 
 is, that those who read them should be better able to 
 imagine and to feel the pains and the joys of those 
 who differ from themselves in everything but the broad 
 fact of being struggling, erring human creatures." 
 
 A letter* to Frederic Harrison emphasizes her ad- 
 herence to the aesthetic aim, and gives us a glimpse 
 of her method — " That is a tremendously difficult prob- 
 lem w^hich you have laid before me; and I think you 
 see its difficulties, though they can hardly press upon 
 you as they do on me, who have gone through again 
 and again the severe effort of trying to make certain 
 ideas thoroughly incarnate, as if they had revealed 
 themselves to me first in the flesh and not in the spirit. 
 
 * March 30, 1861. Life, ii, 230. 
 + July 18, 1878. Life, iii, 268. 
 X July 5, 1859. Life, ii. 88. 
 « August 15, 1866. Life, ii, 348. 
 
14 SILAS MARKER 
 
 I think aesthetic teaching is the highest of all teaching, 
 because it deals with life in its highest complexity. 
 But if it ceases to be purely aesthetic — if it lapses any- 
 where from the picture to the diagram — it becomes the 
 most offensive of all teaching/^ 
 
 : Her method is still further unfolded to us in a let- 
 ter* to K. H. Hutton, concerning a criticism on 
 Romola — " Perhaps even a judge so discerning as your- 
 self could not infer from the imperfect result how 
 strict a self-control and selection were exercised in the 
 presentation of details. I believe there is scarcely a 
 phrase, an incident, an allusion, that did not gather its 
 value to me from its supposed subservience to my main 
 artistic objects. ... It is the habit of my imagina- 
 tion to strive after as full a vision of the medium in 
 which a character moves as of the character itself. The 
 psychological causes which prompted me to give such 
 details of Florentine life and history as I have given^ 
 are precisely the same as those which determined me 
 in giving the details of English village life in Silas 
 Marner, or the Dodson life, out of which were devel- 
 oped the destinies of poor Tom and Maggie. "" 
 
 This letter to Mr. Hutton is evidence also that her 
 characters were not mere constructions, but real cre- 
 ations. She evidently conceived them in their environ- 
 ment, and felt that they themselves within that environ- 
 ment worked oat their own fates. When Mr. Black- 
 wood questioned something in the conduct ascribed to 
 Caterina in Mr. GilfiVs Love Story, she wrote, f "But 
 I am unable to alter anything in the delineation or 
 
 * August 8, 1863. Life, ii, 285. 
 . t February 18, 1857. Life, i, 326. 
 
INTRODUCTION 15 
 
 development of character, as my stories always grow 
 out of my psychological conception of the dramatis 
 personcB. . . . My artistic bent is directed not at all to 
 the presentation of eminently irreproachable charac- 
 ters, but to the presentation of mixed human beings 
 in such a way as to call forth tolerant judgment, pity, 
 and sympathy. And I can not stir a step aside from 
 what I feel to be true in character. If anything strikes 
 you as untrue to human nature in my delineations, I 
 shall be very glad if you will point it out to me, that 
 I may reconsider the matter. But, alas! inconsisten- 
 cies and weaknesses are not untrue.^^ 
 
 And again her artistic desire for unity and com- 
 pleteness appears in a later letter * to the same friend — 
 ^* I don't see how I can leave anything out, because I 
 hope there is nothing that will be seen to be irrelevant 
 to my design.'^ 
 
 Silas Makxer 
 
 It is possible that George Eliot's desire for fullness 
 of treatment, her anxiety to give a solid reality to her 
 characters by relating them in a thousand ways to the 
 life of a whole community, led her at times to err 
 on the side of excess. It is certain that many of her 
 critics charge her with such error in the first part of 
 The Mill on the Floss, in Romola, in Middlemarch, and 
 in Daniel Deronda; and she herself felt a lack of pro- 
 portion in the handling of the " Dodson life " in the 
 first named. But no one finds similar fault with Silas 
 Marner. Of all her books this is recognized as the 
 miost artistic. This does not necessarily imply that it 
 
 * July 24, 1871. Life, iii, 107. 
 
16 SILAS MARNER 
 
 is the one which we chng to most. We may forgive 
 many a sin against art for the sake of the intense hu- 
 manness of Maggie Tulliver and Tom, of Tito, of 
 Dorothea and Lydgate and Mr. Farebrother and the 
 Garths and Mr. Bulstrode, of Gwendolen and Grand- 
 court, and little Jacob and the whole Cohen family. 
 The nature of Maggie^s struggle, or Eomola's, or 
 Gwendolen's, or Dorothea's, and the greater range of 
 life involved in telling their stories may make different 
 readers hold this or that one of her books dearest. 
 But there is general agreement as to the peculiar merits 
 of Silas Marner."^ 
 
 The theme of this story is, of course, the life of Silas 
 himself. It is the story of his affection, his trustful- 
 ness, his ignorance; of his loss of faith in God and man 
 through the treachery of a false friend and the igno- 
 rance and narrowness of a whole community; of the 
 dwindling of his life when it is no longer fed from 
 the sources of human affection and fellowship and the 
 worship of an Unseen Goodness; and of its growth again, 
 of his restoration to life through the coming of the 
 little child whose helplessness and love and expand- 
 ing life bring him once more into natural relations with 
 the world about him. 
 
 This is the story for which the book is written, and 
 the clearness and beauty with which this central theme 
 is conceived and the care with which everything in the 
 book is made to contribute to it, give the book much of 
 its artistic perfection. Yet it would lose much even of 
 
 * Of Silas Marner George Eliot wrote to John Blackwood, 
 " It sets— or is intended to set — in a strong light the remedial 
 influences of pure, natural human relations." 
 
INTRODUCTION 17 
 
 its artistic value and interest if the story with which 
 it is complicated were not also of a sort to appeal 
 strongly to our mingled human nature, conscious of 
 good impulses and high ideals, and conscious too of 
 strange weakness and failure; and it would lose fur- 
 ther if the complication were not skillfully managed. 
 'No perfection of form makes a lasting work unless 
 it is the expression of truth of substance. But it is also 
 certain that truth of substance alone hardly avails to 
 give permanent life. In Silas Mdrner, fortunately, we 
 have a fairly organic union of truth and beauty of 
 content with truth and beauty of form. The story of 
 Silas appeals to universal human instincts, to our 
 need of human fellowship, to our sense of dependence 
 on the common ties of friend and kindred, to our need 
 .of loving and being loved. The story of Godfrey Cass, 
 too, takes hold of us through our sympathy with his 
 love for K'ancy, and with all the impulses of his nature 
 that make her stand to him for a vision of brightness 
 and purity and peace; and, alas! it takes hold of us 
 also through our shrinking recognition of our own 
 frailties; through our own aversion to the disagreeable 
 present; our own difficulty in keeping a clear vision 
 of our ideals; and, it may be, our inner sense that 
 neither the madness of folly that led Godfrey into 
 the intrigue and secret marriage with poor Molly, nor 
 the cowardice that made him refuse to face his act 
 and take the consequences, is wholly foreign to our na- 
 tures. But these two stories of Silas and Godfrey de- 
 rive their power over our feelings and reflections no 
 more from their truth to life than from the beauty of 
 their handling. Each is conceived as a whole; each may 
 be looked at by itself, and each so viewed has interest; 
 
18 SILAS MARNER 
 
 but the way in which the author has bound them to- 
 gether so that each shall re-enforce the other while 
 still leaving the story of Silas dominant, gives immeas- 
 urably more attractiveness and strength to the whole 
 story than either of its elements could possibly have. 
 In this union we feel that nothing is strained. The 
 weakness and failure of one nature are everywhere in 
 the world making demand upon other natures for 
 strength, and creating opportunities in which other na- 
 tures find the fulfillment of their needs. But in the 
 presentation of the ways in which these two imperfect 
 and faulty lives crossed each other, the author gives a 
 deeper reality and impressiveness to each. 
 
 Furthermore, the sympathy with which the story is 
 told is as artistic as it is true. It is given not only 
 to Silas and Godfrey, but to Eppie and I^ancy and 
 Dolly Winthrop and Aaron; to all the homely life oi 
 the village; to the dullest of the famous group at the 
 Eainbow; to the argumentative Mr. Macey and to the 
 conciliatory host. It is broad enough to include even 
 " the pups as the lads are allays a-rearing,^^and the red- 
 headed calf that looks with mild surprise at the run- 
 away Eppie. In short, it becomes the artistic atmos- 
 phere of the book, the medium through which we look 
 at all its life. Like the air of Indian summer, it in- 
 vests all the landscape with charm. 
 
 If now to the truth of characterization, the propor- 
 tion and harmony of construction, and the beauty of 
 tone we have observed, we add the prevailing simplicity 
 and beauty of the diction when the author is speak- 
 ing in her own person and its dramatic fitness else- 
 where, we have outlined our justification of the gen- 
 eral verdict as to the artistic nature of Silas Marner, 
 
INTRODUCTION 19 
 
 Life of George Eliot 
 
 Mary Ann Evans was born November 22, 1819, 
 at South Farm, Arbury Park, near Nuneaton, War- 
 wickshire, England. She was the youngest child of 
 Kobert Evans and his second wife, Christiana Pearson. 
 In March, 1820, the family removed to Griff House, 
 also on the Arbury estate, where Mary Ann, known to 
 all her readers as George Eliot, " spent the first twenty- 
 one years of her life.^^ Her series of sonnets, Bi'otlier 
 and Sister, shows how her first five years were passed. 
 At five years old she was sent to Miss Lathom's school 
 at Attleboro, where with her sister she remained as 
 a boarder for three or four years. She was then trans- 
 ferred to Miss Wallington's school at Nuneaton, where 
 she made an intimate friend of the chief governess. 
 Miss Lewis, and under her influence acquired an evan- 
 gelical cast of thought and feeling. In her thirteenth 
 year she was transferred to Miss Franklin's school at 
 Coventry. Here she remained till Christmas, 1835. 
 Her mother died in the following summer, and, her 
 sister Christiana soon marrying, George Eliot became 
 the head of her father's household. She was a prac- 
 tical housewife, skilled in all the duties of the calling, 
 as one might almost guess from the allusions in her 
 books. She nevertheless continued her studies in 
 Italian, German, and music; and her letters show that 
 she was a persistent and serious reader along many 
 lines, with a special liking for theological and religious 
 works. Her love of Wordsworth, henceforward so 
 marked,, was established at this time. 
 
 In 1841 her brother Isaac, now married, succeeded 
 to a portion of his father's business as agent for the 
 
20 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Arbury estate, and settled at Griff House. Mr. Eobert 
 Evans and his daughter removed to a house on the 
 Foleshill Eoad, near Coventry. Here they lived till Mr. 
 Evans's death in 1849, when the home life of George 
 Eliot was broken up. At Foleshill she was thrown 
 among people of much greater culture and wider inter- 
 ests than she had known hitherto. Her most important 
 friendships formed here were with the family of Mr. 
 Charles Bray and the Hennells. Her studies took a 
 broader range, and included Greek and Latin under 
 masters, and Hebrew, which she learned without a 
 master and read with delight as long as she lived. Her 
 friends had some influence in hastening a change in 
 her religious views, and were instrumental in her un- 
 dertaking the translation of Strauss's Life of Jesus, 
 Through the Brays also she met various famous Eng- 
 lishmen and Americans. Her letters show her ardent 
 interest in moral, religious, and social problems. 
 
 After her father's death in 1849 her friends per- 
 suaded George Eliot to seek in travel the strength 
 and courage that seemed sapped by grief. She spent 
 several months at Geneva, mostly in the family of M. 
 and Mme. D' Albert, with whom she formed a lifelong 
 friendship. M. D' Albert was years afterward the 
 French translator of her novels. 
 
 She returned to England in 1850, and, after spend- 
 ing some sixteen months with her friends at Coventry, 
 finally settled in London as assistant editor of the 
 Westmirister Revieiv. This position she resigned two 
 or three years later, but except for intervals of foreign 
 travel and sojourns in the country, she spent the rest 
 of her life in London. Here, naturally, she met many 
 interesting people. Mr. Herbert Spencer is perhaps to 
 
INTRODUCTION 21 
 
 be counted first among her friends. Through him also 
 she was brought into close relations with George Henry 
 Lewes, with whom, in July, 1854, she joined fortunes 
 for life in a union which, though lacking the sanction 
 of the State, was in all else a marriage of the rarer 
 and nobler sort. 
 
 It was in great measure due to Mr. Lewes that 
 George Eliot became a novelist. She had already an 
 established repute as translator, editor, and reviewer, 
 but his encouragement and urging first made her try 
 her hand at story-telling. Her first story, Tlie Sad 
 Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton, was accepted by 
 John Blackwood, ISTovember 12, 1856, and published 
 anonymously in Blackwood^s Magazine, not even Mr. 
 Blackwood himself knowing who the new author was. 
 It was followed by Mr. GilfiVs Love Story, and Janef» 
 Repentance, and then the three were issued in two 
 volumes under the title. Scenes of Clerical Life. The 
 name George Eliot was first assumed in a letter to John 
 Blackwood, February 4, 1857. This first book estab- 
 lished George Eliot's position among the more dis- 
 criminating readers, and was successful with the gen- 
 eral pubUc. But her mastery of the public dates from 
 Adam Bede, published February 1, 1859. From this 
 time she ranked with Dickens and Thackeray, and after 
 their deaths she had no rivals in public favor among 
 the living. 
 
 The following list includes all her books from the 
 beginning of her career as novelist, together with the 
 dates of their publication in book form. 
 
 Scenes of Clerical Life, January, 1858. 
 
 Adam Bede, February 1, 1859. 
 
 The Mill on the Floss, April 4, 1860. 
 
22 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Silas Marner, March, 1861. 
 
 JRomola, 1863. 
 
 Felix Holt, 1866, 
 
 The Spanish Gypsy (dramatic poem), 1868. 
 
 Middlemarch, 1871-2. 
 
 The Legend of Jubal, and other poems, May, 1874. 
 
 Daniel Deronda, 1876. 
 
 The Impressions of Theophrastus Such, 1879. 
 
 As the above list shows, George Eliot's life was pro- 
 ductive to the last. It was, moreover, from beginning 
 to end the life of a student. Those who are curious 
 as to the range and seriousness of her studies may get 
 some satisfaction by turning to the LifCy by Mr. Cross, 
 vol. i, pp. 45, 46, 149, 150, 282, 338, 359; vol. ii, pp. 56, 
 247, 248, 254, 324, 325; vol. iii, pp. 16, 21, 45, 60, 74, 
 75, 77, 93, 97, 133, 341, 342, 353. But the lists of 
 books here given as read by her fail to convey such 
 an impression as is received from the allusions in her 
 Letters and Journals everywhere. 
 
 Mr. Lewes died in 1878. In May, 1880, George 
 Eliot married John Walter Cross, an old friend of Mr. 
 Lewes as well as of herself. On the fourth of Decem- 
 ber, after months of travel on the Continent and in 
 the country, Mr. and Mrs. Cross returned to London 
 and occupied their house at No. 4 Cheyne Walk. Here, 
 on December 22, 1880, after an illness of a few days, 
 George Eliot died. 
 
 " Her body rests in Highgate Cemetery, in the grave 
 next to Mr. Lewes. In sleet and snow, on a bitter day, 
 the 29th of December, very many whom she knew, very 
 many whom she did not know, pressed to her grave- 
 side with tributes of tears and flowers. 
 
 " Her spirit joined that choir invisible ^ whose music 
 is the gladness of the world.^ '' 
 
INTRODUCTION 23 
 
 Biographical and Critical Studies of 
 George Eliot 
 
 George Eliofs Life, by her husband, J. W. Cross. (The illus- 
 trated cabinet edition, 3 vols., contains three portraits of George 
 Eliot, a portrait of her father, and views of her homes: Griff 
 House, Foieshill, The Priory, The Heights, and No. 4 Cheyne Walk. 
 This is the Life always referred to in the notes.) 
 
 George Eliofs Life, by Frederic Harrison. The Fortnightly 
 Review, March, 1885 (vol. xliii old series, xxxvii new series, pp. 
 309-322). Eeprinted in Littell's Living Age, vol. 165. 
 
 George Eliot, by Mathilde Blind. Famous Women Series. 
 George Eliot, by Oscar Browning. Great Writer Series. 
 
 The Life of George Eliot, by John Morley. Macmillan's Maga- 
 zine, February, 1885 (vol. li, pp. 241-256). Repainted in Littell's 
 Living Age, vol. 164. 
 
 George Eliot. Blackwood's Magazine, February, 1881 (vol. 
 cxxix, pp. 255-268). Bepririted in Littell's Living Age, vol. 148. 
 
 George Eliot's Life, by Henry James. The Atlantic Monthly, 
 May, 1885 (vol. Iv, pp. 668-678). 
 
 George Eliot, by R. H. Hutton. The Contemporary Review, 
 March, 1885 (vol. xlvii,pp. 372-391). Eeprinted in Littell's Living 
 Age, vol. 165. 
 
 George Eliot, by Edith Simcox. The Nineteenth Century, May, 
 t881 (vol. ix, pp. 778-801). Repi'inted in Littell's Living Age, vol. 
 149. 
 
 George Eliot, by F. W. H. Myers. The Century Magazine, 
 November, 1881 (vol. xxiii, pp. 57-64). 
 
 The Portrait of George Eliot, The Century Magazine, Novem- 
 ber, 1881 (vol. xxiii, p. 47). 
 
 George Eliot, by C. Kegan Paul. Harper's Magazine, May, 1881 
 (vol. Ixii, pp. 912-923). 
 
 George Eliofs Two Marriages, by C. G. Ames. 
 
 George Eliofs Country^ by Rose G. Kingsley. The Century 
 Magazine, July, 1885 (vol. xxx, pp. 339-352). 
 
 George Eliot, by Edward Dowden. The Contemporary Re- 
 view, August, 1872 (vol. XX, pp. 403-423). Reprinted in Littell's 
 Living Age, vol. 115. 
 
 Modern Guides of English Thought on Matters of Faith, by 
 R. H. Hutton, pp. 147-299. 
 
24 SILAS MARNER 
 
 George Eliot : A critical study of her life, vyritings^ and phi- 
 losophy, by George Willis Cooke. 
 
 The English Novel and the Principles of its Development , by 
 Sidney Lanier. 
 
 Lectures on English Literature, by Edmond Scherer. 
 
 George Eliofs Children, by Annie Mattheson, Macmillan's 
 Magazine, October, 1882 (vol. xlvi, pp. 488-497). Reprinted in 
 Littell's Living Age, vol. 155. 
 
 Besides these, one who wishes to know George Eliot's life 
 should consult her books. From several of them we get glimpses, 
 not photographs, of her early home life and surroundings. Her 
 mother may be found, in part, in Mrs. Poyser in Adam Bade, and 
 in Mrs. Hackit in Scenes of Clerical Life. Her father certainly 
 furnished the groundwork of character to both Adam Bede and 
 Caleb Garth, Middlemarch. Seth Bede is founded on "Uncle 
 Samuel Evans," and the germ of the character of Dinah Morris is 
 found in " Aunt Samuel." The poem Brother and Sister is almost 
 a transcript from memory of the author's childhood; and the 
 childhood of Mary Ann and Isaac Evans supplied also much of 
 the child life in The Mill on the Floss. The story of the early 
 years of Maggie Tulliver is doubtless the best source we have foi 
 knowledge of the inner life of George Eliot in her own earliei 
 years. The Dodson life, too, is drawn from memories and impres- 
 sions of the Pearsons, Mrs. Robert Evans's family. The towns and 
 churches and manors in Scenes of Clerical Life are memories of 
 Warwickshire ; and the landscapes in the Scenes and Adam Bede 
 and Silas Marner and The Mill on the Floss are landscapes^ 
 familiar to George Eliot's childish eyes, and dear with memories. 
 
 m.k\ 
 
SILAS MAENER 
 
 THE WEAVER OF RAVELOE 
 
 PART I 
 
 CHAPTEE I 
 
 In the days when the spinning wheels hummed bus- 
 ily in the farmhouses — and even great ladies, clothed in 
 silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels 
 of polished oak — there might be seen, in districts far 
 away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the 5 
 hills, certain pallid undersized men, who, by the side 
 of the brawny country folk, looked like the remnants 
 of a disinherited race. The shepherd's dog barked 
 fiercely when one of these alien-looking men appeared 
 on the upland, dark against the early winter sunset; 10 
 for what dog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag? — 
 and these pale men rarely stirred abroad without that 
 mysterious burden. The shepherd himself, though he 
 had good reason to believe that the bag held nothing 
 but flaxen thread, or else the long rolls of strong linen 15 
 spun from that thread, was not quite sure that this trade 
 of weaving, indispensable though it was, could be car- 
 ried on entirely without the help of the Evil One. In 
 that far-off time superstition clung easily round every 
 person or thing that was at all unwonted, or even inter- 20 
 mittent and occasional merely, like the visits of the 
 peddler or the knife-grinder. No one knew where wan- 
 
 25 
 
26 SILAS MARKER 
 
 dering men had their homes or their origin; and how 
 was a man to be explained unless you at least knew 
 somebody who knew his father and mother? To the 
 peasants of old times, the world outside their own direct 
 
 5 experience was a region of vagueness and mystery: to 
 their untraveled thought a state of wandering was a 
 conception as dim as the winter life of the swallows 
 that came back with the spring; and even a settler, if 
 he came from distant parts, hardly ever ceased to 
 
 10 be viewed with a remnant of distrust, which would 
 have prevented any surprise if a long course of inoffen- 
 sive conduct on his part had ended in the commission 
 of a crime; especially if he had any reputation for 
 knowledge, or showed any skill in handicraft. All clev- 
 
 15 erness, whether in the rapid use of that difficult instru- 
 ment the tongue, or in some other art unfamiliar to 
 villagers, was in itself suspicious: honest folk, born and 
 bred in a visible manner, were mostly not overwise or 
 clever — at least, not beyond such a matter as knowing 
 
 20 the signs of the weather; and the process by which ra- 
 pidity and dexterity of any kind were acquired was so 
 wholly hidden that they partook of the nature of con- 
 juring. In this way it came to pass that those scattered 
 linen weavers — emigrants from the town into the coun- 
 
 25 try — were to the last regarded as aliens by their rustic 
 neighbors, and usually contracted the eccentric habits 
 which belong to a state of loneliness. 
 
 In the early years of this century, such a linen 
 weaver, named Silas Marner, worked at his vocation in 
 
 30 a stone cottage that stood among the nutty hedgerows 
 near the village of Eaveloe, and not far from the edge 
 of a deserted stone pit. The questionable sound of 
 Silas's loom, so unlike the natural cheerful trotting 
 
SILAS MARNER 27 
 
 of the winnowing machine, or the simpler rhythm of 
 the flail, had a half -fearful fascination for the Kaveloe 
 boys, who would often leave ofl; their nutting or birds'- 
 nesting to peep in at the window of the stone cottage, 
 counterbalancing a certain awe at the mysterious ac- 5 
 tion of the loom by a pleasant sense of scornful supe- 
 riority, drawn from the mockery of its alternating 
 noises, along with the bent, treadmill attitude of the 
 weaver. But sometimes it happened that Marner, paus- 
 ing to adjust an irregularity in his thread, became aware ic 
 of the small scoundrels, and, though chary of his time, 
 he liked their intrusion so ill that he would descend 
 from his loom, and, opening the door, would fix on them 
 a gaze that was always enough to make them take to 
 their legs in terror. For how was it possible to believe 15 
 that those large brown protuberant eyes in Silas Mar- 
 ner^s pale face really saw nothing very distinctly that 
 was not close to them, and not rather that their dread- 
 ful stare could dart cramp, or rickets, or a wry mouth at 
 any boy who happened to be in the rear? They had, 20 
 perhaps, heard their fathers and mothers hint that Silas 
 Marner could cure folks^ rheumatism if he had a mind, 
 and add, still more darkly, that if you could only speak 
 the devil fair enough, he might save you the cost of the 
 doctor. Such strange lingering echoes of the old de- 25 
 mon worship might perhaps even now be caught by 
 the diligent listener among the gray-haired peasantry; 
 for the rude mind with difficulty associates the ideas 
 of power and benignity. A shadowy conception of 
 power that by much persuasion can be induced to refrain 30 
 from inflicting harm, is the shape most easily taken by 
 the sense of the Invisible in the minds of men who have 
 always been pressed close by primitive wants, and to 
 
28 SILAS MARKER 
 
 whom a life of hard toil has never been illuminated by 
 any enthusiastic religious faith. To them pain and 
 mishap present a far wider range of possibilities than 
 gladness and enjoyment: their imagination is almost 
 5 barren of the images that feed desire and hope, but is 
 all overgrown by recollections that are a perpetual pas- 
 ture to fear. '' Is there anything you can fancy that you 
 would like to eat?^^ I once said to an old laboring- 
 man, who was in his last illness, and who had refused 
 
 10 all the food his wife had offered him. '' No/^ he an - 
 swered, " Tve never been used to nothing but common 
 victual, and I can^t eat that.^^ Experience had bred 
 no fancies in him that could raise the phantasm of 
 appetite. 
 
 15 And Eaveloe was a village where many of the old 
 echoes lingered, undrowned by new voices. IsTot that 
 it was one of those barren parishes lying on the outskirts 
 of civilization — inhabited by meager sheep and thinly 
 scattered shepherds: on the contrary, it lay in the rich 
 
 20 central plain of what we are pleased to call Merry Eng- 
 land, and held farms which, speaking from a spiritual 
 point of view, paid highly desirable tithes. But it was 
 nestled in a snug well-wooded hollow, quite an hour's 
 journey on horseback from any turnpike, where it was 
 
 25 never reached by the vibrations of the coach horn or of 
 public opinion. It was an important-looking village, 
 with a fine old church and large churchyard in the heart 
 of it, and two or three large brick-and-stone homesteads, 
 with well-walled orchards and ornamental weathercocks, 
 
 30 standing close upon the road, and lifting more imposing 
 fronts than the rectory, which peeped from among the 
 trees on the other side of the churchyard — a village 
 which showed at once the summits of its social life, and 
 
SILAS MARNER 29 
 
 told the practiced eye that there was no great park and 
 manor house in the vicinity^ but that there were sev- 
 eral chiefs in Eaveloe who could farm badly quite at 
 their ease, drawing enough money from their bad 
 farming, in those war times, to live in a rollicking 5 
 fashion, and keep a jolly Christmas, Whitsun, and 
 Easter tide. 
 
 It was fifteen years since Silas Marner had first come 
 to Eaveloe; he was then simply a pallid young man, with 
 prominent, short-sighted brown eyes, whose appearance lo 
 Nvould have had nothing strange for people of average 
 culture and experience, but for the villagers near whom 
 he had come to settle it had mysterious peculiarities 
 which corresponded with the exceptional nature of his 
 occupation and his advent from an unknown region 15 
 called " JSTorth^ard/^ So had his way of life — he invited 
 no comer to step across his doorsill, and he never 
 strolled into the village to drink a pint at the Rainbow, 
 or to gossip at the wheelwright^s; he sought no man or 
 woman, save for the purposes of his calling, or in order 20 
 to supply himself with necessaries; and it was soon clear 
 to the Eaveloe lasses that he would never urge one of 
 them to accept him against her will — quite as if he had 
 heard them declare that they would never marry a dead 
 man come to life again. This view of Marner's person- 25 
 ality was not without another ground than his pale face 
 and unexampled eyes; for Jem Eodney, the mole catcher, 
 averred that, one evening as he was returning home- 
 ward, he saw Silas Marner leaning against a stile with 
 a heavy bag on his back, instead of resting the bag on so 
 the stile as a man in his senses would have done; and 
 that, on coming up to him, he saw that Marner's eyes 
 were set like a dead man's, and he spoke to him and 
 
30 SILAS MARKER 
 
 shook him, and his limbs were stiff, and his hands 
 clutched the hag as if they^d been made of iron; but 
 just as he had made up his mind that the weaver was 
 dead, he came all right again, like, as you might say, 
 5 in the winking of an eye, and said " Good-night,^^ and 
 walked off. All this Jem swore he had seen, more by 
 token that it was the very day he had been mole catch- 
 ing on Squire Cassis land, down by the old saw pit. 
 Some said Marner must have been in a " fit,^^ a word 
 
 10 which seemed to explain things otherwise incredible; 
 but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk of the parish,' 
 shook his head, and asked if anybody was ever known to 
 go off in a fit and not fall down. A fit was a stroke, 
 wasn't it? and it was in the nature of a stroke to partly 
 
 15 take away the use of a man's limbs and throw him on 
 the parish, if he'd got no children to look to. [NTo, no; 
 it was no stroke that would let a man stand on his legs, 
 like a horse between the shafts, and then walk off as 
 soon as you can say " Gee ! " But there might be such 
 
 20 a thing as a man's soul being loose from his body, and 
 going out and in, like a bird out of its nest and back; 
 and that was how folks got overwise, for they went to 
 school in this shell-less state to those who could teach 
 them more than their neighbors could learn with their 
 
 25 five senses and the parson. And where did Master Mar- 
 ner get his knowledge of herbs from — and charms, too, 
 if he liked to give them away? Jem Kodney's story 
 was no more than what might have been expected by 
 anybody who had seen how Marner had cured Sally 
 
 30 Gates, and made her sleep like a baby, when her heart 
 had been beating enough to burst her body for two 
 months and more, while she had been under the doctor's 
 care. He might cure more folks if he would; but he was 
 
SILAS MARNER 31 
 
 worth speaking fair, if it was only to keep him from 
 doing you a mischief. 
 
 It was partly to this vague fear that Marner was 
 indebted for protecting him from the persecution that 
 his singularities might have drawn upon him, but still 5 
 more to the fact that, the old linen weaver in the neigh- 
 boring parish of Tarley being dead, his handicraft 
 made him a highly welcome settler to the richer house- 
 wives of the district, and even to the more provident 
 cottagers, who had their little stock of yarn at the year's 10 
 end. Their sense of his usefulness would have coun- 
 teracted any repugnance or suspicion which was not 
 confirmed by a deficiency in the quality or the tale of 
 the cloth he wove for them. And the years had rolled 
 on without producing any change in the impressions of 15 
 the neighbors concerning Marner, except the change 
 from novelty to habit. At the end of fifteen years the 
 Eaveloe men said just the same things about Silas Mar- 
 ner as at the beginning; they did not say them quite so 
 often, but they believed them much more strongly when 20 
 they did say them. There was only one important addi- 
 tion which the years had brought: it was, that Master 
 Marner had laid by a fine sight of money somewhere, 
 and that he could buy up " bigger men '' than himself. 
 
 But while opinion concerning him had remained 25 
 nearly stationary, and his daily habits had presented 
 scarcely any visible change, Marner's inward life had 
 been a history and a metamorphosis, as that of every 
 fervid nature must be when it has fled, or been con- 
 demned, to solitude. His life, before he came to Eave- so 
 loe, had been filled with the movement, the mental 
 activity, and the close fellowship, which, in that day 
 as in this, marked the life of an artisan early incor- 
 
32 SILAS MARNER 
 
 porated in a narrow religious sect, where the poorest 
 layman has the chance of distinguishing himself by 
 gifts of speech, and has, at the very least, the weight 
 of a silent voter in the government of his community. 
 5 Marner was highly thought of in that little hidden 
 world, known to itself as the church assembling in Lan- 
 tern Yard; he was believed to be a young man of exem- 
 plary life and ardent faith; and a peculiar interest had 
 been centered in him ever since he had fallen, at a pray- 
 10 er meeting, into a mysterious rigidity and suspension of 
 consciousness, which, lasting for an hour or more, had 
 been mistaken for death. To have sought a medical ex- 
 planation for this phenomenon would have been held by 
 Silas himself, as well as by his minister and fell ow- 
 ls members, a willful self -exclusion from the spiritual sig- 
 nificance that might lie therein. Silas was evidently a 
 brother selected for a peculiar discipline; and though 
 the effort to interpret this discipline was discouraged by 
 the absence, on his part, of any spiritual vision during 
 20 his outward trance, yet it was believed by himself and 
 others that its effect ws'^ seen in an accession of light 
 and fervor. A less truthful man than he might have 
 been tempted into the subsequent creation of a vision in 
 the form of resurgent memory; a less sane man might 
 25 have believed in such a creation ; but Silas was both sane 
 and honest, though, as with many honest and fervent 
 men, culture had not defined any channels for his sense 
 of mystery, and so it spread itself over the proper path- 
 way of inquiry and knowledge. He had inherited from 
 30 his mother some acquaintance with medicinal herbs and 
 their preparation — a little store of wisdom which she 
 had imparted to him as a solemn bequest — but of late 
 years he had had doubts about the lawfulness of apply- 
 
SILAS MARNER 33 
 
 ing this knowledge, believing that herbs could have no 
 efficacy without prayer, and that prayer might suffice 
 without herbs; so that his inherited delight to wander 
 through the fields in search of foxglove and dandelion 
 and coltsfoot began to wear to him the character of a 5 
 temptation. 
 
 Among the members of his church there was one 
 young man, a little older than himself, with whom he 
 had long lived in such close friendship that- it was the 
 custom of their Lantern Yard brethren to call them 10 
 David and Jonathan. The real name of the friend was 
 William Dane, and he, too, was regarded as a shining 
 instance of youthful piety, though somewhat given to 
 over-severity toward weaker brethren, and to be so daz- 
 zled by his own light as to hold himself wiser than his 15 
 teachers. But whatever blemishes others might discern 
 in William, to his friend^s mind he was faultless; for 
 Marner had one of those impressible self-doubting na- 
 tures which, at an inexperienced age, admire impera- 
 tiveness and lean on contradiction. The expression of 20 
 trusting simplicity in Marner's face, heightened by that 
 absence of special observation, that defenceless, deer- 
 like gaze which belongs to large prominent eyes, was 
 strongly contrasted by the self-complacent suppression 
 of inward triumph that lurked in the narrow slanting 25 
 eyes and compressed lips of William Dane. One of the 
 most frequent topics of conversation between the two 
 friends was Assurance of salvation: Silas confessed that 
 he could never arrive at anything higher than hope 
 mingled with fear, and listened with longing wonder 30 
 when William, declared that he had possessed unshaken 
 assurance ever since, in the period of his conversion, he 
 had dreamed that he saw the words " calling and elec- 
 
34 SILAS MARNER 
 
 tion sure ^' standing by themselves on a white page in 
 the open Bible. Such colloquies have occupied many a 
 pair of pale-faced weavers, whose unnurtured souls have 
 been like young winged things, fluttering forsaken in 
 
 5 the twilight. 
 
 It had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas that the 
 friendship had suffered no chill even from his formation 
 of another attachment of a closer kind. For some 
 months he had been engaged to a young servant woman, 
 
 10 waiting only for a little increase to their mutual savings 
 in order to their marriage; and it was a great delight to 
 him that Sarah did not object to William^s occasional 
 presence in their Sunday interviews. It was at this 
 point in their history that Silas's cataleptic fit occurred 
 
 15 during the prayer meeting; and amidst the various 
 queries and expressions of interest addressed to him by 
 his fellow-members, William's suggestion alone jarred 
 with the general sympathy toward a brother thus sin- 
 gled out for special dealings. He observed that, to him, 
 
 20 this trance looked more like a visitation of Satan than 
 a proof of divine favor, and exhorted his friend to see 
 that he hid no accursed thing within his soul. Silas, 
 feeling bound to accept rebuke and admonition as a 
 brotherly office, felt no resentment, but only pain, at his 
 
 25 friend's doubts concerning him; and to this was soon 
 added some anxiety at the perception that Sarah's man- 
 ner toward him began to exhibit a strange fluctuation 
 between an effort at an increased manifestation of re- 
 gard and involuntary signs of shrinking and dislike. He 
 
 30 asked her if she wished to break off their engagement; 
 but she denied this: their engagement was known to the 
 church, and had been recognized in the praver meetings ; 
 it could not be broken off without strict investigation, 
 
SILAS MARNER 35 
 
 and Sarah could render no reason that would be sanc- 
 tioned by the feeling of the community. At this time 
 the sei'ior deacon was taken dangerously ill, and, being 
 a childless widower, he was tended night and day by 
 some of the younger brethren or sisters. Silas fre- 5 
 quently took his turn in the night-watching with Wil- 
 liam, the one relieving the other at two in the morning. 
 The old man, contrary to expectation, seemed to be on 
 the way to recovery, when one night Silas, sitting up 
 by his bedside, observed that his usual audible breathing i€ 
 had ceased. The candle was burning low, and he had to 
 lift it to see the patient^s face distinctly. Examination 
 convinced him that the deacon was dead — had been dead 
 some time, for the limbs were rigid. Silas asked himself 
 if he had been asleep, and looked at the clock: it was 15 
 already four in the morning. How was it that William 
 had not come? In much anxiety he went to seek for 
 help, and soon there were several friends assembled in 
 the house, the minister among them, while Silas went 
 away to his work, wishing he could have met William 20 
 to know the reason of his non-appearance. But at six 
 o'clock, as he was thinking of going to seek his friend, 
 William came, and with him the minister. They came 
 to summon him to Lantern Yard, to meet the church 
 members there; and to his inquiry concerning the cause 25 
 of the summons the only reply was, " You will hear.'' 
 iSTothing further was said until Silas was seated in the 
 vestry, in front of the minister, with the eyes of those 
 who to him represented God's people fixed solemnly 
 upon him. Then the minister, taking out a pocketknife, 3C 
 showed it to Silas, and asked him if he knew where he 
 had left that knife? Silas said he did not know that; 
 he had left it nnj^vhere out of his own pocket — but he 
 
36 SILAS MARKER 
 
 was trembling at this strange interrogation. He was 
 then exhorted not to hide his sin, but to confess and 
 repent. The knife had been found in the bureau by 
 the departed deacon^s bedside — found in the place 
 
 5 where the little bag of church money had lain, which 
 the minister himself had seen the day before. Some 
 hand had removed that bag; and whose hand could it 
 be, if not that of the man to whom the knife belonged? 
 For some time Silas was mute with astonishment; then 
 
 10 he said, " God will clear me: I know nothing about the 
 knife being there, or the money being gone. Search me 
 and my .dwelling: you will find nothing but three pound 
 five of my own savings, which William Dane knows I 
 have had these six months.'^ At this William groaned, 
 
 15 but the minister said, " The i>roof is heavy against you, 
 brother Marner. The money was taken in the night last 
 past, and no man was with our depaited brother but 
 you, for William Dane declares to us that he was hin- 
 dered by sudden sickness from going to take his place as 
 
 20 usual, and you yourself said that he had not come; and, 
 moreover, you neglected the dead body.*^ 
 
 " I must have slept,^^ said Silas. Then, after a pause, 
 he added, '' Or I must have had another visitation like 
 that which you have all seen me under, so that the 
 
 25 thief must have come and gone while I was not in the 
 body, but out of the body. But, I say again, search me 
 and my dwelling, for I have been nowhere else.^^ 
 
 The search was made, and it ended — in William 
 Dane's finding the well-known bag, empty, tucked be- 
 
 30 hind the chest of drawers in Silas's chamber! On this 
 William exhorted his friend to confess, and not to hide 
 his sin any longer. Silas turned a look of keen re- 
 proach on him, and said, ^' William, for nine years that 
 
SILAS MARKER 37 
 
 we liaA^e gone in and out together^ have you ever known 
 me tell a lie? But God will clear me/' 
 
 " Brother/^ said William, " how do I know what 
 you may have done in the secret chambers of your heart, 
 to give Satan an advantage over you? '' ^ 
 
 Silas was still looking at his friend. Suddenly a 
 deep flush came over his face, and he was about to speak 
 impetuously, when he seemed checked again by some in- 
 Avard shock that sent the flush back and made him 
 tremble. But at last he spoke feebly, looking at Wil- lO 
 Ham. 
 
 " I remember now — the knife wasn^t in my pocket.^^ 
 
 William said, " I know nothing of what you mean.^^ 
 The other persons present, how^ever, began to inquire 
 where Silas meant to say that the knife was, but he i* 
 would give no further explanation; he only said, " I am 
 sore stricken; I can say nothing. God wdll clear me.'' 
 
 On their return to the vestry there was further de- 
 liberation. Any resort to legal measures for ascertain- 
 ing the culprit was contrary to the principles of the 2a 
 church in Lantern Yard, according to which prosecution 
 was forbidden to Christians, even had the case held less 
 scandal to the community. But the members were 
 bound to take other measures for finding out the truth, 
 and they resolved on praying and drawing lots. This 25 
 resolution can be a ground of surprise only to those who 
 are unacquainted with that obscure religious life which 
 has gone on in the alleys of our towns. Silas knelt with 
 his brethren, relying on his own innocence being certi- 
 fied by immediate divine interference, but feeling that 3i 
 there was sorrow and mourning behind for him even 
 then — that his trust in man had been cruelly bruised. 
 The lots declared that Silas Marner was guilty. He was 
 
38 SILAS MARNER 
 
 solemnly suspended from church membership, and called 
 upon to render up the stolen money: only on confession, 
 as the sign of repentance, could he be received once 
 more within the folds of the church. Marner listened 
 5 in silence. At last, when every one rose to depart, he 
 went toward William Dane, and said, in a voice shaken 
 by agitation: 
 
 " The last time I remember using my knife was 
 when I took it out to cut a strap for you. I donH re- 
 
 10 member putting it in my pocket again. You stole the 
 money, and you have woven the plot to lay the sin 
 at my door. But you may prosper, for all that; there 
 is no just God that governs the earth righteously, but a 
 God of lies, that bears witness against the innocent.^^ 
 
 15 There was a general shudder at this blasphemy. 
 
 William said meekly, " I leave our brethren to judge 
 whether this is the voice of Satan or not. I can do 
 nothing but pray for you, Silas.^^ 
 
 Poor Marner went out with that despair in his soul, 
 
 20 that shaken trust in God and man, which is little short 
 of madness to a loving nature. In the bitterness of 
 his w^ounded spirit, he said to himself, ^^ She will cast 
 me off too.^^ And he reflected that, if she did not be- 
 lieve the testimony against him, her whole faith must 
 
 25 be upset, as his was. To people accustomed to reason 
 about the forms in which their religious feeling has in- 
 corporated itself, it is difficult to enter into that simple, 
 untaught state of mind in which the form and the feel- 
 ing have never been severed by an act of reflection. 
 
 30 We are apt to think it inevitable that a man in Marner's 
 position should have begun to question the validity of 
 an appeal to the divine judgment by drawing lots; but 
 to him this would have been an effort of iudenendent 
 
SILAS MARNER 39 
 
 thought such as he had never known; and he must have 
 made the effort at a moment when all his energies were 
 turned into the anguish of disappointed faith. If there 
 is an angel who records the sorrows of men as well as 
 their sins^ he knows how many and deep are the sorrows 5 
 that spring from false ideas for which no man is cul- 
 pable. 
 
 Marner went home, and for a whole day sat alone, 
 stunned by despair, without any impulse to go to Sarah 
 and attempt to win her belief in his innocence. The lo 
 second day he took refuge from benumbing unbelief by 
 getting into his loom and working away as usual; and 
 before many hours were past, the minister and one of 
 the deacons came to him with the message from Sarah, 
 that she held her engagement to him at an end. Silas is 
 received the message mutely, and then turned away 
 from the messengers to work at his loom again. In little 
 more than a month from that time, Sarah was married 
 to William Dane; and not long afterward it was known 
 to the brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had 20 
 departed from the town. 
 
CHAPTER 11 
 
 Even people whose lives have been made various 
 by learning sometimes find it hard to keep a fast hold 
 on their habitual views of life, on their faith in the 
 Invisible — nay, on the sense that their past joys and 
 5 sorrows are a real experience, when they are suddenly 
 transported to a new land, where the beings around 
 them know nothing of their history, and share none of 
 their ideas — where their mother earth shows another 
 lap, and human life has other forms than those on which 
 
 10 their souls have been nourished. Minds that have been 
 unhinged from their old faith and love have perhaps 
 sought this Lethean influence of exile, in which the past 
 becomes dreamy because its symbols have all vanished, 
 and the present, too, is dreamy because it is linked with 
 
 15 no memories. But even their experience may hardly en- 
 able them thoroughly to imagine what was the effect on 
 a simple weaver like Silas Marner, when he left his own 
 country and people and came to settle in Eaveloe. 
 Nothing could be more unlike his native town, set with- 
 
 20 in sight of the widespread hillsides, than this low, 
 wooded region, where he felt hidden even from the 
 heavens by the screening trees and hedgerows. There 
 was nothing here, when he rose in the deep morning 
 quiet and looked out on the dewy brambles and rank 
 
 «5 tufted grass, that soemed to have any relation with that 
 40 
 
SILAS MARNER 41 
 
 life centering in Lantern Yard, which had once been 
 to him the altar-place of high dispensations. The white- 
 washed walls; the little pews where well-known figures 
 entered with a subdued rustling, and where first one 
 well-known voice and then another, pitched in a peculiar 6 
 key of petition, uttered phrases at once occult and fa- 
 miliar, like the amulet worn on the heart; the pulpit 
 where the minister delivered unquestioned doctrine, and 
 swayed to and fro, and handled the book in a long- 
 accustomed manner; the very pauses between the coup- lo 
 lets of the hymn, as it was given out, and the recurrent 
 swell of voices in song: these things had been the chan- 
 nel of divine influences to Marner — they were the fos- 
 tering home of his religious emotions — they were Chris- 
 tianity and God's kingdom upon earth. A weaver who 15 
 finds hard words in his hymn book knows nothing of ab- 
 stractions; as the little child knows nothing of parental 
 love, but only knows one face and one lap toward which 
 it stretches its arms for refuge and nurture. 
 
 And what could be more unlike that Lantern Yard 20 
 world than the world in Eaveloe? — orchards looking 
 lazy with neglected plenty; the large church in the wide 
 churchyard, which men gazed at lounging at their own 
 doors in service-time; the purple-faced farmers jogging 
 along the lanes or turning in at the Eainbow; home- 25 
 steads, where men supped heavily and slept in the light 
 of the evening hearth, and where women seemed to be 
 laying up a stock of linen for the life to come. There 
 were no lips in Raveloe from which a word could fall 
 that would stir Silas Marner's benumbed faith to a sense 30 
 of pain. In the early ages of the world, we know, it was 
 believed that each territory was inhabited and ruled by 
 its own divinities, so that a man could cross the border- 
 
42 SILAS MARKER 
 
 ing heights and be out of the reach of his native gods, 
 whose presence was confined to the streams and the 
 groves and the hills among which he had lived from his 
 birth. And poor Silas was vaguely conscious of some- 
 5 thing not unlike the feeling of primitive men, w^hen 
 they fled thus, in fear or in sullenness, from the face of 
 an unpropitious deity. It seemed to him that the Power 
 he had vainly trusted in am.ong the streets and at the 
 prayer meetings was very far away from this land in 
 
 10 which he had taken refuge, where men lived in careless 
 abundance, knowing and needing nothing of that trust 
 which, for him, had been turned to bitterness. The 
 little light he possessed spread its beams so narrowly, 
 that frustrated belief was a curtain broad enough to 
 
 15 create for him the blackness of night. 
 
 His first movement after the shock had been to 
 work in his loom; and he went on with this unremit- 
 tingly, never asking himself why, now he was come to 
 Kaveloe, he worked far on into the night to finish the 
 
 20 tale of Mrs. Osgood's table-linen sooner than she ex- 
 pected — without contemplating beforehand the money 
 she would put into his hand for the work. He seemed 
 to weave, like the spider, from pure impulse, without 
 reflection. Every man's work, pursued steadily, tends in 
 
 25 this way to become an end in itself, and so to bridge 
 over the loveless chasms of his life. Silas's hand satis- 
 fied itself with throwing the shuttle, and his eye with 
 seeing the little squares in the cloth complete themselves 
 under his effort. Then there w^ere the calls of hunger; 
 
 30 and Silas, in his solitude, had to provide his own break- 
 fast, dinner, and supper, to fetch his own water from the 
 well, and put his own kettle on the fire; and all these 
 immediate promptings helped, along with the weaving. 
 
SILAS MARNER 43 
 
 to reduce his life to the unquestioning activity of a 
 spinning insect. He hated the thought of the past; there 
 was nothing that called out his love and fellowship 
 toward the strangers he had come among; and the fu- 
 ture was all dark, for there was no Unseen Love that 5 
 cared for him. Thought was arrested by utter bewilder- 
 ment, now its old narrow pathway was closed, and affec- 
 tion seemed to have died under the bruise that had 
 fallen on its keenest nerves. 
 
 But at last Mrs. Osgood's table-linen was finished, IG 
 and Silas was paid in gold. His earnings in his native 
 town, where he worked for a wholesale dealer, had been 
 after a lower rate; he had been paid weekly, and of 
 his weekly earnings a large proportion had gone to ob- 
 jects of piety and charity. IN'ow, for the first time in 15 
 his life, he had five bright guineas put into his hand; 
 no man expected a share of them, and he loved no man 
 that he should offer him a share. But what were the 
 guineas to him who saw no vista beyond countless days of 
 weaving? It was needless for him to ask that, for it 20 
 M'as pleasant to him to feel them in his palm, and look 
 at their bright faces, which were all his own: it was 
 another element of life, like the weaving and the satis- 
 faction of hunger, subsisting quite aloof from the life of 
 belief and love from which he had been cut off. The 23- 
 weaver's hand had known the touch of hard-won money 
 even before the palm had grown to its full breadth; for 
 twenty years, mysterious money had stood to him a^ 
 the symbol of earthly good, and the immediate object of 
 toil. He had seemed to love it little in the years when 3P 
 every penny had its purpose for him; for he loved the 
 purpose then. But now, when all purpose was gone, 
 that habit of looking toward the money and grasping it 
 
44 SILAS MARKER 
 
 with a sense of fulfilled effort made a loam that was 
 deep enough for the seeds of desire; and as Silas walked 
 homeward across the fields in the twilight, he drew out 
 the money, and thought it was brighter in the gathering 
 5 gloom. 
 
 About this time an incident happened which seemed 
 to open a possibility of some fellowship with his neigh- 
 bors. One day, taking a pair of shoes to be mended^ 
 he saw the cobbler's wife seated by the fire, suffering 
 
 10 from the terrible symptoms of heart-disease and dropsy^ 
 which he had witnessed as the precursors of his mother's 
 death. He felt a rush of pity at the mingled sight and 
 remembrance, and, recalling the relief his mother had 
 found from a simple preparation of foxglove, he prom- 
 
 15 ised Sally Gates to bring her something that would ease 
 her, since the doctor did her no good. In this office of 
 charity, Silas felt, for the first time since he had come 
 to Kaveloe, a sense of unity between his past and pres- 
 ent life, which might have been the beginning of his 
 
 20 rescue from the insectlike existence into which his 
 nature had shrunk. But Sally Oates's disease had raised 
 her into a personage of much interest and importance 
 among the neighbors, and the fact of her having found 
 relief from drinking Silas Marner's ^"^ stuff '' became a 
 
 25 matter of general discourse. When Doctor Kimble gave 
 physic, it was natural that it should have an effect; but 
 when a weaver, who came from nobody knew where, 
 vorked wonders with a bottle of brown waters, the oc- 
 cult character of the process was evident. Such a sort 
 
 30 of thing had not been known since the Wise Woman at 
 Tarley died; and she had charms as well as "stuff''; 
 everybody went to her when their children had fits. 
 Silas Marner must be a person of the same sort, for how 
 
SILAS MARNER 45 
 
 did he know what would bring back Sally Oates's 
 breathy if he didn't know a fine sight more than that? 
 The Wise Woman had words that she muttered to her- 
 self, so that you couldn't hear what they were, and if 
 she tied a bit of red thread round the child's toe the 5 
 while, it would keep off the water in the head. There 
 were women in Eaveloe, at that present time, who had 
 worn one of the Wise Woman's little bags round their ' 
 necks, and, in consequence, had never had an idiot child, 
 ^s Ann Coulter had. Silas Marner could very likely do 10 
 as much, and more; and now it was all clear how he 
 should have come from unknown parts, and be so " com- 
 ical-looking.'^ But Sally Gates must mind and not tell 
 the doctor, for he would be sure to set his face against 
 Marner: he was always angry about the Wise Woman, 15 
 and used to threaten those who went to her that they 
 should have none of his help any more. 
 
 Silas now found himself and his cottage suddenly 
 beset by mothers who wanted him to charm away the 
 whooping-cough, or bring back the milk, and by men 20 
 who wanted stuff against the rheumatics or the knots 
 in the hands; and, to secure themselves against a re- 
 fusal, the applicants brought silver in their palms. Silas 
 might have driven a profitable trade in charms as well 
 as in his small list of drugs; but money on this condi- 2?, 
 tion was no temptation to him: he had never known 
 an impulse toward falsity, and he drove one after an- 
 other away with growing irritation, for the news of him 
 as a wise man had spread even to Tarley, and it was 
 long before people ceased to take long walks for the sake 3« 
 of asking his aid. But the hope in his wisdom was at 
 length changed into dread, for no one believed him 
 when he said he knew no charms and could work no 
 
46 SILAS MARNER 
 
 cures, and every man and woman who had an accident 
 or a new attack after applying to him, set the misfor- 
 tune down to Master Marner^s ill-will and irritated 
 glances. Thus it came to pass that his movement of 
 5 pity toward Sally Gates, which had given him a 
 transient sense of brotherhood, heightened the repul- 
 sion between him and his neighbors, and made his 
 isolation more complete. 
 
 Gradually the guineas, the crowns, and the half- 
 
 10 crowns grew to a heap, and Marner drew less and less for 
 his own wants, trying to solve the problem of keeping 
 himself strong enough to work sixteen hours a day on 
 as small an outlay as possible. Have not men, shut up 
 in solitary imprisonment, found an interest in mark- 
 
 15 ing the moments by straight strokes of a certain length 
 on the wall, until the growth of the sum of straight 
 strokes, arranged in triangles, has become a mastering 
 purpose? Do we not wile away moments of inanity 
 or fatigued waiting by repeating some trivial movement 
 
 20 or sound, until the repetition has bred a want, which is 
 incipient habit? That will help us to understand how 
 the love of accumulating money grows an absorbing pas- 
 sion in men whose imaginations, even in the very be- 
 ginning of their hoard, showed them no purpose beyond 
 
 25 it. Marner wanted the heaps of ten to grow into a 
 square, and then into a larger square; and every added 
 guinea, while it was itself a satisfaction, bred a new 
 desire. In this strange world, made a hopeless riddle 
 to him, he might, if he had had a less intense nature, 
 
 30 have sat weaving, weaving — looking toward the end of 
 his pattern, or toward the end of his web, till he forgot 
 the riddle, and everything else but his immediate sensa- 
 tions; but the money had come to mark off his weaving 
 
SIliAS MABNBJB 47 
 
 into periods, and the money not only grew, but it re- , 
 mained with him. He began to think it was conscious 
 of him, as his loom was, and lue would on no account 
 Jiave exchanged those coins, which had become his fa- 
 miliars, for other coins with unknown faces. He han- 5 
 died them, he counted them, till their form and colour 
 w( i( Jjk( the satisfaction of a thirst to him; but it wa« 
 only in the night, when his work was done, that he drew 
 them out to enjoy their companionBhip. He had taken 
 up some bricks in his floor underneath his loom, and here 10 
 he had made a hole in w^hich he set the iron pot tliat 
 contained his guineas and silver coins, covering the 
 bricks with sand whenever he replaced them. Not that 
 the idea of being robbed presented itself often or 
 strongly to his mind: hoarding was common in country 15 
 districts in those days; there were old laborers in the 
 parish of Raveloe who were known to have their savings 
 by them, probably inside their flock-beds; but their 
 rustic neighbors, though not all of them as honest as 
 iJieir ancestors in the days of King Alfred, had not 20 
 imaginations bold enough to lay a plan of burglary. 
 How could they have spent the money in their own vil- 
 lage without betraying themselves? They would be 
 obliged to "run away'' — a course as dark and dubious 
 a balloon journey. 25 
 
 So, year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this 
 ~f»litude, his guineas rising in the iron pot, and his life 
 
 arrowing and hardening itself more and more into a 
 jjiere pulsation of desire and satisfaction that had no 
 f f lation to any other being. His life had reduced itself » 
 
 ) the functions of weaving and hoarding, w^ithout any 
 i ontemplation of an end toward which the functions 
 tended. The same sort of process has perhaps been un- 
 
^S SILAS MARNER 
 
 dergone by wiser men, when they have been cut off from 
 faith and love — only, instead of a loom and a heap of 
 guineas, they have had some erudite research, some in- 
 genious project, or some well-knit theory. Strangely 
 5 Marner's face and figure shrank and bent themselves 
 into a constant mechanical relation to the objects of his 
 life, so that he produced the same sort of impression as 
 a handle or a crooked tube, which has no meaning stand- 
 ing apart. The prominent eyes that used to look trusting 
 10 and dreamy now looked as if they had been made to see 
 only one kind of thing that was very small, like tiny 
 grain, for which they hunted everywhere: and he was 
 so withered and yellow that, though he was not yet 
 forty, the children always called him " Old Master Mar- 
 is ner." 
 
 Yet even in this stage of withering, a little incident 
 happened which showed that the sap of affection was 
 not all gone. It was one of his daily tasks to fetch his 
 water from a well a couple of fields off, and for this 
 20 purpose, ever since he came to Eaveloe, he had had a 
 brown earthenware pot, which he held as his most 
 precious utensil, among the very few conveniences he 
 had granted himself. It had been his companion for 
 twelve years, always standing on the same spot, always 
 25 lending its handle to him in the early morning, so that 
 its form had an expression for him of willing helpful- 
 ness, and the impress of its handle on his palm gave a 
 satisfaction mingled with that of having the fresh clear 
 water. One day as he was returning from the well he 
 so stumbled against the step of the stile, and his brown pot, 
 falling with force against the stones that overarched the 
 ditch below him, was broken in three pieces. Silas 
 picked up the pieces and carried them home with grief 
 
SILAS MARNER 49 
 
 in his heart. The brown pot could never be of use 
 to him any more, but he stuck the bits together and 
 propped the ruin in its old place for a memorial. 
 
 This is the history of Silas Marner until the fifteenth 
 year after he came to Eaveloe. The livelong day he 5 
 sat in his loom, his ear filled with its monotony, his eyes 
 bent close down on the slow growth of sameness in the 
 brownish web, his muscles moving with such even repe- 
 tition that their pause seemed almost as much a con- 
 straint as the holding of his breath. But at night came lo 
 his revelry: at night he closed his shutters, and made 
 fast his doors, and drew forth his gold. Long ago the 
 heap of coins had become too large for the iron pot to 
 hold them, and he had made for them two thick leather 
 bags, which wasted no room in their resting place, but 15 
 lent themselves flexibly to every corner. How the 
 guineas shone as they came pouring out of the dark 
 leather mouths! The silver bore no large proportion in 
 amount to the gold, because the long pieces of linen 
 '.vhich formed his chief work were always partly paid for 20 
 in gold, and out of the silver he supplied his own bodily 
 wants, choosing always the shillings and sixpences to 
 spend in this way. He loved the guineas best, but he 
 would not change the silver — the crowns and half- 
 crowns that were his own earnings, begotten by his 25 
 labor; he loved them all. He spread them out in 
 heaps and bathed his hands in them; then he counted 
 them and set them up in regular piles, and felt their 
 rounded outline between his thumb and fingers, and 
 thought fondly of the guineas that were only half 30 
 earned by the work in his loom, as if they had been 
 unborn children — thought of the guineas that were com- 
 ing slowly through the coming years, through all his 
 
50 SILAS MARKER 
 
 life, which spread far away before him, the end quite 
 hidden by countless days of weaving. ISFo wonder his 
 thoughts were still with his loom and his money when 
 he made his journeys through the fields and the lanes 
 5 to fetch and carry home his work, so that his steps never 
 wandered to the hedge banks and the laneside in search 
 of the once familiar herbs: these, too, belonged to the 
 past, from which his life had shrunk away, like a rivulet 
 that has sunk far down from the grassy fringe of its 
 
 10 old breadth into a little shivering thread, that cuts a 
 groove for itself in the barren sand. 
 
 But about the Christmas of that fifteenth year a 
 second great change came over Marner^s life, and his 
 history became blent in a singular manner with the life 
 
 15 of his neighbors. 
 
 m)»i 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 The greatest man in Eaveloe was Squire Cass, who 
 lived in the large red house, with the handsome flight 
 of stone steps in front and the high stables behind it, 
 nearly opposite the church. He was only one among 
 several landed parishioners, but he alone was honored 5 
 with the title of Squire; for though Mr. Osgood's family 
 vv^as also understood to be of timeless origin — the Eave- 
 loe imagination having never ventured back to that 
 fearful blank when there were no Osgoods — still he 
 merely owned the farm he occupied; whereas Squire 10 
 Cass had a tenant or two, who complained of the game 
 to him quite as if he had been a lord. 
 
 It was still that glorious war-time which was felt to 
 be a peculiar favor of Providence toward the landed 
 interest, and the fall of prices had not yet come to carry 15 
 the race of small squires and yeomen down that road to 
 ruin for which extravagant habits and bad husbandry 
 were plentifully anointing their wheels. I am speak- 
 ing now in relation to Raveloe and the parishes that re- 
 sembled it; for our old-fashioned country life had many 20 
 different aspects, as all life must have when it is spread 
 over a various surface, and breathed on variously by 
 multitudinous currents, from the winds of heaven to 
 the thoughts of men, which are forever moving and 
 crossing each other, with incalculable results. Raveloe 25 
 
 51 
 
52 SILAS MARNER 
 
 lay low among the bushy trees and the rutted lanes, 
 aloof from the currents of industrial energy and Puritan 
 earnestness: the rich ate and drank freely, accepting 
 gout and apoplexy as things that ran mysteriously in 
 5 respectable families, and the poor thought that the 
 rich were entirely in the right of it to lead a jolly life; 
 besides, their feasting caused a multiplication of orts, 
 which were the heirlooms of the poor. Betty Jay 
 scented the boiling of Squire Cass's hams, but her long- 
 
 10 ing was arrested by the unctuous liquor in which they 
 were boiled; and when the seasons brought round the 
 great merrymakings, they were regarded on all hands 
 as a fine thing for the poor. For the Eaveloe feasts were 
 like the rounds of beef and the barrels of ale — they were 
 
 15 on a large scale, and lasted a good while, especially in 
 the winter time. After ladies had packed up their 
 best gowns and topknots in bandboxes, and had in- 
 curred the risk of fording streams on pillions with the 
 precious burden in rainy or snowy weather, when there 
 
 20 was no knowing how high the water would rise, it was 
 not to be supposed that they looked forward to a brief 
 pleasure. On this ground it was always contrived in the 
 dark seasons, when there was little work to be done, and 
 the hours were long, that several neighbors should keep 
 
 25 open house in succession. So soon as Squire Cass's 
 standing dishes diminished in plenty and freshness, his 
 guests had nothing to do but to walk a little higher up 
 the village to Mr. Osgood's, at the Orchards, and they 
 found hams and chines uncut, pork pies with the scent 
 
 80 of the fire in them, spun butter in all its freshness — 
 everything, in fact, that appetites at leisure could de- 
 sire, in perhaps greater perfection, though not in greater 
 abundance, than at Squire Cass's. 
 
SILAS MARNER 53 
 
 For the Squire^s wife had died long ago^ and the 
 Red House was without that presence of the wife and 
 mother which is the fountain of wholesome love and 
 fear in parlor and kitchen; and this helped to account 
 not only for there being more profusion than finished 5 
 excellence in the holiday provisions, but also for the 
 frequency with which the proud Squire condescended 
 to preside in the parlor of the Eainbow rather than 
 under the shadow of his own dark wainscot; perhaps, 
 also, for the fact that his sons had turned out rather lo 
 ill. Eaveloe was not a place where moral censure was 
 severe, but it was thought a weakness in the Squire 
 that he had kept all his sons at home in idleness; and 
 though some license was to be allowed to young men 
 whose fathers could afford it, people shook their heads 15 
 at the courses of the second son, Dunstan, commonly 
 called Dunsey Cass, whose taste for swapping and bet- 
 ting might turn out to be a sowing of something worse 
 than wild oats. To be sure, the neighbors said, it was 
 no matter what became of Dunsey — a spiteful, jeering 20 
 fellow, who seemed to enjoy his drink the more when 
 other people went dry — always provided that his doings 
 did not bring trouble on a family like Squire Cass's, with 
 a monument in the church, and tankards older than 
 King George. But it would be a thousand pities if Mr. 25 
 Godfrey, the eldest, a fine, open-faced, good-natured 
 3^oung man, who was to come into the land some day, 
 should take to going along the same road with his 
 brother, as he had seemed to do of late. If he went on 
 in that way, he would lose Miss N'ancy Lammeter; for 30 
 it was well known that she had looked very shyly on 
 aim ever since last Whitsuntide twelvemonth, when 
 there was so much talk about his being away from home 
 
54 SILAS MARNER 
 
 days and days together. There was something wrong, 
 more than common — that was quite clear; for Mr. God- 
 frey didn^t look half so fresh-colored and open as he 
 used to do. At one time everybody was saying, What 
 
 5 a handsome couple he and Miss Nancy Lammeter would 
 make! and if she could come to be mistress at the Eed 
 House there would be a fine change, for the Lammeters 
 had been brought up in that way, that they never suf- 
 fered a pinch of salt to be wasted, and yet everybody 
 
 10 in their household had of the best, according to his 
 place. Such a daughter-in-law would be a saving to the 
 old Squire, if she never brought a penny to her for- 
 tune; for it was to be feared that, notwithstanding his 
 incomings, there were more holes in his pocket than the 
 
 15 one where he put his own hand in. But if Mr. Godfrey 
 didn^t turn over a new leaf, he might say " Good-by '^ 
 to Miss Nancy Lammeter. 
 
 It was the once hopeful Godfrey who was standing, 
 with his hands in his side pockets and his back to the 
 
 20 fire, in the dark wainscoted parlor, one late November 
 afternoon, in that fifteenth year of Silas Marner's life 
 at Eaveloe. The fading gray light fell dimly on the 
 walls decorated with guns, whips, and foxes' brushes, on 
 coats and hats flung on the chairs, on tankards send- 
 
 25 ing forth a scent of fiat ale, and on a half-choked fire, 
 with pipes propped up in the chimney corners: signs of 
 a domestic life destitute of any hallowing charm, witli 
 which the look of gloomy vexation on Godfrey^s blond 
 face was in sad accordance. He seemed to be waiting 
 
 80 and listening for some one's approach, and presently 
 the sound of a heavy step, with an accompanying whistle, 
 was heard across the large empty entrance-hall. 
 
 The door opened^, and a thick-set. heavy-lookins 
 
i SILAS MARNER 55 
 
 young man entered, with the flushed face and the gratu- 
 itously elated bearing which mark the first stage of in- 
 toxication. It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him God- 
 frey's face parted with some of its gloom to take on 
 the more active expression of hatred. The handsome 5 
 brown spaniel that lay on the hearth retreated under 
 the chair in the chimney corner. 
 
 " Well, Master Godfrey, what do you w^ant with 
 me?'' said Dunsey, in a mocking tone. "You're my 
 elders and betters, you know; I was obliged to come lo 
 when you sent for me." 
 
 " Why, this is what I want — and just shake yourself 
 sober and listen, will you? " said Godfrey savagely. He 
 had himself been drinking more than was good for him, 
 trying to turn his gloom into uncalculating anger. " I 15 
 want to tell you, I must hand over that rent of Fowler's 
 to the Squire, or else tell him I gave it you; for he's 
 threatening to distrain for it, and it'll all be out soon, 
 whether I tell him or not. He said, just now, before he 
 went out, he should send word to Cox to distrain, if Fow- 20 
 ler didn't come and pay up his arrears this week. The 
 Squire's short o' cash, and in no humor to stand any 
 nonsense; and you know what he threatened, if ever he 
 found you making away with his money again. So, see 
 and get the money, and pretty quickly, will you?" 25 
 
 "Oh!" said Dunsey sneeringly, coming nearer to 
 his brother and looking in his face. " Suppose, now, you 
 get the money yourself, and save me the trouble, eh? 
 Since you was so kind as to hand it over to me, you'll 
 not refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me : it was so 
 your brotherly love made you do it, you know." 
 
 Godfrey bit his lips and clenched his fist. " Don't 
 come near me with that look, else I'll knock you down" 
 
■ 56 SILAS MARNER 
 
 " Oh no, yon won^t/^ said Dnnsey, tnrning away on 
 his heel, however. " Because Pm such a good-natured 
 brother, you know. I might get you turned out of 
 house and home, and cut oft' with a shilling any day. I 
 6 might tell the Squire how his handsome son was mar- 
 ried to that nice young woman, Molly Farren, and was 
 very unhappy because he couldnH live with his drunken 
 wife, and I should slip into your place as comfortable as 
 could be. But, you see, I don't do it — I'm so easy and 
 30 good-natured. You'll take any trouble for me. You'll 
 get the hundred pounds for me — I know you will." 
 
 ^^How can I get the money?" said Godfrey, quiv- 
 ering. " I haven't a shilling to bless myself with. And 
 it's a lie that you'd slip into my place : you'd get yourself 
 15 turned out too, that's all. For if you begin telling tales, 
 I'll follow. Bob's my father's favorite — you know that 
 very well. He'd only think himself well rid of you." 
 
 " Never mind," said Dunsey, nodding his head side- 
 ways as he looked out of the window. " It 'ud be very 
 20 pleasant to me to go in your company — you're such a 
 handsome brother, and we've always been so fond of 
 quarreling with one another I shouldn't know what to 
 do without you. But you'd like better for us both to 
 stay at home together; I know you would. So you'll 
 25 manage to get that little sum o' money, and I'll bid 
 you good-by, though I'm sorry to part." 
 
 Dunstan was moving off, but Godfrey rushed after 
 him and seized him by the arm, saying, with an oath: 
 
 " I tell you, I have no money: I can get no money. '^ 
 so " Borrow of old Kimble." 
 
 " I tell you, he won't lend me any more, and I 
 shan't ask him." 
 
 " Well then, sell Wildfire." 
 
SILAS MARNER 67 
 
 ^^Yes, that's easy talking. I must have the money 
 directly/' 
 
 " Well, you've only got to ride him to the hunt to- 
 morrow. There'll be Bryce and Keating there, for sure. 
 You'll get more bids than one." 5 
 
 '' I dare say, and get back home at eight o'clock, 
 splashed up to the chin. I'm going to Mrs. Osgood's 
 birthday dance." 
 
 '' Oho! " said Dunsey, turning his head on one side, 
 and trying to speak in a small mincing treble. " And lo 
 there's sweet Miss Nancy coming; and we shall dance 
 with her, and promise never to be naughty again, and 
 be taken into favor, and ^" 
 
 "Hold your tongue about Miss Nancy, you fool," 
 said Godfrey, turning red, " else I'll throttle you." i^ 
 
 '' What for? " said Dunsey, still in an artificial tone, 
 but taking a whip from the table and beating the butt- 
 end of it on his palm. " You've a very good chance. 
 I'd advise you to creep up her sleeve again: it 'ud be 
 saving time if Molly should happen to take a drop too ^ 
 much laudanum some day, and make a widower of you. 
 Miss Nancy wouldn't mind being a second, if she didn't 
 know it. And you've got a good-natured brother, who'll 
 keep your secret well, because you'll be so very obliging 
 to him." 2^ 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is," said Godfrey, quivering, 
 and pale again, " my patience is pretty near at an end. 
 If you'd a little more sharpness in you, you might know 
 that you may urge a man a bit too far, and make one 
 leap as easy as another. I don't know but what it is so 3a 
 now: I may as well tell the Squire everything myself — 
 I should get you off my back, if I got nothing else. 
 And, after all, he'll know some time. She's been threat- 
 
58 SILAS MARNER 
 
 ening to come herself and tell him. So, don't flatter 
 yourself that your secrecy^s worth any price you choose 
 to ask. You drain me of money till I have got nothing 
 to pacify lier with, and she'll do as she threatens some 
 5 day. It's all one. I'll tell my father everything myself, 
 and you may go to the devil." 
 
 Dunsey perceived that he had overshot his mark, 
 and that there was a point at which even the hesitating 
 Godfrey might be driven into decision. But he said, 
 
 10 with an air of unconcern: 
 
 " As you please; but I'll have a draught of ale first." 
 And ringing the bell, he threw himself across two chairs, 
 and began to rap the window seat with the handle of 
 his whip. 
 
 15 Godfrey stood, still with his back to the fire, un- 
 easily moving his fingers among the contents of his 
 side pockets, and looking at the floor. That big mus- 
 cular frame of his held plenty of animal courage, but 
 helped him to no decision when the dangers to be 
 
 20 braved were such as could neither be knocked down 
 nor throttled. His natural irresolution and moral cow- 
 ardice were exaggerated by a position in which dreaded 
 consequences seemed to press equally on all sides, and 
 his irritation had no sooner provoked him to defy Dun- 
 
 25 stan and anticipate all possible betrayals, than the 
 miseries he must bring on himself by such a step seemed 
 more unendurable to him than the present evil. The 
 results of confession were not contingent, they were 
 certain; whereas betrayal was not certain. From the 
 
 30 near vision of that certainty he fell back on suspense 
 and vacillation with a sense of repose. The disinherited 
 son of a small squire, equally disinclined to dig and to 
 beg, was almost as helpless as an uprooted tree, which, 
 
SILAS MARNER 59 
 
 by the favor of earth and sky, has grown to a handsome 
 bulk on the spot where it first shot upward. Perhaps it 
 would have been possible to think of digging with some 
 cheerfulness if Nancy Lammeter were to be won on 
 those terms; but, since he must irrevocably lose her as 5 
 well as the inheritance, and must break every tie but 
 the one that degraded him and left him without motive 
 for trying to recover his better self, he could imagine no 
 future for himself on the other side of confession but 
 that of '' ^listing for a soldier," — the most desperate lo 
 step, short of suicide, in the eyes of respectable families. 
 No! he would rather trust to casualties than to his own 
 resolve — rather go on sitting at the feast and sipping 
 the wine he loved, though with the sword hanging over 
 him and terror in his heart, than rush away into the i5 
 cold darkness where there was no pleasure left. The 
 utmost concession to Dunstan about the horse began to 
 seem easy, compared with the fulfillment of his own 
 threat. But his pride would not let him recommence 
 the conversation otherwise than by continuing the quar- 20 
 rel. D austan was waiting for this, and took his ale in 
 shorter draughts than usual. 
 
 '^ It's just like you,'^ Godfrey burst out, in a bitter 
 tone, " to talk about my selling Wildfire in that cool 
 way — the last thing I've got to call my own, and the 25 
 best bit of horse-flesh I ever had in my life. And if 
 you'd got a spark of pride in you, you'd be ashamed to 
 see the stables emptied, and everybody sneering about 
 it. But it's my belief you'd sell yourself, if it was only 
 for the pleasure of making somebody feel he'd got a so 
 bad bargain." 
 
 ^^ Ay, ay," said Dunstan, very placably, ^' you do 
 me justice, I see. You know I'm a jewel for 'ticing 
 
60 SILAS MARNHR 
 
 people into bargains. For which reason I advise you tc 
 let me sell Wildfire. Fd ride him to the hunt to-morro\^ 
 for yon, with pleasure. I shouldnH look so handsome 
 as you in the saddle, but iFs the horse they'll bid for 
 
 5 and not the rider.'' 
 
 " Yes, I dare say — trust my horse to you ! " 
 " As you please," said Dunstan, rapping the window 
 seat again with an air of great unconcern. " It's yoi 
 have got to pay Fowler's money; it's none of my busi 
 
 10 ness. You received the money from him when you wem 
 to Bramcote, and you told the Squire it wasn't paid 
 Fd nothing to do with that; you chose to be so oblig 
 ing as to give it me, that was all. If you don't want t( 
 pay the money, let it alone; it's all one to me. But - 
 
 15 was willing to accommodate you by undertaking to sel 
 the horse, seeing it's not convenient to you to go so fai 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Godfrey was silent for some moments. He woulc 
 have liked to spring on Dunstan, wrench the whi]; 
 
 20 from his hand, and flog him to within an inch o^ 
 his life; and no bodily fear could have deterred him 
 but he was mastered by another sort of fear, whicl 
 was fed by feelings stronger even than his resent- 
 ment. When he spoke again, it was in a half-concili- 
 
 25 atory tone. 
 
 "Well, you mean no nonsense about the horse, eh! 
 You'll sell him all fair, and hand over the money? I: 
 you don't, you know, everything 'ull go to smash, foi 
 I've got nothing else to trust to. And you'll have les! 
 
 30 pleasure in pulling the house over my head, when youi 
 own skull's to be broken too." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said Dunstan, rising; " all right. 1 
 "thought you'd come round. I'm the fellow to bring olc 
 
SILAS MARNER 61 
 
 Bryce up to the scratch. Til get you a hundred and 
 twenty for him, if I get you a penny /^ 
 
 " But it'll perhaps rain cats and dogs to-morrow, as 
 it did yesterday, and then you can't go/' said Godfrey, 
 hardly knowing whether he wished for that obstacle or 5 
 not. 
 
 '' ITot tY," said Dunstan. " I'm always lucky in my 
 weather. It might rain if you wanted to go yourself. 
 You never hold trumps, you know — I always do. You've 
 got the beauty, you see, and I've got the luck, so you lo 
 must keep me by you for your crooked sixpence; you'll 
 ne-ver get along without me." 
 
 " Confound you, hold your tongue ! " said Godfrey 
 impetuously. " And take care to keep sober to-morrow, 
 else you'll get pitched on your head coming home, and 15 
 Wildfire might be the worse for it." 
 
 " Make your tender heart easy," said Dunstan, open- 
 ing the door. '' You never knew me see double when 
 I'd got a bargain to make; it 'ud spoil the fun. Besides 
 whenever I fall, I'm warranted to fall on my legs." 20 
 
 With that Dunstan slammed the door behind him, 
 and left Godfrey to that bitter rumination on his per- 
 sonal circumstances which was now unbroken from day 
 to day save by the excitement of sporting, drinking, 
 card playing, or the rarer and less oblivious pleasure of 25 
 seeing Miss Nancy Lammeter. The subtle and varied 
 pains springing from the higher sensibility that accom- 
 panies higher culture, are perhaps less pitiable than that 
 dreary absence of impersonal enjoyment and consolation 
 w^hich leaves ruder minds to the perpetual urgent com- 30 
 panionship of their own griefs and discontents. The 
 lives of those rural forefathers whom we are apt to 
 think very prosaic figures — men whose only work was to 
 
62 SILAS MARNER 
 
 ride round their land, getting heavier and 'heavier in 
 their saddles, and who passed the rest of their days in 
 the half-listless gratification of senses dulled by monot- 
 ony — had a certain pathos in them nevertheless. Ca- 
 
 5 lamities came to them too, and their early errors carried 
 hard consequences: perhaps the love of some sweet 
 maiden, the image of purity, order, and calm, had 
 opened their eyes to the vision of a life in which the 
 days would not seem too long, even without rioting; 
 
 10 but the maiden was lost, and the vision passed away, and 
 then what was left to them, especially when they had 
 become too heavy for the hunt, or for carrying a gun 
 over the furrows, but to drink and get merry, or to drink 
 and get angry, so that they might be independent of 
 
 15 variety, and say over again with eager emphasis the 
 things they ha^ said already any time that twelve- 
 month? Assuredly, among these flushed and dull-eyed 
 men there were some whom — thanks to their native 
 human kindness — even riot could never drive into bru- 
 
 20 tality; men who, when their cheeks were fresh, had felt 
 the keen point of sorrow or remorse, had been pierced 
 by the reeds they leaned on, or had lightly put their 
 limbs in fetters from which no struggle could loose 
 them; and under these sad circumstances, common to us 
 
 25 all, their thoughts could find no resting place outside 
 the ever-trodden round of their own petty history. 
 
 That, at least, was the condition of Godfrey Cass 
 in this six and twentieth year of his life. A movement 
 of compunction, helped by those small indefinable in- 
 
 80 fluences which every personal relation exerts on a pliant 
 nature, had urged him into a secret marriage, which was 
 a blight on his life. It was an ugly story of low passion, 
 delusion, and waking from delusion, which needs not 
 
I 
 
 SILAS MARNER 63 
 
 to be dragged from the privacy of Godfrey's bitter 
 memory. He had long known that the delusion was 
 partly due to a trap laid for him by Dnnstan, who saw 
 in his brother's degrading marriage the means of grati- 
 fying at once his jealous hate and his cupidity. And if 5 
 Godfrey could have felt himself simply a victim, the iron 
 bit that destiny had put into his mouth would have 
 chafed him less intolerably. If the curses he muttered 
 half aloud when he was alone had had no other object 
 than Dunstan's diabolical cunning, he might have lo 
 shrunk less from the consequences of avowal. But he 
 had something else to curse — his own vicious folly, 
 w^hich now seemed as mad and unaccountable to him 
 as almost all our follies and vices do when their prompt- 
 ings have long passed away. For four years he had i^ 
 thought of Xancy Lammeter, and wooed her with tacit 
 patient worship, as the woman who made him think of 
 the future with joy: she would be his wife, and would 
 make home lovely to him, as his father's home had never 
 been; and it would be easy, when she was always near, 20 
 to shake off those foolish habits that w^ere no pleasures, 
 but only a feverish way of annulling vacancy. Godfrey's' 
 was an essentially domestic nature, bred up in a home 
 where the hearth had no smiles, and where the daily 
 habits were not chastised by the presence of household 25 
 order. His easy disposition made him fall in unresist- 
 ingly with the family courses, but the need of some 
 tender permanent affection, the longing for some in- 
 fluence that would make the good he preferred easy to 
 pursue, caused the neatness, purity, and liberal order- 30 
 liness of the Lammeter household, sunned by the smile 
 of Nancy, to seem like those fresh bright hours of the 
 morning, when temptations go to sleep, and leave the 
 
64 SILAS MARKER 
 
 ear open to the voice of the good angel, inviting to in- 
 dustry, sobriety, and peace. And yet the hope of this 
 paradise had not been enough to save him from a course 
 which shut him out of it forever. Instead of keeping 
 5 fast hold of the strong silken rope by which Nancy 
 would have drawn him safe to the green banks, where 
 it was easy to step firmly, he had let himself be dragged 
 back into mud and slime, in which it was useless to 
 struggle. He had made ties for himself which robbed 
 
 10 him of all wholesome motive, and were a constant ex- 
 asperation. 
 
 Still, there was one position worse than the present: 
 it was the position he would be in when the ugly secret 
 was disclosed; and the desire that continually triumphed 
 
 15 over every other was that of warding off the evil day, 
 when he would have to bear the consequences of his 
 father^s violent resentment for the wound inflicted on 
 his family pride — would have, perhaps, to turn his back 
 on that hereditary ease and dignity which, after all, was 
 
 20 a sort of reason for living, and would carry with him 
 the certainty that he was banished forever from the 
 sight and esteem of Nancy Lammeter. The longer the 
 interval, the more chance there was of deliverance from 
 some, at least, of the hateful consequences to which he 
 
 25 had sold himself; the more opportunities remained for 
 him to snatch the strange gratification of seeing Nancy, 
 and gathering some faint indications of her lingering 
 regard. Toward this gratification he was impelled, fit- 
 fully, every now and then, after having passed weeks in 
 
 30 which he had avoided her as the far-off, bright-winged 
 prize, that only made him spring forward, and find his 
 chain all the more galling. One of those fits of yearning 
 was on him now, and it would have been strong enough 
 
I SILAS MARNER 65 
 
 to have persuaded him to trust Wildfire to Dunstan 
 rather than disappoint the yearning, even if he had not 
 had another reason for his disinclination toward the 
 morrow^s hunt. That other reason was the fact that the 
 morning's meet was near Batherley, the market town 5 
 where the unhappy w^oman lived, whose image became 
 more odious to him every day; and to his thought the 
 whole vicinage was haunted by her. The yoke a man 
 creates for himself by wrongdoing will breed hate in the 
 kindliest nature; and the good-humored, affectionate- lo 
 hearted Godfrey Cass was fast becoming a bitter man, 
 visited by cruel wishes, that seemed to enter, and de- 
 part, and enter again, like demons who had found in 
 him a ready-garnished home. 
 
 What was he to do this evening to pass the time? 15> 
 He might as well go to the Kainbow, and hear the talk 
 about the cock-fighting: everybody was there, and what 
 else was there to be done? Though, for his own part, 
 he did not care a button for cock-fighting. Snuff, the 
 brown spaniel, w^ho had placed herself in front of him, 20 
 and had been watching him for some time, now jumped 
 up in impatience for the expected caress. But Godfrey 
 thrust her away without looking at her, and left the 
 room, followed humbly by the unresenting Snuff — per- 
 haps because she saw no other career open to her. 25 
 
CHAPTEE IV 
 
 DuNSTAK Cass^ setting off in the raw morning, at 
 the judiciously quiet pace of a man who is obliged to 
 ride to cover on his hunter, had to take his way along 
 the lane which, at its farther extremity, passed by the 
 
 5 piece of uninclosed ground called the Stone-pit, where 
 stood the cottage, once a stone-cutter's shed, now for 
 fifteen years inhabited by Silas Marner. The spot 
 looked very dreary at this season, with the moist trodden 
 clay about it, and the red, muddy water high up in the 
 
 10 deserted quarry. That was Dunstan's first thought as 
 he approached it; the second was, that the old fool of a 
 weaver, whose loom he heard rattling already, had a 
 great deal of money hidden somewhere. How was it 
 that he, Dunstan Cass, who had often heard talk of 
 
 15 Marner's miserliness, had never thought of suggesting 
 to Godfrey that he should frighten or persuade the old 
 fellow into lending the money on the excellent security 
 of the young Squire's prospects? The resource occurred 
 to him now as so easy and agreeable, especially as Mar- 
 
 20 ner's hoard was likely to be large enough to leave God- 
 frey a handsome surplus beyond his immediate needs, 
 and enable. him to accommodate his faithful brother, 
 that he had almost turned the horse's head toward home 
 again. Godfrey would be ready enough to accept the 
 
 25 suggestion: he would snatch eagerly at a plan that might 
 66 
 
SILAS MARNER 67 
 
 save him from parting with Wildfire. But when Dun- 
 stan's meditation reached this point, the inclination to 
 go on grew strong and prevailed. He didn^t want to 
 give Godfrey that pleasure: he preferred that Master 
 Godfrey should be vexed. Moreover, Dunstan enjoyed 5 
 the self-important consciousness of having a horse to 
 sell, and the opportunity of driving a bargain, swagger- 
 ing, and, possibly, taking somebody in. He might have 
 all the satisfaction attendant on selling his brother's 
 horse, and not the less have the further satisfaction of 10 
 setting Godfrey to borrow Marner's money. So he rode 
 on to cover. 
 
 Bryce and Keating were there, as Dunstan was quite 
 sure they would be — he was such a lucky fellow. 
 
 ^^ Heyday,'' said Bryce, who had long had his eye 15 
 on Wildfire, "you're on your brother's horse to-day: 
 how's that?" 
 
 ' Oh, I've swapped with him,'^ said Dunstan, whose 
 delight in lying, grandly independent of utility, was not 
 to be diminished by the likelihood that his hearer would 20 
 not believe him. " Wildfire's mine now." 
 
 " What! has he swapped with you for that big-boned 
 hack of yours? " said Bryce, quite aware that he should 
 get another lie in answer. 
 
 '' Oh, there was a little account between us," said 25 
 Dunsey carelessly, '' and Wildfire made it even. I ac- 
 commodated him by taking the horse, though it was 
 against my will, for I'd an itch for a mare 0' Jortin's — 
 as rare a bit 0' blood as ever you threw your leg across. 
 But I shall keep Wildfire, now I've got him, though I'd 30 
 a bid of a hundred and fifty for him the other day, from 
 a man over at Flitton — he's buying for Lord Cromleck — 
 a fellow with a cast in his eye, and a green waistcoat. 
 
68 SILAS MARNER 
 
 But I mean to stick to Wildfire : I shan't get a better at 
 a fence in a hnrry. The mare's got more blood, but 
 ■^he's a bit too weak in the hind-quarters." 
 
 Bryce of course divined that Dunstan wanted to 
 5 sell the horse, and Dunstan knew that he divined it 
 (horse dealing is only one of many human transactions 
 carried on in this ingenious manner); and they both 
 considered that the bargain was in its first stage, when 
 Bryce replied ironically: 
 
 10 " I wonder at that now; I wonder you mean to keep 
 
 him; for I never heard of a man who didn't want to 
 
 sell his horse getting a bid of half as much again as the 
 
 horse was worth. You'll be lucky if you get a hundred." 
 
 Keating rode up now, and the transaction became 
 
 16 more complicated. It ended in the purchase of the horse 
 by Bryce for a hundred and twenty, to be })aid on the 
 delivery of Wildfire, safe and sound, at the Batherley 
 stables. It did occur to Dunsey that it might be wise 
 for him to give up the day's hunting, proceed at once 
 
 80 to Batherley, and, having waited for Bryce's return, hire 
 a horse to carry him home with the mone3^in his pocket. 
 But the inclination for a run, encouraged by confidence 
 in his luck, and by a draught of brandy from his pocket 
 pistol at the conclusion of the bargain, was not easy to 
 
 85 overcome, especially with a horse under him that would 
 take the fences to the admiration of the field. Dunstan, 
 however, took one fence too many, and got his horse 
 pierced with a hedge-stake. His own ill-favored per- 
 son, which was quite unmarketable, escaped without in- 
 
 30 jury; but poor Wildfire, unconscious of his price, turned 
 on his flank, and painfully panted his last. It happened 
 that Dunstan, a short time before, having had to get 
 dcwn to arrange his stirrup, had muttered a good many 
 
SILAS MARKER 69 
 
 curses at this interruption, which had thrown him in 
 the rear of the hunt near the moment of glory, and 
 under this exasperation had taken the fences more 
 blindly. He would soon have been up with the hounds 
 again, when the fatal accident happened; and hence 3 
 he was between eager riders in advance, not troubling 
 themselves about what happened behind them, and far- 
 off stragglers, who were as likely as not to pass quite 
 aloof from the line of road in which Wildfire had fallen. 
 Dunstan, whose nature it was to care more for imme- lO 
 diate annoyances than for remote consequences, no 
 sooner recovered his legs, and saw that it was all over 
 with Wildfire, than he felt a satisfaction at the absence 
 of witnesses to a position which no swaggering could 
 make enviable. Eeinforcing himself, after his shake, 15 
 svith a little brandy and much swearing, he walked as 
 fast as he could to a coppice on his right hand, through 
 which it occurred to him that he could make his way to 
 Batherley without danger of encountering any member 
 of the hunt. His first intention was to hire a horse 20 
 there and ride home forthwith, for to walk many miles 
 without a gun in his hand, and along an ordinary road, 
 was as much out of the question to him as to other 
 spirited young men of his kind. He did not much mind 
 about taking the bad news to Godfrey, for he had to 25 
 offer him at the same time the resource of Marner^s 
 money; and if Godfrey kicked, as he always did, at the 
 notion of making a fresh debt, from which he himself 
 got the smallest share of advantage, why, he wouldn't 
 kick long: Dunstan felt sure he could worry Godfrey ao 
 into anything. The idea of Marner's money kept grow- 
 ing in vividness, now the want of it had become imme- 
 diate; the prospect of having to make his appearance 
 
70 SILAS MARNER 
 
 with the muddy boots of a pedestrian at Batherley, and 
 to encounter the grinning queries of stablemen^ stood 
 unpleasantly in the way of his impatience to be back 
 at Kaveloe and carry out his felicitous plan; and a casual 
 
 6 visitation of his waistcoat pockety as he was ruminating, 
 awakened his memory to the fact that the two or three 
 small coins his forefinger encountered there were of 
 too pale a color to cover that small debt, without pay- 
 ment of which the stable keeper had declared he would 
 
 10 never do any more business with Dunsey Cass. After 
 all, according to the direction in which the run had 
 brought him, he was not so very much farther from 
 home than he was from Batherley; but Dunsey, not be- 
 ing remarkable for clearness of head, was only led to 
 
 15 this conclusion by the gradual perception that there 
 were other reasons for choosing the unprecedented 
 course of walking home. It was now nearly four o'clock, 
 and a mist was gathering: the sooner he got into the 
 road the better. He remembered having crossed the 
 
 20 road and seen the finger post only a little while before 
 Wildfire broke down; so, buttoning his coat, twisting 
 the lash of his hunting whip compactly round the 
 handle, and rapping the tops of his boots with a self- 
 possessed air, as if to assure himself that he was not at 
 
 25 all taken by surprise, he set off with the sense that he 
 was undertaking a remarkable feat of bodily exertion, 
 which somehow, and at some time, he should be able to 
 dress up and magnify to the admiration of a select circle 
 at the Eainbow. When a young gentleman like Dunsey 
 
 30 is reduced to so exceptional a mode of locomotion as 
 walking, a whip in his hand is a desirable corrective ta 
 a too bewildering dreamy sense of unwonted ness in his 
 position; and Dunstan, as he went along through the 
 
SlLiAJS MAKJSEK 71 
 
 gathering mist, was always rapping his whip somewhere. 
 It was Godfrey^s whip, which he had chosen to take 
 without leave because it had a gold handle; of course no 
 one could see, when Dunstan held it, that the name 
 Godfrey Cass was cut in deep letters on that gold handle 5 
 — they could only see that it was a very handsome whip. 
 Dunsey was not without fear that he might meet some 
 acquaintance in whose eyes he would cut a pitiable fig- 
 ure, for mist is no screen when people get close to each 
 other; but when he at last found himself in the well- lo 
 known Eaveloe lanes without having met a soul, he 
 silently remarked that that was part of his usual good 
 luck. But now the mist, helped by the evening dark- 
 ness, was more of a screen than he desired, for it hid the 
 ruts into w^hich his feet were liable to slip — hid every- 15 
 thing, so that he had to guide his steps by dragging his 
 whip along the low bushes in advance of the hedgerow. 
 He must soon, he thought, be getting near the opening 
 at the Stone-pits: he should find it out by the break in 
 the hedgerow. He found it out, however, by another 20 
 circumstance which he had not expected — namely, by 
 certain gleams of light, which he presently guessed to 
 proceed from Silas Marner's cottage. That cottage and 
 the money hidden within it had been in his mind con- 
 tinually during his walk, and he had been imagining 25 
 ways of cajoling and tempting the weaver to part with 
 the immediate possession of his money for the sake of 
 receiving interest. Dunstan felt as if there must be 
 a little frightening added to the cajolery, for his own 
 arithmetical convictions were not clear enough to afford 30 
 him any forcible demonstration as to the advantages 
 of interest; and as for security, he regarded it vaguely 
 as a means of cheating a man by making him believe 
 
72 SILAS MARNER 
 
 1;hat he would be paid. Altogether, the operation on 
 the miser's mind was a task that Godfrey would be 
 isnre to hand over to his more daring and cunning 
 brother: Dunstan had made up his mind to that; and 
 
 5 by the time he saw the light gleaming through the 
 chinks of Marners shutters, the idea of a dialogue with 
 the weaver had become so familiar to him, that it oc- 
 curred to him as quite a natural thing to make the ac- 
 quaintance forthwith. There might be several conven- 
 
 10 iences attending this course: the weaver had possibly got 
 a lantern, and Dunstan was tired of feeling his way. 
 He was still nearly three quarters of a mile from home, 
 and the lane was becoming unpleasantly slippery, for 
 the mist was passing into rain. He turned up the bank, 
 
 15 not without some fear lest he might miss the right way, 
 since he was not certain whether the light were in front 
 or on the side of the cottage. But he felt the ground 
 before him cautiously with his whip-handle, and at last 
 arrived safely at the door. He knocked loudly, rather 
 
 20 enjoying the idea that the old fellow would be fright- 
 ened at the sudden noise. He heard no movement in 
 reply: all was silence in the cottage. Was the weaver 
 gone to bed, then? H so, why had he left a light? 
 That was a strange forgetfulness in a miser. Dunstan 
 
 25 knocked still more loudly, and, without pausing for a 
 reply, pushed his fingers through the latch-hole, in- 
 tending to shake the door and pull the latch-string up 
 and down, not doubting that the door was fastened. 
 But, to his surprise, at this double motion the door 
 
 30 opened, and he found himself in front of a bright fire, 
 which lit up every corner of the cottage — the bed, the 
 loom, the three chairs, and the table — and showed him 
 that Marner was not there. 
 
SILAS MARKER 7^ 
 
 Nothing at that moment could be much more in- 
 yiting to Dunsey than the bright fire on the brick 
 hearth: he walked in and seated himself by it at once. 
 There was something in front of the fire, too, that would 
 have been inviting to a hungry man, if it had been in 5 
 a different stage of cooking. It was a small bit of pork 
 suspended from the kettle hanger by a string passed 
 through a large door-key, in a way known to primitive 
 housekeepers unpossessed of jacks. But the pork had 
 been hung at the farthest extremity of the hanger, lo 
 apparently to prevent the roasting from proceeding too 
 rapidly during the owner's absence. The old staring 
 simpleton had hot meat for his supper, then? thought 
 Dunstan. People had always said he lived on moldy 
 bread, on purpose to check his appetite. But where 15 
 could he be at this time, and on such an evening, leaving 
 his supper in this stage of preparation, and his door 
 unfastened? Dunstan's own recent difficulty in making 
 his way suggested to him that the weaver had perhaps 
 gone outside his cottage to fetch in fuel, or for some 20 
 such brief purpose, and had slipped into the Stone-pit. 
 That was an interesting idea to Dunston, carrying con- 
 sequences of entire novelty. If the weaver was dead, 
 who had a right to his money? Who would know where 
 his money was hidden? Who would hnow that anybody 25 
 had come to taJce it away? He went no farther into the 
 subtleties of evidence: the pressing question, "Where 
 is the money?'' now took such entire possession of him 
 as to make him quite forget that the weaver's death was 
 not a certainty. A dull mind, once arriving at an infer- 30 
 ence that flatters a desire, is rarely able to retain the 
 impression that the notion from which the inference 
 started was purely problematic. And Dunstan's mind 
 
74 SILAS MARNER 
 
 was as dull as the mind of a possible felon "asually is. 
 There were only three hiding places where he had ever 
 heard of cottagers' hoards being found: the thatch, the 
 bed, and a hole in the floor. Marner's cottage had no 
 5 thatch; and Dunstan's first act, after a train of thought 
 made rapid by the stimulus of cupidity, was to go up 
 to the bed ; but while he did so, his eyes traveled eagerly 
 over the floor, where the bricks, distinct in the fireligh;, 
 were discernible under the sprinkling of sand. But not 
 
 10 everywhere; for there was one spot, and one only, which 
 was quite covered with sand, and sand showing the 
 marks of fingers which had apparently been careful to 
 spread it over a given space. It was near the treadles of 
 the loom. In an instant Dunstan darted to that spot, 
 
 15 swept away the sand with his whip, and, inserting the 
 thin end of the hook between the bricks, found that 
 they were loose. In haste he lifted up two bricks, and 
 saw what he had no doubt was the object of his search; 
 for what could there be but money in those two leathern 
 
 20 bags? And, from their weight, they must be filled with 
 guineas. Dunstan felt round the hole, to be certain 
 that it held no more; then hastily replaced the bricks, 
 and spread the sand over them. Hardly more than 
 five minutes had passed since he entered the cottage, 
 
 25 but it seemed to Dunstan like a long while; and though 
 he was without any distinct recognition of the possibility 
 that Marner might be alive, and might re-enter the 
 cottage at any moment, he felt an undefinable dread 
 laying hold on him as he rose to his feet with the bags 
 
 30 in his hand. He would hasten out into the darkness, 
 and then consider what he should do with the bags. He 
 closed the door behind him immediately, that he might 
 shut in the stream of light: a few steps would be enough 
 
SILAS MARNER 75 
 
 to carry him beyond betrayal by the gleams from the 
 shutter-chinks and the latch-hole. The rain and dark- 
 ness had got thicker, and he was glad of it; though it 
 was awkward walking with both hands filled, so that 
 it was as much as he could do to grasp his whip along 5 
 with one of the bags. But when he had gone a yard or 
 two, he might take his time. So he stepped forward 
 into the darkness. 
 
CHAPTEE V 
 
 When Dnnstan Cass turned his back on the cot- 
 tage, Silas Marner was not more than a hundred yards 
 away from it, plodding along from the village with a 
 sack thrown round his shoulders as an overcoat, and 
 
 5 with a horn lantern in his hand. His legs were weary, 
 but his mind was at ease, free from the presentiment of 
 change. The sense of security more frequently springs 
 from habit than from conviction, and for this reason it 
 often subsists after such a change in the conditions as 
 
 10 might have been expected to suggest alarm. The lapse 
 of time during which a given event has not happened is, 
 in this logic of habit, constantly alleged as a reason why 
 the event should never happen, even when the lapse of 
 time is precisely the added condition which makes the 
 
 15 event imminent. A man will tell you that he has 
 worked in a mine for forty years unhurt by an accident, 
 as a reason why he should apprehend no danger, though 
 the roof is beginning to sink; and it is often observable, 
 that the older a man gets, the more difficult it is to him 
 
 20 to retain a believing conception of his own death. This 
 influence of habit was necessarily strong in a man whose 
 life was so monotonous as Marner's — who saw no new 
 people and heard of no new events to keep alive in him 
 the idea of the unexpected and the changeful; and it 
 
 25 explains, simply enough, why his mind could be at easC; 
 7^ 
 
SILAS MARNER 77 
 
 though he had left his house and his treasure more 
 defenceless than usual. Silas was thinking with double 
 complacency of his supper: first, because it would be 
 hot and savoury; and, secondly, because it would cost 
 him nothing. For the little bit of pork was a present 5 
 from that excellent housewife, Miss Priscilla Lammeter, 
 to whom he had this day carried home a handsome piece 
 of linen; and it was only on occasion of a present like this 
 that Silas indulged himself with roast meat. Supper 
 was his favorite meal, because it came at his time of io 
 revelry, when his heart warmed over his gold; when- 
 ever he had roast meat, he always chose to have it for 
 supper. But this evening, he had no sooner ingen- 
 iously knotted his string fast round his bit of pork, 
 twisted the string according to rule over his door key, is 
 passed it through the handle, and made it fast on the 
 hanger, than he remembered that a piece of very fine 
 twine was indispensable to his " setting up '^ a new 
 piece of work in his loom early in the morning. It 
 had slipped his memory, because, in coming from Mr. 20 
 Lammeters, he had not had to pass through the vil- 
 lage; but to lose time by going on errands in the morn- 
 ing was out of the question. It was a nasty fog to 
 turn out into, but there were things Silas loved better 
 than his own comfort; so, dra^\^ng his pork to the ex- 25 
 tremity of the hanger, and arming himself with his 
 lantern and his old sack, he set out on what, in ordinary 
 weather, would have been a twenty minutes^ errand. 
 He could not have locked his door without undoing his 
 well-knotted string and retarding his supper; it was 30 
 not worth his while to make that sacrifice. What thief 
 would find his way to the Stone-pits on such a night 
 as this? and why should he come on this particular 
 
78 SILAS MAKNER 
 
 night, when he had never come through all the fifteen: 
 years before? These questions were not distinctly 
 present in Silases mind; they merely serve to represent 
 the vaguely felt foundation of his freedom from anxiety. 
 5 He reached his door in much satisfaction that his 
 errand was done: he opened it, and to his short-sighted 
 eyes everything remained as he had left it, except that 
 the fire sent out a welcome increase of heat. He trod 
 about the floor while putting by his lantern and throw- 
 
 10 ing aside his hat and sack, so as to merge the marks of 
 Dunstan's feet on the sand in the marks of his own 
 nailed boots. Then he moved his pork nearer to the 
 fire, and sat down to the agreeable business of tending 
 the meat and warming himself at the same timiC. 
 
 15 Any one who had looked at him as the red light 
 shone upon his pale face, strange straining eyes, and 
 meager form, would perhaps have understood the mix- 
 ture of contemptuous pity, dread, and suspicion with 
 which he was regarded by his neighbors in Kaveloe. 
 
 20 Yet few men could be more harmless than poor Mar- 
 ner. In his truthful simple soul, not even the growing 
 greed and worship of gold could beget any vice directly 
 injurious to others. The light of his faith quite put 
 out, and his affections made desolate, he had clung with 
 
 25 all the force of his nature to his work and his money; 
 and like all objects to which a man devotes himself, 
 they had fashioned him into correspondence with them- 
 selves. His loom, as he wrought in it without ceasing, 
 had in its turn wrought on him, and confirmed more 
 
 30 and more the monotonous craving for its monotonous 
 response. His gold, as he hung over it and saw it 
 grow, gathered his power of loving together into a hard 
 isolation like its own. 
 
SILAS MARNER 79 
 
 As soon as he was warm he began to think it would 
 be a long while to wait till after supper before he drew 
 out his guineas^, and it would be pleasant to see them 
 on the table before him as he ate his unwonted feast. 
 For joy is the best of wine, and Silas's guineas were a 5 
 golden wine of that sort. 
 
 I He rose and placed his candle unsuspectingly on 
 the floor near his loom, swept away the sand without 
 noticing any change, and removed the bricks. The 
 sight of the empty hole made his heart leap violently, lo 
 but the belief that his gold was gone could not come 
 at once — only terror, and the eager effort to put an 
 end to the terror. He passed his trembling hand all 
 about the hole trying to think it possible that his eyes 
 had deceived him; then he held the candle in the hole 15 
 and examined it curiously, trembling more and more. 
 At last he shook so violently that he let fall the can- 
 dle, and lifted his hands to his head, trying to steady 
 himself, that he might think. Had he put his gold 
 somewhere else, by a sudden resolution last night, and 20 
 then forgotten it? A man falling into dark water seeks 
 a momentary footing even on sliding stones; and Silas, 
 by acting as if he believed in false hopes, warded off the 
 moment of despair. He searched in every corner, he 
 turned his bed over, and shook it, and kneaded it; he 25 
 looked in his brick oven where he laid his sticks. When 
 there was no other place to be searched, he kneeled 
 down again, and felt once more all round the hole. 
 There was no untried refuge left for a moment's shelter 
 from the terrible truth. dh 
 
 I ; Yes, there was a sort of refuge which always comes 
 with the prostration of thought under an overpowering 
 passion: it was that expectation of impossibilities^ that 
 
80 SILAS MARKER 
 
 belief in contradictory images, which is still distinct 
 from madness, because it is capable of being dissipated 
 by the external fact. Silas got up from his knees trem- 
 bling, and looked round at the table: didn^t the gold lie 
 5 there after all? The table was bare. Then he turned 
 and looked behind him — looked all round his dwelling, 
 seeming to strain his brown eyes after some possible 
 appearance of the bags, where he had already sought 
 them in vain. He could see every object in his cottage 
 
 10 — and his gold was not there. 
 
 Again he put his trembling hands to his head, and 
 gave a wild ringing scream, the cry of desolation. For 
 a few moments after, he stood motionless; but the cry 
 had relieved him from the first maddening pressure of 
 
 15 the truth. He turned, and tottered toward his loom,ll 
 and got into the seat where he worked, instinctively 
 seeking this as the strongest assurance of reality. 
 
 And now that all the false hopes had vanished, and 
 the first shock of certainty was past, the idea of a 
 
 20 thief began to present itself, and he entertained it 
 eagerly, because a thief might be caught and made to 
 restore the gold. The thought brought some new 
 strength with it, and he started from his loom to the 
 door. As he opened it, the rain beat in upon him, for 
 
 25 it was falling more and more heavily. There were no 
 footsteps to be tracked on such a night — footsteps? 
 When had the thief come? During Silas's absence in 
 the daytime the door had been locked, and there had 
 been no marks of any inroad on his return by daylight. 
 
 30 And in the evening, too, he said to himself, everything 
 was the same as when he had left it. The sand and 
 bricks looked as if they had not been moved. Was it 
 a thief who had taken the bags? or was it a cruel 
 
SILAS MARNER 81 
 
 power that no hands could reach, which had delighted 
 in making him a second time desolate? He shrank 
 from this vaguer dread, and fixed his mind with strug- 
 gling effort on the robber with hands, who could be 
 reached by hands. His thoughts glanced at all the 5 
 neighbors who had made any remarks, or asked any 
 questions which he might now regard as a ground of 
 suspicion. There was Jem Eodney, a known poacher, 
 and otherwise disreputable; he had often met Marner 
 in his journeys across the fields, and had said some- lo 
 thing jestingly about the weaver^s money; nay, he had 
 once irritated Marner, by lingering at the fire when he 
 called to light his pipe, instead of going about his 
 business. Jem Eodney was the man — there was ease 
 in the thought. Jem could be found and made to re- 15 
 store the money: Marner did not want to punish him, 
 but only to get back .his gold which had gone from him, 
 and left his soul like a forlorn traveller on an unknown 
 desert. The robber must be laid hold of. Marner's 
 ideas of legal authority were confused, but he felt that 20 
 he must go and proclaim his loss; and the great people 
 in the village — the clergyman, the constable, and Squire 
 Cass — would make Jem Eodney, or somebody else, de- 
 liver up the stolen money. He rushed out in the rain, 
 under the stimulus of this hope, forgetting to cover his 25 
 head, not caring to fasten his door; for he felt as if he 
 had nothing left to lose. He ran gwiftly till want of 
 breath compelled him to slacken his pace as he was 
 entering the village at the turning close to the Eain- 
 bow. 30 
 
 The Eainbow, in Marner's view, was a place of 
 luxurious resort for rich and stout husbands, whose 
 wives had superfluous stores of linen; it was the place 
 
82 SILAS MARNER 
 
 where he was likely to find the powers and dignities 
 of Eaveloe, and where he conld most speedily make 
 his loss public. He lifted the latch, and turned into 
 the bright bar or kitchen on the right hand, where the 
 
 5 less lofty customers of the house were in the habit of 
 assembling, the parlor on the left being reserved for 
 the more select society in which Squire Cass frequently 
 enjoyed the double pleasure of conviviality and con- 
 descension. But the parlor was dark to-night, the chief 
 
 10 personages who ornamented its circle being all at Mrs. 
 Osgood^s birthday dance, as Godfrey Cass was. And in 
 consequence of this, the party on the high-screened 
 seats in the kitchen was more numerous than usual; 
 several personages, who would otherwise have been ad- 
 
 15 mitted into the parlor and enlarged the opportunity of 
 hectoring and condescension for their betters, being 
 content this evening to vary their enjoyment by taking 
 their spirits-and-water where they could themselves 
 hector and condescend in company that called for beer. 
 
CHAPTEE VI 
 
 The conversation, which was at a high pitch of 
 animation when Silas approached the door of the Kain- 
 bow, had, as usual, been slow and intermittent when 
 the company first assembled. The pipes began to be 
 puffed in a silence which had an air of severity; the 5 
 more important customers, who drank spirits and sat 
 nearest the fire, staring at each other as if a bet were 
 depending on the first man who winked; while the 
 beer drinkers, chiefly men in fustian jackets and smock- 
 frocks, kept their eyelids down and rubbed their hands lo 
 across their mouths, as if their draughts of beer were a 
 funereal duty attended with embarrassing sadness. At 
 last, Mr. Snell, the landlord, a man of a neutral dis- 
 position, accustomed to stand aloof from human dif- 
 ferences as those of beings who were all alike in need 15 
 of liquor, broke silence by saying in a doubtful tone to 
 his cousin the butcher: 
 
 ^^ Some folks ^ud say that was a fine beast you druv 
 In yesterday. Bob? " 
 
 The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was 20 
 tiot disposed to answer rashly. He gave a few puffs 
 before he spat and replied, "And they wouldn't be 
 fur wrong, John.'' 
 
 After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as 
 severely as before. 25 
 
 83 
 
84 SILAS MARNER 
 
 "Was it a red Durham? ^^ said the farrier, taking 
 up the thread of discourse after the lapse of a few 
 minutes. 
 
 The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord 
 5 looked at the butcher, as the person who must take the 
 responsibility of answering. 
 
 " Eed it was/^ said the butcher, in his good-humored 
 husky treble, " and a Durham it was.^^ 
 
 " Then you needn^t tell me who you bought it of,^^ 
 10 said the farrier, looking round with some triumph; " I 
 know who it is has got the red Durhams o' this country- 
 side. And she'd a white star on her brow, I'll bet a 
 penny?" The farrier leaned forward with his hands 
 on his knees as he put this question, and his eyes twin- 
 15 kled knowingly. 
 
 " Well; yes — she might," said the butcher slowly, 
 considering that he was giving a decided affirmativa 
 " I don't say contrairy." 
 
 " I knew that very well," said the farrier, throwing 
 20 himself backward again, and speaking defiantly; " if 
 I don't know Mr. Lammeter's cows, I should like to 
 know who does — that's all. And as for the cow you've 
 bought, bargain or no bargain, I've been at the drench- 
 ing of her — contradick me who will." 
 25 The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher's 
 conversational spirit was roused a little. 
 
 " I'm not for contradicking no man," he said; " I'm , 
 for peace and quietness. Some are for cutting , long 
 ribs — I'm for cutting 'em short, myself; but / don't 
 30 quarrel with 'em. All I say is, it's a lovely carkiss — and 
 anybody as was reasonable, it 'ud bring tears into their 
 eyes to look at it." 
 
 " Well, it's the cow as I drenched, whatever it is," 
 
SILAS MARNER 85 
 
 pursued the farrier angrily; ^^ and it was Mr. Lam- 
 meter^s cow^ else you told a lie when you said it was a 
 red Durham/^ 
 
 ^' I tell no lies/^ said the butcher, with the same 
 mild huskiness as before, " and I eontradick none — not 5 
 if a man was to swear himself black: he's no meat o' 
 mine, nor none o' my bargains. All I say is, it's a 
 lovely carkiss. And what I say. Til stick to; but I'll 
 quarrel wi' no man." 
 
 " No," said the farrier, with bitter sarcasm, look- lo 
 ing at the company generally; " and p'rhaps you aren't 
 pig-headed; and p'rhaps you didn't say the cow 
 was a red Durham; and p'rhaps you didn't say 
 she'd got a star on her brow — stick to that, now you're 
 at it." 15 
 
 ^^ Come, come," said the landlord; '' let the cow 
 alone. The truth lies atween you: you're both right 
 and both wrong, as I allays say. And as for the cow's 
 being Mr. Lammeter's, I say nothing to that; but this 
 I say, as the Eainbow's the Eainbow. And for the 20 
 matter o' that, if the talk is to be o' the Lammeters, 
 you know the most upo' that head, eh, Mr. Macey? You 
 remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father come into 
 these parts, and took the Warrens ? " 
 
 Mr. Macey, tailor and parish clerk, the latter of 25 
 which functions rheumatism had of late obliged him 
 to share with a small-featured young man who sat op- 
 posite him, held his white head on one side, and twirled 
 his thumbs with an air of complacency, slightly sea- 
 soned with criticism. He smiled pityingly, in answer 30 
 to the landlord's appeal, and said — 
 
 ^^ Ay, ay; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk. 
 I've laid by now, and gev up to the young uns. Ask 
 
86 SILAS MARNER 
 
 them as have been to school at Tarley: they've learned 
 pernonncing; that^s come up since my day/^ 
 
 "If you're pointing at me, Mr. Macey/' said the 
 deputy clerk, with an air of anxious propriety, " Fm 
 5 nowise a man to speak out of my place. As the psalm 
 says — 
 
 * I know what's right, nor only so, 
 But also practise what I know.' '• 
 
 "Well, then, I wish you'd keep hold o' the tune 
 
 10 when it's set for you; if you're for practising, I wish 
 you'd ^Tdictise that," said -a large, jocose-looking man, 
 an excellent wheelwright in his week-day capacity, but 
 on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as he 
 spoke, at two of the company, who were known officially 
 
 15 as the " bassoon " and the " key-bugle," in the confi- 
 dence that he was expressing the sense of the musical 
 profession in Eaveloe. 
 
 Mr. Tookey, the deputy clerk, who shared the un- 
 popularity common to deputies, turned very red, but 
 
 20 replied, with careful moderation: " Mr. Winthrop, if 
 you'll bring me any proof as I'm in the wrong, I'm 
 not the man to say I won't alter. But there's people 
 set up their own ears for a standard, and expect the 
 whole choir to follow 'em. There may be two opin- 
 
 85 ions, I hope." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satis- 
 fied with this attack on youthful presumption; " you're 
 right there, Tookey. There's allays two 'pinions: there's 
 the 'pinion a man has of himsen, and there's the 'pinion 
 
 30 other folks have on him. There'd be two 'pinions about 
 a cracked bell, if the bell could hear itself." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Macey," said poor Tookey, serious amid 
 the general laughter, ^^ I undertook to partially fill up 
 
SILAS MARNER 87 
 
 the office of parish clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp's desire, 
 whenever your infirmities should make you unfitting; 
 and it's one of the rights thereof to sing in the choir 
 — else why have you done the same yourself? '^ 
 
 " Ah ! but the old gentleman and you are two folks/' 5 
 said Ben Winthrop. " The old gentleman's got a gift. 
 Why, the Squire used to invite him to take a glass, only 
 to hear him sing the ' Eed Kovier ' ; didn't he, Mr. 
 Macey? It's a nat'ral gift. There's my little lad Aaron, 
 he's got a gift — he can sing a tune off straight, like a lo 
 throstle. But as for you. Master Tookey, you'd better 
 stick to your ' Amens ' : your voice is well enough when 
 you keep it up in your. nose. It's your inside as isn't 
 right made for music: it's no better nor a hollow stalk." 
 
 This kind of unflinching frankness was the most 15 
 piquant form of joke to the company at the Eainbow, 
 and Ben Winthrop's insult was felt by everybody to 
 have capped Mr. Macey's epigram. 
 
 " I see what it is plain enough," said Mr. Tookey, 
 unable to keep cool any longer. " There's a consperacy 20 
 to turn me out o' the choir, as I shouldn't share the 
 Christmas money — that's where it is. But I shall speak 
 to Mr. Crackenthorp; I'll not be put upon by no man." 
 
 "Nay, nay, Tookey," said Ben Winthrop. "We'll 
 pay you your share to keep out of it — that's what we'll 25 
 do. There's things folks 'ud pay to be rid on, besides 
 varmin." 
 
 " Come, come," said the landlord, who felt that pay- 
 ing people for their absence was a principle dangerous 
 to society; " a joke's a joke. We're all good friends ?o 
 here, I hope. We must give and take. You're both 
 right and you're both wrong, as I say. . I agree wi' Mr. 
 Macey here, as there's two opinions; and if mine was 
 
88 SILAS MARNER 
 
 asked, I should say they're both right. Tookey's right 
 and Winthrop's right, and they've only got to split the 
 difference and make themselves even." 
 
 The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in 
 i> some contempt at this trivial discussion. He had no 
 ear for music himself, and never went to church, as 
 being of the medical profession, and likely to be in 
 requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher, having 
 music in his soul, had listened with a divided desire for 
 
 10 Tookey's defeat, and for the preservation of the peace. 
 
 " To be sure," he said, following up the landlord's 
 
 conciliatory view, "we're fond of our old clerk; it's 
 
 nat'ral, and him used to be such a singer, and got a 
 
 brother as is known for the first fiddler in this country- 
 
 15 side. Eh, it's a pity but what Solomon lived in our 
 village, and could give us a tune when we liked; eh, 
 Mr. Macey? I'd keep him in liver and lights for noth- 
 ing — that I would." 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey, in the height of com- 
 
 20 placency; " our family's been known for musicianers 
 as far back as anybody can tell. But them things are 
 dying out, as I tell Solomon every time he comes round; 
 there's no voices like what there used to be, and there's 
 nobody remembers what we remember, if it isn't the old 
 
 25 crows." 
 
 "Ay, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter's 
 father come into these parts, don't you, Mr. Macey?" 
 said the landlord. 
 
 " I should think I did," said the old man, who had 
 
 30 now gone through that complimentary process neces- 
 sary to bring him up to the point of narration; " and a 
 fine old gentleman he was — as fine, and finer nor the 
 Mr. LammeteT as now is. He came from a bit north- 
 
SILAS MARNER 89 
 
 'ard, so far as I could ever make out. But there's no- 
 body rightly knows about those parts: only it couldn't 
 be far north'ard, nor much different from this country, 
 for he brought a fine breed o' sheep with him, so there 
 must be pastures there, and everything reasonable. We 5 
 beared tell as he'd sold his own land to come and take 
 the Warrens, and that seemed odd for a man as had 
 land of his own, to come and rent a farm in a strange 
 place. But they said it was along of his wife's dying; 
 though there's reasons in things as nobody knows on — lo 
 that's pretty much what I've made out; yet some folks 
 are so wise, they'll find you fifty reasons straight off, 
 and all the while the real reason's winking at 'em in the 
 corner, and they niver see 't. Howsomever, it was soon 
 seen as we'd got a new parish'ner as know'd the rights 15 
 and customs o' things, and kep' a good house, and was 
 well looked on by everybody. And the young man — 
 that's the Mr. Lammeter as now is, for he'd niver a 
 sister — soon begun to court Miss Osgood, that's the 
 sister o' the Mr. Osgood as now is, and a fine, handsome 20 
 lass she was — eh, you can't think — they pretend this 
 young lass is like her, but that's the way wi' people as 
 don't know what come before 'em. I should know, for 
 I helped the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was — I helped 
 him marry 'em." 25 
 
 Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narra- 
 tive in installments, expecting to be questioned accord- 
 ing to precedent. 
 
 "Ay, and a partic'lar thing happened, didn't it, 
 Mr. Macey, so as you were likely to remember that 30 
 marriage?" said the landlord, in a congratulatory tone. 
 
 " I should think there did — a very partic'lar thing," 
 said Mr. Macey, nodding sideways. "For Mr. Drum- 
 
90 SILAS MARNER 
 
 low— poor old gentleman, I was fond on him, though 
 he'd got a bit confused in his head, what wi' age and 
 wi' taking a drop o' summat warm when the service 
 come of a cold morning. And yonng Mr. Lammeter, 
 
 5 he'd have no way but he must be married in Janiwary., 
 which, to be sure, 's a unreasonable time to be married 
 in, for it isn't like a christening or a burying, as you 
 can't help; and so Mr. Drumlow — poor old gentleman, 
 I was fond on him — but when he come to put the ques- 
 
 10 tions, he put 'em by the rule o' contrairy, like, and he 
 says, ^ Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded wife?' 
 says he, and then he says, ' Wilt thou have this woman 
 to thy wedded husband? ' says he. But the partic'larest 
 thing of all is, as nobody took any notice on it but me, 
 
 15 and they answered straight off ' Yes,' like as if it had 
 been me saying ^ Amen ^ i' the right place, without lis- 
 tening to what went before." 
 
 " But you knew what was going on well enough, 
 didn't you, Mr. Macey? You were live enough, eh?" 
 
 20 said the butcher. 
 
 "Lor' bless you!" said Mr. Macey, pausing, and 
 smiling in pity at the impotence of his hearer's imagi- 
 nation; " why, I was all of a tremble; it was as if I'd 
 been a coat pulled by the two tails, like; for I couldn't 
 
 25 stop the parson, I couldn't take upon me to do that; 
 and yet I said to myself, I says, ^ Suppose they shouldn't 
 be fast married, 'cause the words are contrairy?' and 
 my head went working like a mill, for I was allays un- 
 common for turning things over and seeing all round 
 
 30 'em; and I says to myself, ' Is't the meanin' or the words 
 as makes folks fast i' wedlock? ' For the parson meant 
 right, and the bride and bridegroom meant right. But 
 then, when I come to think on it, meanin' goes but a 
 
SILAS MARKER 91 
 
 little way i' most things, for you may mean to stick 
 things together and your glue may be bad, and then 
 where are you ? And so I says to mysen, ' It isn't the 
 meanin", it's the glue/ And I was worreted as if Fd 
 got three bells to pull at once, when we went into the 5 
 vestry, and they begun to sign their names. But 
 Where's the use o' talking? — you can't think what goes 
 on in a 'cute man's inside." 
 
 ''But you held in for all that, didn't you, Mr. 
 Macey? " said the landlord. lo 
 
 "Ay, I held in tight till I was by mysen wi' Mr. 
 Drumlow, and then I out wi' everything, but respect- 
 ful, as I allays did. And he made light on it, and he 
 says, ' Pooh, pooh, Macey, make yourself easy,' he says; 
 ' it's neither the meaning nor the words — it's the 15 
 regesteT does it — that's the glue.' So you see he set- 
 tled it easy; for parsons and doctors know everything 
 by heart, like, so as they aren't worreted wi' thinking 
 what's the rights and wrongs o' things, as I'n been 
 many and many's the time. And sure enough the wed- 20 
 ding turned out all right, on'y poor Mrs. Lammeter — 
 that's Miss Osgood as was — died afore the lasses was 
 growed up; but for prosperity and everything respect- 
 able, there's no family more looked on." 
 
 Every one of Mr. Macey's audience had heard this 25 
 story many times, but it was listened to as if it had 
 been a favorite tune, and at certain points the puffing 
 of the pipes was momentarily suspended, that the lis- 
 teners might give their whole minds to the expected 
 words. But there was more to come; and Mr. Snell, 30 
 the landlord, duly put the leading question. 
 
 "Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, 
 didn't they say, when he come into these parts?'' 
 
92 SILAS MARNER 
 
 " Well, yes/' said Mr. Maeey; '' but I dare say it'a 
 as much as this Mr. Lammeter's done to keep it whole. 
 For there was allays a talk as nobody could get rich on 
 the Warrens: though he holds it cheap, for it's what 
 
 5 they call Charity Land." 
 
 '^ Ay, and there's few folks know so well as you how 
 it come to be Charity Land, eh, Mr. Macey?" said 
 the butcher. 
 
 "How should they?" said the old clerk, with some 
 
 10 contempt. " Why, my grandfather made the grooms' 
 livery for that Mr. Cliff as came and built the big 
 stables at the Warrens. Why, they're stables four times 
 as big as Squire Cass's, for he thought o' nothing but 
 bosses and hunting. Cliff didn't — a Lunnon tailor, some 
 
 15 folks said, as had gone mad wi' cheating. For he 
 couldn't ride; lor' bless you! they said he'd got no more 
 grip o' the boss than if his legs had been cross-sticks: 
 my grandfather beared old Squire Cass say so many and 
 many a time. But ride he would, as if Old Harry had 
 
 20 been a-driving him; and he'd a son, a lad o' sixteen 
 and nothing would his father have him do, but he must 
 ride and ride — though the lad was frighted, they said. 
 And it was a common saying as the father wanted to 
 ride the tailor out o' the lad, and make a gentleman on 
 
 25 him — not but what Fm a tailor myself, but in respect 
 as God made me such, I'm proud on it, for ' Macey, 
 Tailor,' 's been wrote up over our door since afore the 
 Queen's heads went out on the shillings. But Cliff, he 
 was ashamed o' being called a tailor, and he was sore 
 
 30 vexed as his riding was laughed at, and nobody o' the 
 gentlefolks hereabout could abide him. Howsomever, 
 
 28. Queen's heads. Queen Anne'* 
 
SILAS MARNER 93 
 
 the poor lad got sickly and died, and the father didn't 
 live long after him, for he got queerer nor ever, and 
 they said he used to go out f the dead o' the night, 
 wF a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot 
 o' lights burning, for he got as he couldn^t sleep; and ^ 
 there he'd stand, cracking his whip and looking at his 
 bosses; and they said it was a mercy as the stables didn't 
 get burned down wi' the poor dumb creaturs in 'em. 
 But at last he died raving, and they found as he'd left 
 all his property. Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity, 10 
 and that's how the Warrens come to be Charity Land; 
 though, as for the stables, Mr. Lammeter never uses 
 'em — they're out o' all charicter — lor' bless you! if you 
 was to set the doors a-banging in 'em, it 'ud sound like 
 thunder half o'er the parish." i-* 
 
 '^ Ay, but there's more going on in the stables than 
 what folks see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey?" said the 
 landlord. 
 
 "Ay, ay; go that way of a dark night, that's all," 
 said Mr. Macey, winking mysteriously, " and then make 20 
 believe, if you like, as you didn't see lights i' the stables, 
 nor hear the stamping 0' the bosses, nor the cracking 
 0' the whips, and howling, too, if it's tow'rt daybreak. 
 ^ ClifE's Holiday ' has been the name of it ever sin' I 
 were a boy; that's to say, some said as it v/as the holi- 26 
 day Old Harry gev him from roasting, like. That's 
 what my father told me, and he was a reasonable man, 
 though there's folks nowadays know what happened 
 afore they were born better nor they know their own 
 business." ^ 
 
 " What do you say to that, eh Dowlas?" said the land- 
 lord, turning to the farrier, who was swelling with impa- 
 tience for his cue. " There's a nut for you to crack." 
 
94 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, 
 and was prond of his position. 
 
 '' Say? I say what a man should say as doesn't shut 
 his eyes to look at a finger post. I say, as Fm ready to 
 5 wager any man ten pound, if he'll stand out wi' me any 
 dry night in the pasture before the Warren stables, as 
 we shall neither see lights nor hear noises, if it isn't the 
 blowing of our own noses. That's what I say, and I've 
 said it many a time; but there's nobody 'ull venture a 
 10 ten-pun' note on their ghos'es as they make so sure of.^' 
 
 "Why, Dowlas, that's easy betting, that is," said 
 Ben Winthrop. " You might as well bet a man as he 
 wouldn't catch the rheumatise if he stood up to 's neck 
 in the pool of a frosty night. It 'ud be fine fun for a 
 15 man to win his bet as he'd catch the rheumatise. Folks 
 as believe in Cliffs Holiday aren't a-going to ventur 
 near it for a matter o' ten pound." 
 
 " If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it," 
 said Mr. Macey, with a sarcastic smile, tapping his 
 20 thumbs together, " he's no call to lay any bet — let him 
 go and stan' by himself — there's nobody 'ull hinder 
 him; and then he can let the parish'ners know if they're 
 wrong." 
 
 " Thank you! I'm obliged to you," said the farrier, 
 25 with a snort of scorn. " If folks are fools, it's no busi- 
 ness o' mine. / don't want to make out the truth about 
 ghos'es: I know it a'ready. But I'm not against a bet 
 — everything fair and open. Let any man bet me ten 
 pound as I shall see Cliff's Holiday, and I'll go and 
 so stand by myself. I want no company. I'd as lief do 
 it as I'd fill this pipe." 
 
 "Ah, but who's to watch you. Dowlas, and see you 
 do it? That's no fair bet," said the butcher. 
 
SILAS MARNER 95 
 
 "IvTo fair bet?^^ replied Mr. Dowlas angrily. "I 
 should like to hear any man stand up and say I want to 
 bet unfair. Come now. Master Lundy, I should like 
 to hear you say it.^^ 
 
 " Very like you would/' said the butcher. " But 5 
 it's no business o' mine. You're none o' my bargains, 
 and I aren't a-going to try and 'bate your price. If- 
 anybody'll bid for you at your own vallying, let him. 
 I'm for peace and quietness, I am." 
 
 " Yes, that's what every yapping cur is, when you lo 
 hold a stick up at him," said the farrier. " But I'm 
 afraid o' neither man nor ghost, and I'm ready to lay 
 a fair bet. I aren't a turn-tail cur." 
 
 '' Ay, but there's this in it. Dowlas," said the land- 
 lord, speaking in a tone of much candor and tolerance. 15 
 " There's folks, i' my opinion, they can't see ghos'es, 
 not if they stood as plain as a pikestaff before 'em. 
 And there's reason i' that. For there's my wife, now, 
 can't smell, not if she'd the strongest o' cheese under 
 her nose. I never see'd a ghost myself, but then I says 20 
 to myself, ^ Very like I haven't got the smell for 'em.' 
 I mean, putting a ghost for a smell, or else contrairi- 
 ways. And so, I'm for holding with both sides; for, as 
 I say, the truth lies between 'em. And if Dowlas was 
 to go and stand, and say he'd never seen a wink o' 25 
 Cliff's Holiday all the night through, I'd back him; 
 and if anybody said as Cliff's Holiday was certain sure, 
 for all that, I'd back Mm too. For the smell's what I 
 go by." 
 
 The landlord's analogical argument was not well 30 
 received by the farrier — a man intensely opposed to 
 compromise. 
 
 " Tut, tut," he said, setting down his glass with 
 
96 SILAS MARNER 
 
 refreshed irritation; ^^ what's the smell got to do with 
 it? Did ever a ghost give a man a black eye? That's 
 what I should like to know. If ghos'es want me to be- 
 lieve in 'em, let 'em leave off skulking i' the dark and i' 
 
 S lone places — let 'em come where there's company and 
 candles." 
 
 " As if ghos'es 'ud want to be believed in by any- 
 body so ignirant ! " said Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at 
 the farrier's crass incompetence to apprehend the con- 
 
 10 ditions of ghostly phenomena. 
 
CHAPTEE VII 
 
 Yet the next moment there seemed to he some evi- 
 dence that ghosts had a more condescending disposi- 
 tion than Mr. Macey attributed to them, for the pale, 
 thin figure of Silas Marner was suddenly seen standing 
 in the warm light, uttering no word, but looking round 5 
 at the company with his strange unearthly eyes. The 
 long pipes gave a simultaneous movement, like the an- 
 tennae of startled insects, and every man present, not 
 excepting even the skeptical farrier, had an impression 
 that he saw, not Silas Marner in the flesh, but an appari- lo 
 tion; for the door by which Silas had entered was hid- 
 den by the high-screened seats, and no one had noticed 
 his approach. Mr. Macey, sitting a long way off the 
 ghost, might be supposed to have felt an argumentative 
 triumph, which would tend to neutralize his share of the is 
 general alarm. Had he not always said that when Silas 
 Marner was in that strange trance of his, his soul went 
 loose from his body? Here was the demonstration; never- 
 theless, on the whole, he would have been as well con- 
 tented without it. For a few moments there was a dead 20 
 silence, Marner^s want of breath and agitation not allow- 
 ing him to speak. The landlord, under the habitual sense 
 that he was bound to keep his house open to all company, 
 and confident in the protection of his unbroken neutral- 
 ity, at last took on himself the task of adjuring the ghost. 25 
 
 97 
 
98 SILAS MARKER 
 
 "Master Marner/^ he said, in a conciliatory tone, 
 "what's lacking to yon? What's your business here?'' 
 
 "Eobbed!" said Silas gaspingly. "I've been 
 robbed! I want the constable — and the Justice — and 
 5 Squire Cass — and Mr. Crackenthorp." 
 
 " Lay hold on him, Jem Eodney," said the landlord^, 
 the idea of a ghost subsiding; " he's off his head, I 
 doubt. He's wet through." 
 
 Jem Eodney was the outermost man, and sat con- 
 10 veniently near Marner's standing place; but he declined 
 to give his services. 
 
 " Come and lay hold on him yourself, Mr. Snell, if 
 you've a mind," said Jem rather sullenly. " He's been 
 robbed, and murdered too, for what I know," he added, 
 15 in a muttering tone. 
 
 " Jem Eodney! " said Silas, turning and fixing his 
 strange eyes on the suspected man. 
 
 "Ay, Master Marner, what do ye want wi' me?" 
 said Jem, trembling a little, and seizing his drinking 
 20 can as a defensive weapon. 
 
 " If it was you stole my money," said Silas, clasping 
 
 his hands entreatingly, and raising his voice to a cry, 
 
 " give it me back — and I won't meddle with you. I 
 
 won't set the constable on you. Give it me back, and 
 
 25 I'll let you — r]l let you have a guinea." 
 
 " Me stole your money! " said Jem angrily. " I'll 
 pitch this can at your eye if you talk o' my stealing 
 your money." 
 
 " Come, come, Master Marner," said the landlord, 
 30 now rising resolutely, and seizing Marner by the shoul- 
 der, "if you've got any information to lay, speak it 
 out sensible, and show as you're in your right mind, if 
 you expect anybody to listen to you. You're as wet 
 
SILAS MARNER 99 
 
 as a drownded rat. Sit down and dry yourself, and 
 speak straiglitforrard/^ 
 
 " Ah, to be sure, man/^ said the farrier, who began 
 to feel that he had not been quite on a par with him- 
 self and the occasion. " Let^s have no more staring 5 . 
 and screaming, else we'll have you strapped for a mad- 
 man. That was why I didn't speak at the first — thinks 
 I, the man's run mad," 
 
 " Ay, ay, make him sit down," said several voices 
 at once, well pleased that the reality of ghosts re- lo 
 mained still an open question. 
 
 The landlord forced Marner to take off his coat, and 
 then to sit down on a chair aloof from every one else, 
 in the center of the circle, and in the direct rays of 
 the fire. The weaver, too feeble to have any distinct 15 
 purpose beyond that of getting help to recover his 
 money, submitted unresistingly. The transient fears of 
 the company were now forgotten in their strong curi- 
 osity, and all faces were turned toward Silas, when the 
 landlord, having seated himself again, said — 20 
 
 " I^ow, then. Master Marner, what's this you've got 
 to say — as you've been robbed? Speak out." 
 
 " He'd better not say again as it was me robbed 
 him," cried Jem Eodney hastily. " What could I ha' 
 done with his^money? I could as easy steal the parson's 25 
 surplice, and wear it." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Jem, and let's hear what he's 
 got to say," said the landlord. " Now, then. Master 
 Marner." 
 
 Silas now told his story under frequent questioning, 30 
 as the mysterious character of the robbery became evi- 
 dent. 
 
 This strangely novel situation of opening his trouble 
 
100 SILAS MARNEE, 
 
 to his Eaveloe neighbors, of sitting in the warmth of a 
 hearth not his own, and feeling the presence of faces 
 and voices which were his nearest promise of help, had . 
 doubtless its influence on Marner, in spite of his pasHaj 
 
 « sionate preoccupation with his loss. Our consciousness 
 rarely registers the beginning of a growth within us 
 any more than without us: there have been many cir- 
 culations of the sap before we detect the smallest sign 
 of the bud. 
 
 10 The slight suspicion with which his hearers at firsr 
 listened to him gradually melted away before the con- 
 vincing simplicity of his distress: it was impossible for 
 the neighbors to doubt that Marner was telling the 
 truth, not because they were capable of arguing at once 
 
 15 from the nature of his statements to the absence of any 
 motive for making them falsely, but because, as Mr. 
 Macey observed, " Folks as had the devil to back ^em 
 were not likely to be so mushed ^^ as poor Silas was. 
 Rather, from the strange fact that the robber had left 
 
 20 no traces, and had happened to know the nick of time, 
 utterly incalculable by mortal agents, when Silas would 
 go away from home without locking his door, the more 
 probable conclusion seemed to be, that his disreputable 
 intimacy in that quarter, if it ever existed, had been 
 
 25 broken up, and that, in consequence, this ill turn had 
 been done to Marner by somebody it was quite in vain 
 to set the constable after. Why this preternatural felon 
 should be obliged to wait till the door was left unlocked 
 was a question which did not present itself. 
 
 30 " It isn^t Jem Rodney as has done this work. Master 
 Marner,^^ said the landlord. " You mustn^t be a-casting 
 your eye at poor Jem. There may be a bit of a reck- 
 oning against Jem for the matter of a hare or so, if 
 
SILAS -MARNER IQl 
 
 anybody was bound to keep their eyes staring open, 
 and niver to wink; but Jem's been a-sitting here drink- 
 ing his can, like the decentest man i' the parish, since 
 before you left your house. Master Marner, by your own 
 account/^ 5 
 
 " Ay, ay,^^ said Mr. Macey, " let's have no accusing 
 o' the innicent. That isn't the law. There must be 
 folks to swear again' a man before he can be ta'en up. 
 Let's have no accusing o' the innicent. Master Marner.'^ 
 
 Memory was not so utterly torpid in Silas that it lo 
 could not be wakened by these words. With a move- 
 ment of compunction, as new and strange to him as 
 everything else within the last hour, he started from 
 his chair and went close up to Jem, looking at him as 
 if he wanted to assure himself of the expression in his 15 
 face. 
 
 " I was wrong," he said; " yes, yes — I ought to 
 have thought. There's nothing to witness against you, 
 Jem. Only you'd been into my house oftener than any- 
 body else, and so you came into my head. I don't ac- 20 
 cuse you — I won't accuse anybody — only," he added, 
 lifting up his hands to his head, and turning away with 
 bewildered misery, " I try — I try to think where my 
 guineas can be." 
 
 " Ay, ay, they're gone where it's hot enough to 25 
 melt 'em, I doubt," said Mr. Macey. 
 
 " Tchuh! " said the farrier. And then he asked, 
 with a cross-examining air, "How much money might 
 there be in the bags. Master Marner? " 
 
 " Two hundred and seventy-two pounds, twelve and 30 
 sixpence, last night when I counted it," said Silas, seat- 
 ing himself again, with a groan. 
 
 " Pooh ! why, they'd be none so heavy to carry. 
 
102 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Some tramp's been in, that's all; and as for the no 
 footmarks, and the bricks and the sand being all right 
 — why, your eyes are pretty much like a insect's, Mas- 
 ter Marner; they're obliged to look so close, you can't 
 
 5 see much at a time. It's my opinion as, if I'd been 
 you, or you'd been me — for it comes to the same thing 
 — you wouldn't have thought you'd found everything 
 as you left it. But what I vote is, as two of the sen- 
 siblest o' the company should go with you to Master 
 
 10 Kench, the constable's — he's ill i' bed, I know that 
 much — and get him to appoint one of us his deppity; 
 for that's the law, and I don't think anybody 'ull take 
 upon him to contradick me there. It isn't much of a 
 walk to Kench's; and then, if it's me as is deppity, I'll 
 
 15 go back with you. Master Marner, and examine your 
 premises; and if anybody's got any fault to find with 
 that, I'll thank him to stand up and say it out like a 
 man." 
 
 By this pregnant speech the farrier had re-estab- 
 
 20 lished his self-complacency, and waited with confidence 
 to hear himself named as one of the superlatively sen- 
 sible men. 
 
 '^ Let us see how the night is, though," said the 
 landlord, who also considered himself personally con- 
 
 25 cerned in this proposition. " Why, it rains heavy still," 
 he said, returning from the door. 
 
 ^^Well, I'm not the man to be afraid o' the rain," 
 said the farrier. " For it'll look bad when Justice 
 Malam hears as respectable men like us had a infor- 
 
 30 mation laid before 'em and took no steps." 
 
 The landlord agreed with this view, and after tak- 
 ing the sense of the company, and duly rehearsing a 
 small ceremony known in high ecclesiastical life as the 
 
SILAS MARNER 103 
 
 nolo episcopari, he consented to take on himself the 
 chill dignity of going to Kench^s. But to the farrier's 
 strong disgust;, Mr. Macey now started an objection to 
 his proposing himself as a deputy constable; for that 
 oracular old gentleman^, claiming to know the law, 5 
 stated, as a fact delivered to him by his father, that 
 no doctor could be a constable. 
 
 " And you're a doctor^ I reckon, though you're only 
 a cow doctor — for a fly's a fly, though it may be a hoss- 
 fly," concluded Mr. Macey, wondering a little at his own lo 
 ^^ 'cuteness." 
 
 There was a hot debate upon this, the farrier being 
 of course indisposed to renounce the quality of doctor, 
 but contending that a doctor could be a constable if 
 he liked — the law meant, he needn't be one if he didn't 15 
 like. Mr. Macey thought this was nonsense, since the 
 law was not likely to be fonder of doctors than of other 
 folks. Moreover, if it was in the nature of doctors more 
 than of other men not to like being constables, how 
 came Mr. Dowlas to be so eager to act in that ca- 20 
 pacity? 
 
 "7 don't want to act the constable," said the far- 
 rier, driven into^a corner by this merciless reasoning; 
 " and there's no man can say it of me, if he'd tell the 
 truth. But if there's to be any jealousy and envying 25 
 about going to Kench's in the rain, let them go as like 
 it — you won't get me to go, I can tell you." 
 
 By the landlord's intervention, however, the dispute 
 was accommodated. Mr. Dowlas consented to go as a 
 second person disinclined to act ofiicially; and so poor so 
 
 1. nolo episcopari (I do not wisli to be a bishop), a formula occur' 
 ring in the consecration of a bishop. In common proverbial use, a for- 
 mula of humility assumed or true. 
 
104 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Silas^ furnished with some old coverings, turned out 
 with his two companions into the rain again, thinking 
 of the long night hours before him, not as those do 
 who long to rest, but as those who expect to '' watch for 
 6 the morning/^ 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Whex Godfrey Cass returned from Mrs. Osgood's 
 party at midnight, he was not much surprised to learn 
 that Dunsey had not come home. Perhaps he had not 
 sold Wildfire, and was waiting for another chance — per- 
 haps, on that foggy afternoon, he had preferred hous- 5 
 ing himself at the Red Lion at Batherley for the night, 
 if the run had kept him in that neighborhood; for he 
 was not likely to feel much concern about leaving his 
 brother in suspense. Godfrey's mind was too full of 
 Nancy Lammeter's looks and behavior, too full of the lo 
 exasperation against himself and his lot, which the sight 
 of her always produced in him, for him to give much 
 thought to Wildfire or to the probabilities of Dunstan's 
 conduct. 
 
 The next morning the whole village was excited 15 
 by the story of the robbery, and Godfrey, like every 
 one else, was occupied in gathering and discussing news 
 about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits. The rain had 
 washed away all possibility of distinguishing footmarks, 
 but a close investigation of the spot had disclosed, in the 20 
 direction opposite to the village, a tinder-box, with a 
 flint and steel, half sunk in the mud. It was not Silas's 
 tinder-box, for the only one he had ever had was still 
 standing on his shelf; and the inference generally ac- 
 cepted was, that the tinder-box in the ditch was some- 25 
 
 105 
 
106 SILAS MARNER 
 
 how connected with the robbery. A small minority 
 shook their heads, and intimated their opinion that it 
 was not a robbery to have much light thrown on it by 
 tinder-boxes, that Master Marner's tale had a queer look 
 5 with it, and that such things had been known as a man's 
 doing himself a mischief, and then setting the justice 
 to look for the doer. But when questioned closely as to 
 their grounds for this opinion, and what Master Marner 
 had to gain by such false pretenses, they only shook 
 
 10 their heads as before, and observed that there was no 
 knowing what some folks counted gain; moreover, thai 
 everybody had a right to their own opinions, grounds 
 or no grounds, and that the weaver, as everybody knew, 
 was partly crazy. Mr. Macey, though he joined in the 
 
 15 defense of Marner against all suspicions of deceit, also 
 
 pooh-poohed the tinder-box; indeed, repudiated it as 
 
 : a rather impious suggestion, tending to imply that 
 
 everything must be done by human hands, and that 
 
 there was no power which could make away with the 
 
 20 guineas without moving the bricks. Nevertheless, he 
 turned round rather sharply on Mr. Tookey, when the 
 zealous deputy, feeling that this was a view of the case 
 peculiarly suited to a parish clerk, carried it still fur- 
 ther, and doubted whether it was right to inquire into 
 
 25 a robbery at all when the circumstances were so mys- 
 terious. 
 
 " As if,^^ concluded Mr. Tookey — " as if there was^ 
 nothing but what could be made out by justices and 
 constables.^^ 
 
 30 "Now, don't you be for overshooting the mark,. 
 Tookey/' said Mr. Macey, nodding his head aside ad- 
 monishingly. " That's what you're allays at; if I throw 
 a stone and hit, vou think there's summat better than 
 
SILAS MARNEE 107 
 
 Mtting, and you try to throw a stone beyond. What 
 I said was against the tinder-box; I said nothing against 
 justices and constables, for they^re o^ King George's 
 making, and it 'ud be ill-becoming a man in a parish 
 office to fly out again' King George." 5 
 
 While these discussions were going on among the 
 group outside the Rainbow a higher consultation was 
 being carried on within, under the presidency of Mr. 
 Crackenthorp, the rector, assisted by Squire Cass and 
 other substantial parishioners. It had just occurred 10 
 to ^Ir. Snell, the landlord — he being, as he observed, 
 ^ man accustomed to put two and two together — to 
 connect with the tinder-box which, as deputy constable, 
 lie himself had had the honorable distinction of finding, 
 •certain recollections of a peddler who had called to 15 
 drink at the house about a month before, and had 
 actually stated that he carried a tinder-box about with 
 Iiim to light his pipe. Here, surely, was a clew to be 
 followed out. And as memory, when duly impregnated 
 vvith ascertained facts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile, 20 
 Mr. Snell gradually recovered a vivid impression of the 
 •effect produced on him by the peddler's countenance 
 ^nd conversation. He had a " look with his eye " which 
 fell unpleasantly on Mr. Snell's sensitive organism. To 
 1)0 sure, he didn't say anything particular — ^no, except 35 
 that about the tinder-box — but it isn't what a man says, 
 it's the way he says it. Moreover, he had a swarthy 
 :foreignness of complexion which boded little honesty. 
 
 " Did he wear earrings? " Mr. Crackenthorp wished 
 i:o know, having some acquaintance with foreign cus- 80 
 toms. 
 
 " Well — stay — ^let me see," said Mr. Snell, like a 
 docile clairvoyant, who would really not make a mis- 
 
108 SILAS MARNER 
 
 take if she could help it. After stretching the corners 
 of his mouth and contracting his eyes^ as if he were 
 trying to see the earrings, he appeared to give up the 
 effort, and said, " Well, he'd got earrings in his hox 
 
 5 to sell, so it's nat'ral to suppose he might wear 'em. 
 But he called at every house, a'most, in the village; 
 there's somebody else, mayhap, saw 'em in his ears, 
 though I can't take upon me rightly to say." 
 
 Mr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that some- 
 
 10 body else would remember the peddler's earrings. For, 
 on the spread of inquiry among the villagers, it was 
 stated with gathering emphasis, that the parson had 
 wanted to know whether the peddler wore earrings in 
 his ears, and an impression was created that a great 
 
 15 deal depended on the eliciting of this fact. Of course 
 every one who heard the question, not having any dis- 
 tinct image of the peddler as without earrings, imme- 
 diately had an image of him with earrings, larger or 
 smaller, as the case might be; and the image was pres- 
 
 SO ently taken for a vivid recollection, so that the glazier's 
 wife, a well-intentioned woman, not given to lying, and 
 whose house was among the cleanest in the village, 
 was ready to declare, as sure as ever she meant to take 
 the sacrament the very next Christmas that was ever 
 
 25 coming, that she had seen big earrings, in the shape 
 of the young moon, in the peddler's two ears; while 
 Jinny Gates, the cobbler's daughter, being a more im- 
 aginative person, stated not only that she had seen 
 them too, but that they had made her blood creep, 
 
 80 as it did at that very moment while there she stood. 
 Also, by way of throwing further light on this clew 
 of the tinder-box, a collection was made of all the arti- 
 cles purchased from the peddler at various houses, and 
 
SILAS MARNER 109 
 
 carried to the Eainbow to be exhibited there. In fact, 
 there was a general feeling in the village, that for the 
 clearing up of this robbery there must be a great deal 
 done at the Eainbow, and that no man need offer his 
 wife an excuse for going there while it was the scene 5 
 of severe public duties. 
 
 Some disappointment was felt, and perhaps a little 
 indignation also, when it became known that Silas Mar- 
 ner, on being questioned by the Squire and the parson, 
 had retained no other recollection of the peddler than lo 
 that he had called at his door, but had not entered his 
 house, having turned away at once when Silas, holding 
 the door ajar, had said that he wanted nothing. This 
 had been Silas's testimony, though he clutched strongly 
 at the idea of the peddler's being the culprit, if only 15 
 because it gave him a definite image of a whereabout 
 for his gold, after it had been taken away from its 
 hiding place: he could see it now in the peddler's box. 
 But it was observed with some irritation in the village, 
 that anybody but a " blind creatur " like Marner would 20 
 have seen the man prowling about, for how came he to 
 leave his tinder-box in the ditch close by, if he hadn't 
 been lingering there? Doubtless, he had made his ob- 
 servations when he saw Marner at the door. Anybody 
 might know — and only look at him — that the weaver 25 
 was a half -crazy miser. It was a wonder the peddler 
 hadn't murdered him; men of that sort, with rings in 
 their ears, had been known for murderers often and 
 often; there had been one tried at the 'sizes, not so long 
 ago but what there were people living who remem- 30 
 bered it. 
 
 Godfrey Cass, indeed, entering the Eainbow during 
 one of Mr. Snell's frequently repeated recitals of his tes- 
 
110 SILAS MARKER 
 
 timony, had treated it lightlj;, stating that he himself 
 had bought a penknife of the peddler, and thought him 
 a merry grinning fellow enough; it was all nonsense^, 
 he said, about the man^s evil looks. But this was spoken- 
 5 of in the village as the random talk of youth, " as if it 
 was only Mr. Snell who had seen something odd about 
 the peddler! ^^ On the contrary, there were at least 
 half a dozen who were ready to go before Justice Malam, 
 and give in much more striking testimony than any the- 
 
 10 landlord could furnish. It was to be hoped Mr. Godfrey 
 would not go to Tarley and throw cold water on what 
 Mr. Snell said there, and so prevent the justice from 
 drawing up a warrant. He was suspected of intending^ 
 this, when, after nudday, he was seen setting off on 
 
 15 horseback in the direction of Tarley. 
 
 But by this time Godfrey's interest in the robbery 
 had faded before his growing anxiety about Dunstan 
 and Wildfire, and he was going, not to 'Tarley, but to* 
 Batherley, unable to rest in uncertainty about them 
 
 20 any longer. The possibility that Dunstan had played 
 him the ugly trick of riding away with Wildfire, to 
 return at the end of a month, when he had gambled 
 away or otherwise squandered the price of the horse, 
 was a fear that urged itself upon him more, even, than 
 
 8R the thought of an accidental injury; and now that the 
 dance at Mrs. Osgood's was past, he was irritated with 
 himself that he had trusted his horse to Dunstan. In- 
 stead of trying to still his fears he encouraged them, 
 with that superstitious impression which clings to u&- 
 
 ao all, that if we expect evil very strongly it is the less 
 likely to come; and when he heard a horse approaching 
 at a trot, and saw a hat rising above a hedge beyond 
 an angle of the lane, he felt as if his conjuration had 
 
SILAS MARNER HI 
 
 succeeded. But no sooner did the horse come within 
 sight than his heart sank again. It was not Wild- 
 fire; and in a few moments more he discerned that the 
 rider was not Dunstan, but Bryce, who pulled up to 
 speak, with a face that implied something disagree- 5 
 able. 
 
 '' Well, Mr. Godfrey, that^s a lucky brother of yours, 
 tj^at Master Dunsey, isn't he?'' 
 
 " What do you mean? " said Godfrey hastily. 
 
 " Why, hasn't he been home yet? " said Bryce. 10 
 
 "Home? — no. What has happened? Be quick. 
 What has he done with my horse ? " 
 
 " Ah, I thought it was yours, though he pretended 
 you had parted with it to him." 
 
 " Has he thrown him down and broken his knees? " 15 
 said Godfrey, flushed with exasperation. 
 
 "Worse than that," said Bryce. "You see, I'd 
 made a bargain with him to buy the horse for a hun- 
 dred and twenty — a swinging price, but I always liked 
 the horse. And what does he do but go and stake him 20 
 • — fly at a hedge with stakes in it, atop of a bank with 
 a ditch before it. The horse had been dead a pretty 
 good while when he was found. So he hasn't been home 
 since, has he ? " 
 
 " Home? — no," said Godfrey, " and he'd better keep 35 
 away. Confound me for a fool! I might have known 
 this would be the end of it." 
 
 "Well, to tell you the truth," said Bryce, "after 
 I'd bargained for the horse, it did come into my head 
 that he might be riding and selling the horse without 30 
 your knowledge, for I didn't believe it was his own. 
 I knew Master Dunsey was up to his tricks sometimes. 
 But where can he be gone? He's never been seen at 
 
112 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Batherley. He couldn't have been hurt, for he must 
 have walked off/' 
 
 "Hurt?" said Godfrey bitterly. "He'll never be 
 hurt — he's made to hurt other people." 
 
 5 " And so you did give him leave to sell the horse, 
 eh?" said Bryce. 
 
 " Yes; I wanted to part with the horse — he was 
 always a little too hard in the mouth for me/' said 
 Godfrey; his pride making him wince under the idea 
 
 10 that Bryce guessed the sale to be a matter of necessity. 
 " I was going to see after him — I thought some mischief 
 had happened. I'll go back now/' he added, turning 
 the horse's head, and wishing he could get rid of Bryce; 
 for he felt that the long-dreaded crisis in his life was 
 
 15 close upon him. " You're coming on to Raveloe, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 " Well, no, not now," said Bryce. " I was coming- 
 round there, for I had to go to Flitton, and I thought 
 I might as well take you in my way, and just let you 
 
 ^0 know all I knew myself about the horse. I suppose 
 Master Dunsey didn't like to show himself till the ill 
 news had blown over a bit. He's perhaps gone to pay 
 a visit at the Three Crowns, by Whitbridge — I know 
 he's fond of the house." 
 
 25 "Perhaps he is," said Godfrey, rather absently. 
 Then rousing himself, he said, with an effort at care- 
 lessness, " We shall hear of him soon enough, I'll be 
 bound." 
 
 " Well, here's my turning/' said Bryce, not surprised 
 
 80 to perceive that Godfrey was rather " down "; " so I'll 
 bid you good-day, and wish I may bring you better 
 news another time." 
 
 Godfrey rode along slowly, representing to himself 
 
SILAS MARKER 113 
 
 the scene of confession to his father from which he felt 
 that there was now no longer any escape. The revela- 
 tion about the money must be made the very next 
 morning; and if he withheld the rest, Dunstan would be 
 sure to come back shortly, and, finding that he must 5 
 bear the brunt of his father's anger, would tell the 
 whole story out of spite, even though he had nothing 
 to gain by it. There was one step, perhaps, by which 
 he might still win Dunstan's silence and put off the 
 evil day: he might tell his father that he had himself lo 
 spent the money paid to him by Fowler; and as he had 
 never been guilty of such an offense before, the affair 
 would blow over after a little storming. But Godfrey 
 could not bend himself to this. He felt that in letting 
 Dunstan have the money he had already been guilty of is 
 a breach of trust hardly less culpable than that of 
 spending the money directly for his own behoof; and 
 yet there was a distinction between the two acts which 
 made him feel that the one was so much more blacken- 
 ing than the other as to be intolerable to him. 20 
 
 " I don't pretend to be a good fellow,'' he said to 
 himself; ^^but I'm not a scoundrel — at least, I'll stop 
 short somewhere. I'll bear the consequences of what I 
 have done sooner than make believe I've done what I 
 never would have done. I'd never have spent the 25 
 money for my own pleasure — I was tortured into it." 
 
 Through the remainder of this day Godfrey, with 
 only occasional fluctuations, kept his will bent in the 
 direction of a complete avowal to his father, and he 
 withheld the story of Wildfire's loss till the next morn- 30 
 ing, that it might serve him as an introduction to 
 heavier matter. The old Squire was accustomed to his 
 son's frequent absence from home, and thought neither 
 
114 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Dunstan^s nor Wildfire^s nonappearance a matter call- 
 ing for remark. Godfrey said to himself again and 
 again, that if he let slip this one opportunity of con- 
 fession, he might never have another; the revelation 
 5 might be made even in a more odious way than by Dun- 
 Stan's malignity — she might come, as she had threat- 
 ened to do. And then he tried to make the scene easier 
 to himself by rehearsal; he made up his mind how he 
 would pass from the admission of his weakness in letting 
 
 10 Dunstan have the money to the fact that Dunstan had 
 a hold on him which he had been unable to shake off, 
 and how he would work up his father to expect some- 
 thing very bad before he told him the fact. The old 
 Squire was an implacable man: he made resolutions in 
 
 15 violent anger, and he was not to be moved from them 
 after his anger had subsided — as fiery v^olcanic matters 
 cool and harden into rock. Like many violent and im- 
 placable men, he allowed evils to grow under favor of 
 his own heedlessness, till they pressed upon him with 
 
 20 exasperating force, and then he turned round with 
 fierce severity and became unrelentingly hard. This 
 was his system with his tenants: he allowed them to get 
 into arrears, neglect their fences, reduce their stock, sell 
 their straw, and otherwise go the wrong way — and then, 
 
 25 when he became short of money in consequence of this 
 indulgence, he took the hardest measures and would 
 listen to no appeal. Godfrey knew all this, and felj; 
 it with the greater force because he had constantly 
 suffered annoyance from witnessing his father's sudden 
 
 30 fits of unrelentingness, for which his own habitual ir- 
 resolution deprived him of all sympathy. (He was not 
 critical on the faulty indulgence which preceded these 
 fits; that seemed to him natural enough.) Still there 
 
SILAS MARNER 115 
 
 was just the chance, Godfrey thought, that his father's 
 pride might see this marriage in a light that would 
 induce him to hush it up, rather than turn his son out 
 and make the family the talk of the country for ten 
 miles round. 5 
 
 This was the view of the case that Godfrey managed 
 to keep before him pretty closely till midnight, and he 
 went to sleep thinking that he had done with inward 
 debating. But when he awoke in the still morning 
 darkness he found it impossible to reawaken his even- lo 
 ing thoughts; it was as if they had been tired out and 
 were not to be roused to further work. Instead of ar- 
 guments for confession, he could now feel the presence 
 of nothing but its evil consequences: the old dread of 
 disgrace came back — the old shrinking from the 15 
 thought of raising a hopeless barrier between himself 
 and Nancy — the old disposition to rely on chances which 
 might be favorable to him, and save him from betrayal. 
 Why, after all, should he cut off the hope of them by 
 his own act? He had seen the matter in a wrong light 20 
 yesterday. He had been in a rage with Dunstan, and 
 had thought of nothing but a thorough break-up of 
 their mutual understanding; but what it would be really 
 wisest for him to do was to try and soften his father's 
 anger against Dunsey, and keep things as nearly as pos- 25 
 sible in their old condition. If Dunsey did not come 
 back for a few days (and Godfrey did not know but 
 that the rascal had enough money in his pocket to en- 
 able him to keep away still longer), everything might 
 blow over. 9a 
 
CHAPTEE IX 
 
 Godfrey rose and took his own breakfast earlier 
 
 than usual, but lingered in the wainscoted parlor till 
 
 his younger brothers had finished their meal and gone 
 
 '. out, awaiting his father, who always took a walk with 
 
 5 his managing-man before breakfast. Every one break- 
 fasted at a different hour in the Ked House, and the 
 Squire was always the latest, giving a long chance to a 
 rather feeble morning appetite before he tried it. The 
 table had been spread with substantial eatables nearly 
 
 10 two hours before he presented himself — a tall, stout 
 man of sixty, with a face in which the knit brow and 
 rather hard glance seemed contradicted by the slack and 
 feeble mouth. His person showed marks of habitua?". 
 neglect, his dress was slovenly; and yet there was some. 
 
 15 thing in the presence of the old Squire distinguishable 
 from that of the ordinary farmers in the parish, who 
 were perhaps every whit as refined as he, but, having 
 slouched their way through life with a consciousness 
 of being in the vicinity of their " betters,^' wanted that 
 
 20 self-possession and authoritativeness of voice and car- 
 riage which belonged to a man who thought of superiors 
 as remote existences, with whom he had personally little 
 more to do than with America or the stars. The squire 
 had been used to parish homage all his life, used to 
 
 25 the presupposition that his family, his tankards, and 
 116 
 
1^ SILAS MARNER 117 
 
 everything that was his, were the oldest and best; and 
 as he never associated with any gentry higher than him- 
 self, his opinion was not disturbed by comparison. 
 
 He glanced at his son as he entered the room, and 
 said, " What, sir! haven't you had yonr breakfast yet? " 5 
 but there was no pleasant morning greeting between 
 them; not because of any unfriendliness, but because 
 the sweet flower of courtesy is not a growth of such 
 homes as the Eed House. 
 
 " Yes, sir/' said Godfrey, ^^ I've had my breakfast, lo 
 but I was waiting to speak to you/^ 
 
 "Ah! weiy^ said the Squire, throwing himself in- 
 differently into his chair, and speaking in a ponderous 
 coughing fashion, which was felt in Eaveloe to be a 
 sort of privilege of his rank, while he cut a piece of '^ 
 beef, and held it up before the deerhound that had come 
 in with him. "Eing the bell for my ale, vrill you? 
 You youngsters' business is your own pleasure, mostly. 
 There's no hurry about it for anybody but yourselves/' 
 
 The Squire's life was quite as idle as his sons', but 20 
 it was a fiction kept up by himself and his contempo- 
 raries in Eaveloe that youth was exclusively the period 
 of folly, and that their aged wisdom was constantly 
 in a state of endurance mitigated by sarcasm. Godfrey 
 waited, before he spoke again, until the ale had been ^ 
 brought and the door closed — an interval during which 
 Fleet, the deerhound, had consumed enough bits of beef 
 to make a poor man's holiday dinner. 
 
 " There's been a cursed piece of ill luck with Wild- 
 fire," he began; " happened the day before yesterday." 30 
 
 ^^What! broke his knees?" said the Squire, after 
 taking a draught of ale. " I thought you knew how to 
 l-ide better than that, sir. I never threw a horse down 
 
118 SILAS MARNER 
 
 in my life. If I had, I might ha' whistled for another, 
 for my father wasn't quite so ready to unstring as some 
 other fathers I know of. But they must turn over a 
 new leaf — they must. What with mortgages and arrears; 
 & I'm as short o' cash as a roadside pauper. And that 
 fool Kimble says the newspaper's talking about peace 
 Why, the country wouldn't have a leg to stand on. 
 Prices 'ud run down like a jack, and I should never get 
 my arrears, not if I sold all the fellows up. And there's 
 
 10 that damned Fowler, I won't put up with him any 
 longer; I've told Winthrop to go to Cox this very day. 
 The lying scoundrel told me he'd be sure to pay me a 
 hundred last month. He takes advantage because he's 
 on that outlying farm and thinks I shall forget him." 
 
 15 The Squire had delivered this speech in a coughing 
 and interrupted manner, but with no pause long enough 
 for Godfrey to make it a pretext for taking up the 
 word again. He felt that his father meant to ward 
 off any request for money on the ground of the misfor- 
 
 i^\ tune with Wildfire, and that the emphasis he had thus 
 been led to lay on his shortness of cash and his arrears 
 was likely to produce an attitude of mind the utmost 
 unfavorable for his own disclosure. But he must go on 
 now he had begun. 
 
 25 " It's worse than breaking the horse's knees — he's 
 been staked and killed," he said, as soon as his father 
 was silent, and had begun to cut his meat. " But I 
 wasn't thinking of asking you to buy me another horse; 
 I was only thinking I'd lost the means of paying you 
 
 30 with the price of Wildfire as I'd meant to do. Dunsey 
 took him to the hunt to sell him for me the other day, 
 and after he'd made a bargain for a hundred and twenty 
 with Bryce he went after the hounds, and took some 
 
SILAS MARNER 119 
 
 fool's leap or other that did for the horse at once. If it 
 hadn't been for that, I should have paid you a hundred 
 pounds this morning." 
 
 The Squire had laid down his knife and fork and 
 was staring at his son in amazement, not being suffi- 5 
 ciently quick of brain to form a probable guess as to 
 what could have caused so strange an inversion of the 
 paternal and filial relations as this proposition of his 
 son to pay him a hundred pounds. 
 
 " The truth is, sir — Fm very sorry — I was quite to 10 
 blame/' said Godfrey. " Fowler did pay that hundred 
 pounds. He paid it to me when I was over there one 
 day last month. And Dunsey bothered me for the 
 money, and I let him have it, because I hoped I should 
 be able to pay it you before this." 15 
 
 The Squire was purple with anger before his son 
 had done speaking, and found utterance difficult. 
 ^^You let Dunsey have it, sir? And how long -have 
 you been so thick with Dunsey that you must collogue 
 with him to embezzle my money? Are you turning se 
 out a scamp? I tell you I w^on't have it. I'll turn 
 the whole pack of you out of the house together, and 
 marry again. I'd have you to remember, sir, my prop- 
 erty's got no entail on it; since my grandfather's time 
 the Casses can do as they like with their land. Ee- 35 
 member that, sir. Let Dunsey have the money! Why 
 should you let Dunsey have the money? There's some 
 lie at the bottom of it." 
 
 " There's no He, sir," said Godfrey. " I wouldn't 
 have spent the money myself, but Dunsey bothered me, 30 
 and I was a fool and let him have it. But I meant 
 to pay it whether he did or not. That's the whole story. 
 I never meant to embezzle money, and I'm not the 
 
120 SILAS MARNER 
 
 man to do it. You never knew me do a dishonest 
 trick, sir." 
 
 " AVhere^s Dunsey, then? What do you stand talk- 
 ing there for? Go and fetch Dunsey, as I tell you, and 
 5 let him give account of what he wanted the money for, 
 and what he^s done with it. He shall repent it. I'll 
 turn him out. I said I would, and Til do it. He shan't 
 brave me. Go and fetch him.'' 
 
 '' Dunsey isn't come back, sir." 
 10 ^^What! did he break his own neck, then?" said 
 the Squire with some disgust at the idea that, in that 
 case, he could not fulfill his threat. 
 
 " No, he wasn't hurt, I believe, for the horse was 
 found dead, and Dunsey must have walked off. I dare 
 15 say we shall see him again by and by. I don't know 
 where he is." 
 
 " And what must you be letting him have my money 
 for? Answer me that," said the Squire attacking God- 
 fre}^ again, since Dunsey was not within reach. 
 20 " Well, sir, I don't know," said Godfrey hesitatingly. 
 That was a feeble evasion, but Godfrey was not fond of 
 lying, and, not being sufficiently aware that no sort of 
 duplicity can long flourish without the help of vocal 
 falsehoods, he was quite unprepared with invented 
 25 motives. 
 
 "You don't know? I tell you what it is, sir. 
 You've been up to some trick, and you've been bribing 
 him not to tell," said the Squire with a sudden acute- 
 ness which startled Godfrey, who felt his heart beat 
 30 violently at the nearness of his father's guess. The 
 sudden alarm pushed him on to take the next step — a 
 very slight impulse suffices for that on a downward road. 
 
 "Why, sir," he said, trying to speak with careless 
 
SILAS MARKER 121 
 
 ease, "it was a little affair between me and Dunsey; 
 it^s no matter to anybody else. It^s hardly worth while 
 to pry into young men^s fooleries: it wouldn^t have 
 made any difterenee to yon, sir, if Fd not had the bad 
 luck to lose Wildfire. I should have paid you the 5 
 money/^ 
 
 "Fooleries! Pshaw! it's time you'd done with fool- 
 eries. And Fd have you know, sir, you must ha' done 
 with 'em," said the Squire, frowning and casting an 
 angry glance at his son. " Your goings-on are not what 10 
 I shall find money for any longer. There's my grand- 
 father had his stables full o' horses, and kept a good 
 house, too, and in worse times, by what I can make 
 out; and so might I, if I hadn't four good-for-nothing 
 fellows to hang on me like horse-leeches. Fve been 15 
 too good a father to you all — that's what it is. But I 
 shall pull up, sir." 
 
 Godfrey was silent. He was not likely to be very 
 penetrating in his judgments, but he had always had 
 a sense that his father's indulgence had not been kind- 20 
 ness, and had had a vague longing for some discipline 
 that would have checked his own errant weakness 
 and helped his better will. The Squire ate his bread 
 and meat hastily, took a deep draught of ale, then 
 turned his chair from the table, and began to speak 25 
 again. 
 
 " It'll be all the worse for you, you know — ^you'd 
 need try and help me keep things together." 
 
 " Well, sir, I've often offered to take the manage- 
 ment of things, but you know you've taken it ill always, 30 
 and seemed to think I wanted to push you out of your 
 place." 
 
 " I know nothing 0' your offering or 0' my taking it 
 
122 SILAS MARNER 
 
 ill/^ said the Squire, whose memory consisted in cer.. 
 tain strong impressions unmodified by detail; " but 1 
 know one while you seemed to be thinking o^ marrying, 
 and I didn^t offer to put any obstacles in your way/; 
 
 5 as some fathers would. Fd as lieve you married Lam- 
 meter^s daughter as anybody. I suppose if I'd said you 
 nay, youM ha' kept on with it; but for want o' contra° 
 diction you've changed your mind. You're a shilly- 
 shally fellow: you take after your poor mother. She 
 
 10 never had a will of her own; a woman has no call for 
 one, if she's got a proper man for her husband. But 
 your wife had need have one, for you hardly know your 
 own mind enough to make both your legs walk one 
 way. The lass hasn't said downright she won't have 
 
 15 you, has she ? " 
 
 " No,'^ said Godfrey, feeling very hot and uncom- 
 fortable; " but I don't think she will.'' 
 
 " Think! why haven't you the courage to ask her? 
 Do you stick to it, you want to have lier — that's the 
 
 20 thing? " 
 
 '^ There's no other woman I want to marry," said 
 Godfrey evasively. 
 
 '' Well, then, let me make the offer for you, that's 
 all, if you haven't the pluck to do it yourself. Lam- 
 
 l\5 meter isn't likely to be loath for his daughter to marry 
 into my family, I should think. And as for the pretty 
 lass, she wouldn't have her cousin — and there's nobody 
 else, as I see, could ha' stood in your way." 
 
 ^* I'd rather let it be, please, sir, at present," said 
 
 30 Godfrey, in alarm. '" I think she's a little offended 
 with me just now, and I should like to speak for 
 myself. A man must manage these things for him- 
 self." 
 
SILAS MARNER 123 
 
 ^^Well, speak then and manage it, and see if you 
 ian't turn over a new leaf. That^s what a man must 
 lo when he thinks o^ marrying/^ 
 
 I " I don^t see how I can think of it at present, sir. 
 iTou wouldn't like to settle me on one of the farms, I 5 
 uppose, and I don't think she'd come to live in this 
 louse with all my brothers. It's a different sort of life 
 ;o what she's been used to." 
 
 "]^ot come to live in this house? Don't tell me. 
 iTou ask her, that's all," said the Squire, with a short, lo 
 cornful laugh. 
 
 "I'd rather let the thing be at present, sir," said 
 Todfrey. "I hope you won't try to hurry it on by 
 aying anything." 
 
 " I shall do what I choose," said the Squire, " and 15 
 ] shall let you know I'm master; else you may turn 
 )ut and find an estate to drop into somewhere else. Go 
 )ut and tell Winthrop not to go to Cox's, but wait for 
 ne. And tell 'em to get my horse saddled. And, stop: 
 ook out and get that hack o' Dunsey's sold, and hand 20 
 ne the money, will you? He'll keep no more hacks at 
 ny expense. And if you know where he's sneaking — 
 [ dare say you do — you may tell him to spare him- 
 !elf the journey o' coming back home. Let him turn 
 )stler and keep himself. He shan't hang on me any 25 
 nore." 
 
 " I don't know where he is; and if I did, it isn't 
 ny place to tell him to keep away," said Godfrey, mov- 
 .ng toward the door. 
 
 " Confound it, sir, don't stay arguing, but go and 30 
 Drder my horse," said the Squire, taking up a pipe. 
 
 Godfrey left the room, hardly knowing whether he 
 prere more relieved by the sense that the interview was 
 
124 SILAS MARKER 
 
 ended without having made any change in his position, 
 or more uneasy that he had entangled himself still fur- 
 ther in prevarication and deceit. What had passed 
 about his proposing to E'ancy had raised a new alarm, I 
 5 lest by some after-dinner words of his father^s to Mr. 
 Lammeter he should be thrown into the embarrass- 
 ment of being obliged absolutely to decline her when 
 she seemed to be within his reach. He fled to his 
 usual" refuge, that of hoping for some unforeseen 
 
 10 turn of fortune, some favorable chance which would 
 save him from unpleasant consequences — perhaps 
 even justify his insincerity by manifesting its pru- 
 dence. 
 
 In this point of trusting to some throw of fortune's 
 
 15 dice Godfrey can hardly be called old-fashioned. Fa- 
 vorable Chance is the god of all men who follow their 
 own devices instead of obeying a law they believe in. 
 Let even a polished man of these days get into a posi- 
 tion he is ashamed to avow, and his mind will be bent 
 
 20 on all the possible issues that may deliver him from the 
 calculable results of that position. Let him live outside 
 his income, or shirk the resolute honest work that brings 
 wages, and he will presently find himself dreaming of a 
 possible benefactor, a possible simpleton who may be 
 
 25 cajoled into using his interest, a possible state of mind 
 in some possible person not yet forthcoming. Let him 
 neglect the responsibilities of his office, and he will 
 inevitably anchor himself on the chance, that the thing 
 left undone may turn out not to be of tjie supposed im- 
 
 30 portance. Let him betray his friend's confidence, and \ 
 he will adore that same cunning complexity called 1 
 Chance, which gives him the hope that his friend will { 
 never know. Let him forsake a decent craft that he 1 
 
I SILAS MARNER 125 
 
 may pursue the gentilities of a profession to which na- 
 ture never called him, and his religion will infallibly be 
 the worship of blessed Chance, which he will believe in 
 as the mighty creator of success. The evil principle 
 deprecated in that religion is the orderly sequence by 5 
 which the seed brings forth a crop after its kind. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 -. Justice Malam was naturally regarded in Tarley 
 and Raveloe as a man of capacious mind, seeing that 
 he could draw much wider conclusions without evidence 
 than could be expected of his neighbors who were not on 
 
 ■5 the Commission of the Peace. Such a man was not 
 likely to neglect the clew of the tinder-box, and an in- 
 quiry was set on foot concerning a peddler, name un« 
 known, with curly black hair and a foreign complexion, 
 carrying a box of cutlery and jewelry, and wearing large 
 
 10 rings in his ears. But either because inquiry was too 
 slow-footed to overtake him, or because the description 
 applied to so many peddlers that inquiry did not know 
 how to choose among them, weeks passed away, and there 
 was no other result concerning the robbery than a 
 
 15 gradual cessation of the excitement it had caused in 
 Raveloe. Dunstan Cass's absence was hardly a subject 
 of remark: he had once before had a quarrel with his 
 father, and had gone off, nobody knew whither, to re- 
 turn at the end of six weeks, take up his old quarters 
 
 20 unforbidden, and swagger as usual. His own family, 
 who equally expected this issue, with the sole difference 
 that the Squire was determined this time to forbid him 
 the old quarters, never mentioned his absence, and when 
 his Uncle Kimble or Mr. Osgood noticed it, the story of 
 
 25 his having killed Wildfire, and committed some offense 
 126 
 
SILAS MARNER 127 
 
 against his father, was enough to prevent surprise. To 
 connect the fact of Dunsey's disappearance with that 
 of the robbery occurring on the same day, lay quite away 
 from the track of every one^s thought — even Godfrey's, 
 who had better reason than any one else to know what 9 
 his brother was capable of. He remembered no mention 
 of the weaver between them since the time, twelve years 
 ago, when it was their boyish sport to deride him; and, 
 besides, his imagination constantly created an alibi for 
 Dunstan: he saw him continually in some congenial 10 
 haunt, to which he had walked off on leaving Wildfire — 
 saw him sponging on chance acquaintances, and medi- 
 tating a return home to the old amusement of torment- 
 ing his elder brother. Even if any brain in Eaveloe had 
 put the said two facts together, I doubt whether a com- is 
 bination so injurious to the prescriptive respectability 
 of a family with a mural monument and venerable 
 tankards would not have been suppressed as of unsound 
 tendency. But Christmas puddings, brawn, and abun* 
 dance of spirituous liquors, throwing the mental origi- 20 
 nality into the channel of nightmare, are great preserva- 
 tives against a dangerous spontaneity of waking thought. 
 When the robbery was talked of at the Eainbow and 
 elsewhere, in good company, the balance continued to 
 waver between the rational explanation founded on the 25 
 tinder-box and the theory of an impenetrable mystery 
 that mocked investigation. The advocates of the tinder- 
 box-and-peddler view considered the other side a mud- 
 dle-headed and credulous set, who, because they them- 
 selves were wall-eyed, supposed everybody else to have 30 
 the same blank outlook; and the adherents of the in- 
 explicable more than hinted that their antagonists were 
 animals inclined to crow before they had found any corn 
 
128 SILAS MARKER 
 
 — mere skimming-dishes in point of depth — whose clear- 
 sightedness consisted in supposing there was nothing 
 behind a barn door because they couldn't see through 
 it; so that, though their controversy did not serve to 
 
 6 elicit the fact concerning the robbery, it elicited some 
 true opinions of collateral importance. 
 
 But while poor Silas's loss served thus to brush the 
 slow current of Eaveloe conversation, Silas himself was 
 feeling the withering desolation of that bereavement 
 
 10 about which his neighbors were arguing at their ease. 
 To any one who had observed him before he lost his gold 
 it might have seemed that so withered and shrunken a 
 life as his could hardly be susceptible of a bruise, could 
 hardly endure any subtraction but such as would put 
 
 15 an end to it altogether. But in reality it had been 
 an eager life, filled with immediate purpose, which 
 fenced him in from the wide, cheerless unknown. It 
 had been a clinging life; and though the object round 
 which its fibers had clung was a dead disrupted thing, 
 
 20 it satisfied the need for clinging. But now the fence was 
 broken down — the support was snatched away. Mar- 
 ner's thoughts could no longer move in their old round, 
 and were baffled by a blank like that which meets a 
 plodding ant when the earth has broken away on its 
 
 25 homeward path. The loom was there, and the weaving, 
 and the growing pattern in the cloth; but the bright 
 treasure in the hole under his feet was gone; the pros- 
 pect of handling and counting it was gone; the evening 
 had no phantasm of delight to still the poor soul's crav- 
 
 80 ing. The thought of the money he would get by his 
 actual work could bring no joy, for its meager image 
 was only a fresh reminder of his loss; and hope was too 
 heavily crushed by the sudden blow for his imagination 
 
SILAS MARNER 129 
 
 to dwell on the growth of a new hoard from that small 
 beginning. 
 
 He filled np the blank with grief. As he sat w^eaving, 
 he every now and then moaned low, like one in pain: 
 it was the sign that his thoughts had come round again 5 
 to the sudden chasm — to the empty evening time. And 
 all the evening, as he sat in his loneliness by his dull 
 fire, he leaned his elbows on his knees, and clasped his 
 head with his hands, and moaned very low — not as one 
 who seeks to be heard. lo 
 
 And yet he was not utterly forsaken in his trouble. 
 The repulsion Marner had always created in his neigh- 
 bors was partly dissipated by the new light in which 
 this misfortune had shown him. Instead of a man who 
 had more cunning than honest folks could come by, and, 15 
 what was worse, had not the inclination to use that 
 cunning in a neighborly way, it was now apparent that 
 Silas had not cunning enough to keep his own. He was 
 generally spoken of as a " poor mushed creatur ^^; and 
 that avoidance of his neighbors, which had before been 20 
 referred to his ill will, and to a probable addiction to 
 worse company, w^as now considered mere craziness. 
 
 This change to a kindlier feeling was shown in vari- 
 ous ways. The odor of Christmas cooking being on the 
 wind, it was the season when superfluous pork and black 25 
 puddings are suggestive of charity in well-to-do families; 
 and Silas's misfortune had brought him uppermost in 
 the memory of housekeepers like Mrs. Osgood. Mr. 
 Crackenthorp, too, while he admonished Silas that his 
 money had probably been taken from him because he 30 
 thought too much of it and never came to church, en- 
 forced the doctrine by a present of pigs' pettitoes, well 
 calculated to dissipate unfounded prejudices against the 
 
130 SILAS MARNER 
 
 clerical character. Neighbors^ who had nothing but 
 verbal consolation to give^ showed a disposition not only 
 to greet Silas^ and discuss his misfortune at some length 
 when they encountered him in the village, but also to 
 5 take the trouble of calling at his cottage, and getting 
 him to repeat all the details on the very spot; and then 
 they would try to cheer him by saying, '' Well, Master 
 Marner, you^re no worse off nor other poor folks, after 
 all; and if you was to be crippled, the parish 'ud give you 
 
 10 a ^lowance/^ 
 
 1 suppose one reason why we are seldom able to 
 comfort our neighbors with our words is that our good 
 will gets adulterated, in spite of ourselves, before it can 
 pass our lips. We can send black puddings and pettitoes 
 
 15 without giving them a flavor of our own egoism; but 
 language is a stream that is almost sure to- smack of a 
 mingled soil. There was a fair proportion of kindness 
 in Eaveloe; but it was often of a beery and bungling 
 sort, and took the shape least allied to the compli- 
 
 20 mentary and hypocritical. 
 
 Mr. Macey, for example, coming one evening ex- 
 pressly to let Silas know that recent events had given 
 him the advantage of standing more favorably in the 
 opinion of a man whose judgment was not formed light- 
 
 g5 ly, opened the conversation by saying, as soon as he had 
 seated himself and adjiisted his thumbs — 
 
 " Come, Master Marner, why, youVe no call to sit 
 a-moaning. You^re a deal better off to ha' lost your 
 jnoney, nor to ha' kep' it by foul means. I used to 
 
 30 think, when you first come into these parts, as you were 
 no better nor you should be; you were younger a deal 
 than what you are now; but you were allays a staring, 
 white-faced creatur, partly like a bald-faced calf, as I 
 
, ^ SILAS MARNER 13i 
 
 may say. But there^s no knowing: it isn^t every qiieer- 
 looksed thing as Old Harry's had the making of — I 
 mean, speaking o' toads and such; for they're often 
 harmless, and useful against varmin. And it's pretty 
 much the same wi' you, as fur as I can see. Though 5 
 as to the yarbs and stuff to cure the breathing, if you 
 brought that sort o' knowledge from distant parts, you 
 might ha' been a bit freer of it. And if the knowledge 
 wasn't well come by, why, you might ha' made up for 
 it by coming to church reg'lar; for, as for the children 10 
 as the Wise Woman charmed, I've been at the christen- 
 ing of 'em again and again, and they took the water 
 just as well. And that's reasonable; for if Old Harry's 
 a mind to do a bit o' kindness for a holiday, like, who's 
 got anything against it? That's my thinking; and I've 15 
 been clerk o' this parish forty year, and I know, when 
 the parson and me does the cussing of a Ash Wednes- 
 day, there's no cussing o' folks as have a mind to be 
 cured without a doctor, let Kimble say what he will. 
 And so. Master Marner, as I was saying — for there's 20 
 windings i' things as they may carry you to the fur end 
 o' the prayer book afore you get back to 'em — my advice 
 is, as you keep up your sperrits; for as for thinking 
 you're a deep un, and ha' got more inside you nor 'ull 
 bear daylight, I'm not o' that opinion at all, and so I 25 
 tell the neighbors. For, says I, you talk o' Master Mar- 
 ner making out a tale — why, it's nonsense, that is: it 
 
 17. Mr. Macey here refers to the special service substituted by the 
 English church for the original penance in sackcloth and ashes ex- 
 acted of special penitents on the first day of Lent, 1. e., Ash Wednes- 
 day. In the English liturgy this service is known as " a commination 
 or denouncing of God's anger and judgments against sinners." It is 
 not found in the Prayer Book of the Episcopalian church in America. 
 Does Mr. Ma cey mean to be irreverent ? 
 
132 SILAS MARKER 
 
 ^ud take a ^ciite man to make a tale like that; and^ says 
 I, he looked as scared as a rabbit/^ 
 
 During this discursive address Silas had continued 
 motionless in his previous attitude, leaning his elbows 
 
 5 on his knees, and pressing his hands against his head. 
 Mr. Macey, not doubting that he had been listened to, 
 paused, in the expectation of some appreciatory reply, 
 but Marner remained silent. He had a sense that the 
 old man meant to be good-natured and neighborly; but 
 
 10 the kindness fell on him as sunshine falls on the 
 wretched — he had no heart to taste it, and felt that it 
 was very far off him. 
 
 " Come, Master Marner, have you got nothing to 
 say to that ? " said Mr. Macey at last, with a slight 
 
 15 accent of impatience. 
 
 " Ohy^ said Marner, slowly, shaking his head be- 
 tween his hands, " I thank you — thank you — kindly.'^ 
 
 '' Ay, ay, to be sure; I thought you would,^^ said 
 Mr. Macey; ^^ and my advice is — have you got a Sunday 
 
 80 suit?^^ 
 
 '' Xo,'' said Marner. 
 
 " I doubted it was so,^^ said Mr. Macey. ^^ Now, let 
 me advise you to get a Sunday suit; there's Tookey, 
 he^s a poor creatur, but he's got my tailoring business, 
 
 25 and some o' my money in it, and he shall make a suit 
 at a low price, and give you trust, and then you can 
 come to church, and be a bit neighborly. Why, you've 
 never beared me say ' Amen ' since you come into these 
 parts, and I recommend you to lose no time, for it'll be^ 
 
 80 poor work when Tookey has it all to himself, for I mayn't 
 be equil to stand i' the desk at all come another winter." 
 Here Mr. Macey paused, perhaps expecting some sign of 
 emotion in his hearer, but not observing any, he went 
 
SILAS MAENER 133 
 
 on. '' And as for the money for the suit o' clothes, 
 why, you get a matter of a pound a week at your weav- 
 ing, Master Marner, and you're a young man, eh, for 
 all you look so mushed. Why, you couldn't ha' been 
 live and twenty when you come into these parts, eh?" 5 
 
 Silas started a little at the change to a questioning 
 tone, and answered mildly, " I don't know; I can't 
 rightly say — ^it's a long while since." 
 
 After receiving such an answer as this it is not sur- 
 prising that Mr. Macey observed, later on in the even- lo 
 ing at the Eainbow, that Marner's head was " all of a 
 muddle," and that it was to be doubted if he ever knew 
 when Sunday came round, which showed him a worse 
 heathen than many a dog. 
 
 Another of Silas's comforters, besides Mr. Macey, is 
 came to him with a mind highly charged on the same 
 topic. This was Mrs. Winthrop, the wheelwright's wife. 
 The inhabitants of Eaveloe were not severely regular in 
 their church-going, and perhaps there was hardly a per- 
 son in the parish w^ho would not have held that to go 20 
 to church every Sunday in the calendar would have 
 shown a greedy desire to stand well with Heaven, and 
 get an undue advantage over their neighbors — a wish 
 to be better than the " common run," that would have 
 implied a reflection on those who had had godfathers 25 
 and godmothers as well as themselves, and had an equal 
 right to the burying service. At the same time it was 
 understood to be requisite for all who were not house- 
 hold servants, or young men, to take the sacrament at 
 one of the great festivals; Squire Cass himself took it 30 
 on Christmas Day; while those who were held to be 
 " good livers " w^ent to church with greater, though still 
 with moderate, frequency. 
 
134 SILAS MARKER 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop was one of these: she was in all 
 respects a woman of scrupulous conscience^ so eager for 
 duties that life seemed to oifer them too scantily unless 
 she rose at half -past four, though this threw a scarcity 
 5 of work over the more advanced hours of the morning, 
 which it was a constant problem with her to remove. 
 Yet she had not the vixenish temper which is sometimes 
 supposed to be a necessary condition of such habits: she 
 was a very mild, patient woman, whose nature it was 
 
 10 to seek out all the sadder and more serious elements of 
 life, and pasture her mind upon them. She was the 
 person always first thought of in Eaveloe when there 
 was illness or death in a family, when leeches were to be 
 applied, or there was a sudden disappointment in a 
 
 15 monthly nurse. She was a " comfortable woman ^^ — 
 good-looking, fresh-complexioned, having her lips al- 
 ways slightly screwed, as if she felt herself in a sick- 
 room with the doctor or the clergyman present. But 
 she was never whimpering; no one had seen her shed 
 
 20 tears; she was simply grave and inclined to shake her 
 head and sigh, almost imperceptibly, like a funereal 
 mourner who is not a relation. It seemed surprising 
 that Ben AYinthrop, who loved his quart pot and his 
 joke, got along so well with Dolly; but she took her lius- 
 
 25 band's jokes and joviality as patiently as everything else, 
 considering that "men would be so,'' and viewing the 
 stronger sex in the light of animals whom it had pleased 
 Heaven to make naturally troublesome, like bulls and 
 turkey cocks. 
 
 50 This good wholesome woman could hardly fail to 
 have her mind drawn strongly toward Silas Marner now 
 that he appeared in the light of a sufferer, and one Sun- 
 day afternoon she took her little boy Aaron with her, 
 
SILAS MARNER 135 
 
 and went to call on Silas, carrying in her hand some 
 small lard-cakes, flat, pastelike articles, much esteemed 
 in Eaveloe. Aaron, an apple-cheeked youngster of 
 seven, with a clean starched frill, which looked like a 
 plate for the apples, needed all his adventurous curl- 5 
 osity to embolden him against the possibility that the 
 big-eyed weaver might do him some bodily injury; and 
 his dubiety was much increased when, on arriving at the 
 Stone-pits, they heard the mysterious sound of the 
 loom. 10 
 
 " Ah, it is as I thought,^^ said Mrs. Winthrop sadly. 
 
 They had to knock loudly before Silas heard them, 
 but when he did come to the door he showed no impa- 
 tience, as he would once have done, at a visit that had 
 been unasked for and unexpected. Formerly, his heart is 
 had been as a locked casket with its treasure inside; 
 but now the casket was empty, and the lock was broken. 
 Left groping in darkness, with his prop utterly gone, 
 Silas had inevitably a sense, though a dull and half- 
 despairing one, that if any help came to him it must 20 
 come from without; and there was a slight stirring of 
 expectation at the sight of his fellow-men, a faint con- 
 sciousness of dependence on their good will. He opened 
 the door wide to admit Dolly, but without otherwise re- 
 turning her greeting than by moving the armchair a few 25 
 inches as a sign that she was to sit down in it. Dolly, 
 as soon as she was seated, removed the white cloth that 
 covered her lard-cakes, and said in her gravest way — 
 
 " Fd a baking yisterday, Master Marner, and the 
 lard-cakes turned out better nor common, and I'd ha' 30 
 asked you to accept some if you'd thought well. I don't 
 eat such things myself, for a bit o' bread's what I like 
 from one year's end to the other, but men's stomichs 
 
136 SILAS MARKER 
 
 are made so comical they want a change — they do^ I 
 know, God help ^em." 
 
 Dolly sighed gently as she held out the cakes to Silas, 
 who thanked her kindly, and looked very close at them, 
 
 6 absently, being accustomed to look so at everything he 
 took into his hand — eyed all the while by the wondering 
 bright orbs of the small Aaron, who had made an out- 
 work of his mother^s chair, and was peeping round from 
 behind it. 
 
 10 ^' There's letters pricked on 'em,'' said Dolly. " I 
 can't read 'em myself, and there's nobody, not Mr. 
 Macey himself, rightly knows what they mean; but 
 they've a good meaning, for they're the same as is on 
 the pulpit cloth at church. What are they, Aaron, my 
 
 15 dear?" 
 
 Aaron retreated completely behind his outwork 
 " Oh, go, that's naughty," said his mother mildly. 
 " Well, whativer the letters are, they've a good meaning; 
 and it's a stamp as has been in our house, Ben says, 
 
 20 ever since he was a little un, and his mother used to 
 put it on the cakes, and I've allays put it on too; for if 
 there's any good, we've need of it i' this world." 
 
 " It's I. H. S.," said Silas, at which proof of learning 
 Aaron peeped round the chair again. 
 
 25 " Well, to be sure, you can read 'em off," said Dolly. 
 " Ben's read 'em to me many and many a time, but they 
 slip out o' my mind again; the more's the pity, for 
 they're good letters, else they wouldn't be in the church; 
 and so I prick 'em on all the loaves and all the cakes, 
 
 80 though sometimes they won't hold because o' the rising 
 
 23. Either the first three letters of the Greek name Jesus, or the ini# 
 tials of Jesus Hominum Salvator (Jesus Saviour of Men). 
 
SILAS MARKER 137 
 
 — for, as I said, if there's any good to be got we've 
 need of it i' this world — that we have; and I hope 
 they'll bring good to you. Master Marner, for it's wi' 
 that will I brought you the cakes, and you see the letters 
 have held better nor common." 5 
 
 Silas was as unable to interpret the letters as Dolly, 
 but there was no possibility of misunderstanding the de- 
 sire to give comfort that made itself heard in her quiet 
 tones. He said, with more feeling than before, " Thank 
 jou — thank you kindly." But he laid down the cakes lO 
 and seated himself absently — drearily unconscious of 
 any distinct benefit toward which the cakes and the 
 letters, or even Dolly's kindness, could tend for him. 
 
 " Ah, if there's good anywhere, we've need of it," 
 repeated Dolly, who did not lightly forsake a serviceable is 
 phrase. She looked at Silas pityingly as she went on. 
 '^ But you didn't hear the church bells this morning, 
 Master Marner? I doubt you didn't know it was Sun- 
 day. Living so lone here, you lose your count, I dare 
 say; and then, when your loom makes a noise, you can't 20 
 hear the bells, more partic'lar now the frost kills the 
 sound." 
 
 " Yes, I did; I heard 'em," said Silas, to whom Sun- 
 day bells were a mere accident of the day, and not part 
 of its sacredness. There had been no bells in Lantern 25 
 Yard. 
 
 " Dear heart ! " said Dolly, pausing before she spoke 
 again. " But what a pity it is you should work of a 
 Sunday, and not clean yourself — ^if you didn't go to 
 church; for if you'd a roasting bit, it might be as you «o 
 couldn't leave it, being a lone man. But there's the 
 bakehus, if you could make up your mind to spend a 
 twopence on the oven now and then — not every week. 
 
138 SILAS MARKER 
 
 in course — I shouldn't like to do that myself — you might 
 carry your bit o' dinner there, for it's nothing but 
 right to have a bit o' summat hot of a Sunday, and not 
 to make it as you can't know your dinner from Saturday. 
 5 But now, upo' Christmas Day, this blessed Christmas as 
 is ever coming, if you was to take your dinner to the 
 bakehus, and go to church, and see the holly and the 
 yew, and hear the anthim, and then take the sacramen', 
 you'd be a deal the better, and you'd know which end 
 10 you stood on, and you could put your trust i' Them as 
 knows better nor we do, seein' you'd ha' done what it lies 
 on us all to do." 
 
 Dolly's exhortation, which was an unusually long 
 effort of speech for her, was uttered in the soothing per- 
 ls suasive tone with which she would have tried to prevail 
 on a sick man to take his medicine or a basin of gruel for 
 which he had no appetite. Silas had never before been 
 closely urged on the point of his absence from church, 
 which had only been thought of as a part of his gen<. 
 20 eral queerness; and he was too direct and simple ta 
 evade Dolly's appeal. 
 
 '' Nay, nay," he said, '' I know viothing o' the church. 
 I've never been to church." 
 
 ^^No!" said Dolly, in a low tone of wonderment. 
 26 Then bethinking herself of Sila^'t^ advent from an un- 
 known country, she said, " Could it ha' been as they'd 
 no church where you was born? " 
 
 '^ Oh, yes," said Silas meditatively, sitting in his 
 usual posture of leaning on his i<:nees and supporting his 
 80 head. '' There was churches —a many — it was a big 
 town. But I knew nothing of 'em — I went to chapel." 
 
 Dolly was much puzzled aL this new word, but she 
 was rather afraid of inquiring further, lest '' chapel '^ 
 
SILAS MARNER 139 
 
 might mean some haunt of wickedness. After a little 
 thought she said: 
 
 ^' Well, Master Marner, it's niver too late to turn 
 over a new leaf, and if youVe niver had no church, 
 there's no telling the good it'll do you. For I feel so set 5 
 up and comfortable as niver was when I've been and 
 heard the prayers, and the singing to the praise and 
 glory o' God, as Mr. Macey gives out — and Mr. Cracken- 
 thorp saying good words, and more partic'lar on Sacra- 
 men' Day; and if a bit o' trouble comes, I feel as I lo 
 can put up wi' it, for I've looked for help i' the right 
 quarter, and gev myself up to Them as we must all give 
 ourselves up to at the last; and if we'n done our part, it 
 isn't to be believed as Them as are above us 'ull be 
 worse nor we are, and come short o' Their n." 15 
 
 Poor Dolly's exposition of her simple Kaveloe the- 
 ology fell rather unmeaningly on Silas's ears, for there 
 was no word in it that could rouse a memory of what 
 he had known as religion, and his comprehension was 
 quite baffled by the plural pronoun, which was no heresy 20 
 of Dolly's, but only her way of avoiding a presumptuous 
 familiarity. He remained silent, not feeling inclined 
 to assent to the part of Dolly's speech which he fully 
 understood — her recommendation that he should go to 
 church. Indeed, Silas was so unaccustomed to talk be- 25 
 yond the brief questions and answers necessary for the 
 transaction of his simple business- that words did not 
 easily come to him without the urgency of a distinct 
 purpose. 
 
 But now, little Aaron, having become used to the 30 
 weaver's awful presence, had advanced to his mother's 
 side, and Silas, seeming to notice him for the first time, 
 tried to return Dolly's signs of good will bv offering the 
 
140 SILAS MARNER 
 
 lad a bit of lard-cake. Aaron shrank back a little^ and 
 
 rubbed his head against his mother^s shoulder, but still 
 
 thought the piece of cake worth the risk of putting hi& 
 
 hand out for it. 
 
 5 " Oh, for shame, Aaron/^ said his mother, taking 
 
 him on her lap, however; " why, you don^t want cake 
 
 again yet awhile. He^s wonderful hearty,^^ she went on, 
 
 with a little sigh; " that he is, God knows. He^s my 
 
 youngest, and we spoil him sadly, for either me or the 
 
 10 father must allays hev him in our sight — that we must.'^ 
 
 She stroked Aaron^s brown head, and thought it 
 
 must do Master Marner good to see such a " pictur of 
 
 a child.^^ But Marner, on the other side of the hearth^ 
 
 saw the neat-featured rosy face as a mere dim round,. 
 
 15 with two dark spots in it. 
 
 '^ And he's got a voice like a bird — you wouldn't 
 think," Dolly went on; " he can sing a Christm.as carril 
 as his father's taught him; and I take it for a token a& 
 he'll come to good, as he can learn the good tunes so 
 20 quick. Come, Aaron, stan' up and sing the carril to 
 Master Marner, come." 
 
 Aaron replied by rubbing his forehead against hi^ 
 mothers shoulder. 
 
 " Oh, that's naughty," said Dolly gently. " Stan'^ 
 25 up, when mother tells you, and let me hold the cake.^ 
 till you've done.'* 
 
 Aaron was not indisposed to display his talents, even 
 to an ogre, under protecting circumstances, and after 
 a few more signs of coyness, consisting chiefly in rub- 
 so bing the backs of his hands over his eyes, and then peep- 
 ing between them at Master Marner to see if he looked 
 anxious for the " carril," he at length allowed his head 
 to be duly adjusted, and standing behind the table which 
 
SILAS MARKER 141 
 
 let him appear above it only as far as his broad frill, so 
 that he looked like a cherubic head untroubled with a 
 body, he began with a clear chirp and in a melody that 
 had the rhythm of an industrious hammer: « 
 
 " God rest you, merry gentlemen, 5 
 
 Let nothing you dismay. 
 For Jesus Christ our Saviour 
 Was born on Christmas Day." 
 
 Dolly listened with a devout look, glancing at Mar- 
 ner in some confidence that this strain would help to lo 
 allure him to church. 
 
 '^ That^s Christmas music/' she said, when Aaron 
 had ended and had secured his piece of cake again. 
 " There's no other music equil to the Christmas music 
 ' — ' Hark the erol angils sing.' j\.ndi you may judge 15 
 what it is at church. Master Marner, with the bassoon 
 and the voices, as you can't help thinking you've got 
 to a better place a'ready — for I wouldn't speak ill o' 
 this world, seeing as Them put us in it as knows best; 
 but what wi' the drink, and the quarreling, and the bad 20 
 illnesses, and the hard dying, as I've seen times and 
 times, one's thankful to hear of a better. The boy sings 
 pretty, don't he. Master Marner? "• 
 
 " Yes," said Silas absently, " very pretty." 
 
 The Christmas carol, with its hammerlike rhythm, 25 
 had fallen on his ears as strange music, quite unlike a 
 hymn, and could have none of the effect Dolly contem- 
 plated. But he wanted to show her that he was grate- 
 ful, and the only mode that occurred to him was to offer 
 Aaron a bit more cake. 30 
 
 " Oh, no, thank you. Master Marner," said Dolly, 
 
 15. erol angils. Dolly's dialect for ** herald angels.'' 
 
142 SILAS MARiSrER 
 
 holding down Aaron^s willing hands. '^ We must he 
 going home now. And so I wish you good-by, Master 
 Marner; and if you ever feel anyways bad in your in- 
 side, as you can^t fend for yourself;, Til come and clean 
 
 5 up for you, and get you a bit o' victual, and willing. 
 But I beg and pray of you to leave off weaving of a 
 Sunday, for it^s bad for soul and body — and the money 
 as comes i^ that way ^ull be a bad bed to lie down on 
 at the last, if it doesn't fly away, nobody knows where, 
 
 10 like the white frost. And you^ll excuse me being that 
 free with you. Master Marner, for I wish you well — I do. 
 Make your bow, Aaron.^^ 
 
 •^ Silas said " Good-by, and thank you kindly,^^ as he 
 opened the door for Dolly, but he couldn't help feeling 
 
 15 relieved when she was gone — relieved that he might 
 weave again and moan at his ease. Her simple view of 
 life and its comforts, by which she had tried to cheer 
 him, was only like a report of unknown objects, Avhich 
 his imagination could not fashion. The fountains of 
 
 20 human love and of faith in a divine love had not yet 
 been unlocked, and his soul was still the shrunken 
 rivulet, with only this difference, that its little groove 
 of sand was blocked up, and it wandered confusedly 
 against dark obstruction. 
 
 25 And so, notwithstanding the honest persuasions of 
 Mr. Macey and Dolly Winthrop, Silas spent his Christ- 
 mas Day in loneliness, eating his meat in sadness of 
 heart, though the meat had come to him as a neighborly 
 present. In the morning he looked out on the black 
 
 30 frost that seemed to press cruelly on every blade of grass, 
 while the half -icy red pool shivered under the bitter 
 wind; but toward evening the snow began to fall, and 
 curtained from him even that dreary outlook, shutting 
 
SILAS MARNER 143 
 
 him close up with his narrow grief. And he sat in his 
 robbed home through the livelong evening, not caring to 
 close his shutters or lock his door, pressing his head be- 
 tween his hands and moaning, till the cold grasped him 
 and told him that his fire was gray. 5 
 
 Xobody in this world but himself knew that he was 
 the same Silas Marner who had once loved his fellow 
 with tender love, and trusted in an unseen goodness. 
 Even to himself that past experience had become dim. 
 
 But in Eaveloe village the bells rang merrily, and 10 
 the church was fuller than all through the rest of the 
 year, with red faces among the abundant dark-green 
 l)oughs — faces prepared for a longer service than usual 
 by an odorous breakfast of toast and ale. Those green 
 boughs, the hymn and anthem never heard but at 15 
 Christmas — even the Athanasian Creed, which was dis- 
 criminated from the others only as being longer and of 
 exceptional virtue, since it was only read on rare occa- 
 sions — brought a vague exulting sense, for which the 
 grown men could as little have found words as the chil- 20 
 dren, that something great and mysterious had been 
 done for them in heaven above, and in earth below, 
 which they were appropriating by their presence. And 
 then the red faces made their way through the black 
 biting frost to their own homes, feeling themselves free 25 
 for the rest of the day to eat, drink, and be merry, and 
 using that Christian freedom without diffidence. 
 
 At Squire Cassis family party that day nobody men- 
 tioned Dunstan — nobody was sorry for his absence, or 
 feared it would be too long. The doctor and his wife, 80 
 
 16. Athanasian Creed. Formulated in the ninth century. Named 
 from Athanasius, Bishop of Alexandria in the fourth century, as incor- 
 porating the ideas of the Trinity which he struggled to establish. 
 
144 SILAS MARKER 
 
 Uncle and Aunt Kimble^, were there, and the annual 
 Christmas talk was carried through without any omis- 
 sions, rising to the climax of Mr. Kimble^s experience 
 when he walked the London hospitals thirty years back, 
 
 5 together with striking professional anecdotes then gath- 
 ered. Whereupon cards followed, with Aunt Kimble's 
 annual failure to follow suit, and Uncle Kimble's irasci- 
 bility concerning the odd trick which was rarely ex- 
 plicable to him, when it w^as not on his side, without 
 
 10 a general visitation of tricks to see that they were 
 formed on sound principles; the whole being accom- 
 panied by a strong steaming odor of spirits-and- 
 water. 
 
 But the party on Christmas Day, being a strictly 
 
 15 family party, was not the pre-eminently brilliant cele- 
 bration of the season at the Eed House. It w^as the 
 great dance on New Year's Eve that made the glory of 
 Squire Cass's hospitality, as of his forefathers', time out 
 of mind. This was the occasion when all the society of 
 
 20 Kaveloe and Tarley, whether old acquaintances sepa- 
 rated by long rutty distances, or cooled acquaintances 
 separated by misunderstandings concerning runaway 
 calves, or acquaintances founded on intermittent con- 
 descension, counted on meeting and on comporting 
 
 25 themselves with mutual appropriateness. This was the 
 occasion on which fair dames who came on pillions sent 
 their bandboxes before them, supplied with more than 
 their evening costume; for the feast was not to end 
 with a single evening, like a paltry town entertainment. 
 
 30 where the whole supply of eatables is put on the table 
 at once and bedding is scanty. The Eed House was pro- 
 visioned as if for a siege; and as for the spare feather- 
 beds ready to be laid on floors, .they were as plentiful as 
 
SILAS MARKER 145 
 
 might naturally be expected in a family that had killed 
 its own geese for many generations. 
 
 Godfrey Cass was looking forward to this New Year's 
 Eve with a foolish reckless longing that made him half 
 deaf to his importunate companion, Anxiety. 5 
 
 " Dunsey will be coming home soon: there will be a 
 great blow-up, and how will you bribe his spite to 
 silence?'"' said Anxiety. 
 
 " Oh, he won't come home before New Year's Eve, 
 perhaps," said Godfrey; " and I shall sit by Nancy then lo 
 and dance with her, and get a kind look from her in 
 -spite of herself." 
 
 " But money is wanted in another quarter," said 
 Anxiety, in a louder voice, " and how will you get it 
 without selling your mother's diamond pin? And if 15 
 you don't get it . . . ? " 
 
 " Well, but something may happen to make things 
 easier. At any rate, there's one pleasure for me close 
 at hand — Nancy is coming." 
 
 " Yes, and suppose your father should bring matters 20 
 to a pass that will oblige you to decline marrying her 
 ' — and to give your reasons? " 
 
 '^ Hold your tongue, and don't worry me. I can 
 see Nancy's eyes, just as they will look at me, and feel 
 her hand in mine already." 25 
 
 But Anxiety went on, though in noisy Christmas 
 company, refusing to be utterly quieted even by much 
 drinking. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 Some women, I grant, would not appear to advan- 
 tage seated on a pillion, and attired in a drab Joseph 
 and a drab beaver bonnet, with, a crown resembling a 
 small stew pan; for a garment suggesting a coachman's 
 5 greatcoat, cut out under an exiguity of cloth that 
 would only allow of miniature capes, is not well 
 adapted to conceal deficiencies of contour, nor is drab 
 a color that will throw sallow cheeks into lively con- 
 trast. It was all the greater triumph to Miss Nancy 
 
 10 Lammeter's beauty that she looked thoroughly bewitch- . 
 ing in that costume, as, seated on the pillion behind 
 
 . her tall, erect father, she held one arm round him, and 
 looked down, with open-eyed anxiety, at the treacher- 
 ous snow-covered pools and puddles, which sent up for- 
 
 15 midable splashings of mud under the stamp of Dob- 
 bin's foot. A painter would, perhaps, have preferred 
 her in those moments when she was free from self-con- 
 sciousness; but certainly the bloom on her cheeks was 
 at its highest point of contrast with the surrounding 
 
 20 drab when she arrived at the door of the Red House, 
 and saw Mr. Godfrey Cass ready to lift her from the 
 pillion. She wished her sister Priscilla had come up 
 at the same time behind the servant, for then she would 
 have contrived that Mr. Godfrey should have lifted 
 
 25 off Priscilla first, and, in the meantime, she would 
 146 
 
SILAS MARNER 147 
 
 have persuaded her father to go round to the horse- 
 block instead of alighting at the doorsteps. It was 
 very painful when you had made it quite clear to a 
 young man that you were determined not to marry 
 him, however much he might wish it, that he would 5 
 still continue to pay you marked attentions; besides, 
 why didn^t he ahvays show the same attentions if he 
 meant them sincerely, instead of being so strange as 
 Mr. Godfrey Cass was, sometimes behaving as if he 
 didn't want to speak to her, and taking no notice of lo 
 her for weeks and weeks, and then, all on a sudden, 
 almost making love again? Moreover, it was quite 
 plain he had no real love for her, else he would not 
 let people have that to say of him which they did say. 
 Did he suppose that Miss J^ancy Lammeter was to be 15 
 won by any man, squire or no squire, who led a bad 
 life? That was not what she had been used to see in 
 her own father, who was the soberest and best man in 
 that country-side, only a little hot and hasty now and 
 then if things were not done to the minute. 20 
 
 All these thoughts rushed through Miss Nancy's 
 mind, in their habitual succession, in the moments be- 
 tween her first sight of Mr. Godfrey Cass standing at 
 the door and her own arrival there. Happily, the 
 Squire came out too, and gave a loud greeting to her 25 
 father, so that, somehow, under cover of this noise, 
 she seemed to find concealment for her confusion and 
 neglect of any suitably formal behavior while she was 
 being lifted from the pillion by strong arms which 
 seemed to find her ridiculously small and light. And 30 
 there was the best reason for hastening into the house 
 at once, since the snow was beginning to fall again, 
 threatening an unpleasant journey for such guests as 
 
148 SILAS MARNEK 
 
 were still on the road. These were a small minority ; 
 for already the afternoon was beginning to decline, and 
 there would not be too much time for the ladies who 
 came from a distance to attire themselves in readiness 
 5 for the early tea which was to inspirit them for the 
 dance. 
 
 There was a buzz of voices through the house as 
 Miss ^ancy entered, mingled with the scrape of a fiddle 
 preluding in the kitchen; but the Lammeters were 
 
 io guests whose arrival had evidently been thought of so 
 much that it had been watched for from the windows, 
 for Mrs. Kimble, who did the honors at the Eed House 
 on the^e great occasions, came forward to meet Miss 
 l^ancy in the hall, and conduct her upstairs. Mrs. 
 
 15 Kimble was the Squire's sister, as well as the doctor's 
 wife — a double dignity, with which her diameter was 
 in direct proportion, so that, a journey upstairs being 
 rather fatiguing to her, she did not oppose Miss Nancy^s 
 request to be allowed to find her way alone to the 
 
 20 Blue Eoom, where the Miss Lammeters' bandboxes had 
 been deposited on their arrival in the morning. 
 
 There was hardly a bedroom in the house where 
 feminine compliments were not passing and feminine 
 toilettes going forward, in various stages, in space made 
 
 25 scanty by extra beds spread upon the floor; and Miss 
 Nancy, as she entered the Blue Eoom, had to make 
 her little formal courtesy to a group of six. On the 
 one hand, there were ladies no less important than 
 the two Miss Gunns, the wine merchant's daughters 
 
 30 from Lytherly, dressed in the height of fashion, with 
 the tightest skirts and the shortest waists, and gazed 
 at by Miss Ladbrook (of the Old Pastures) with a shy- 
 ness not unsustained by inward criticism. Partly, Miss 
 
SILAS MARNER X4:9 
 
 Ladbrook felt that her own skirts must oe regarded as 
 unduly lax by the Miss Gunns, and partly that it was 
 a pity the Miss Gunns did not show that judgment 
 which she herself would show if she were in their place, 
 by stopping a little on this side of the fashion. On 6 
 the other hand, Mrs. Ladbrook was standing in skull- 
 cap and front, with her turban in her hand, courtesying 
 and smiling blandly and saying, " After you, ma'am,'^ 
 to another lady in similar circumstances, who had po- 
 litely offered the precedence at the looking-glass. 10 
 
 But Miss Nancy had no sooner made her courtesy 
 than an elderly lady camfe ^forward, whose full white 
 muslin kerchief and mob-cap round her curls of smooth 
 gray hair were in daring contrast with the puffed yel- 
 low satins and top-knotted caps of her neighbors. She i?> 
 approached Miss ISTancy with much primness, and said, 
 with a slow, treble suavity — 
 
 " Mece, I hope I see you well in health.^^ Miss 
 i^ancy kissed her aunt^s cheek dutifully, and answered, 
 with the same sort of amiable primness: ^^ Quite well, 20 
 I thank you, aunt, and I hope I see you the same.^^ 
 
 " Thank you, niece, I keep my health for the pres- 
 ent. And how is my brother-in-law?'^ 
 
 These dutiful questions and answers were continued 
 until it was ascertained in detail that the Lammeters 25 
 were all as well as usual, and the Osgoods likewise, 
 also that Niece Priscilla must certainly arrive shortly, 
 and that traveling on pillions in snowy weather was 
 unpleasant, though a Joseph was a great protection. 
 Then Nancy was formally introduced to her aunt's 30 
 visitors, the Miss Gunns, as being the daughters of a 
 mother known to their mother, though now for the 
 iirst time induced to make a journey into these parts; . 
 
150 SILAS MARNER 
 
 and these ladies were so taken by surprise at finding 
 such a lovely face and figure in an out-of-the-way coun- 
 try place, that they began to feel some curiosity about 
 the dress she would put on when she took off her 
 5 Joseph. Miss Nancy, whose thoughts were always con- 
 ducted with the propriety and moderation conspicuous 
 in her manners, remarked to herself that the Miss 
 Gunns were rather hard-featured than otherwise, and 
 that such very low dresses as they wore might have 
 10 been attributed to vanity if their shoulders had been 
 pretty, but that, being as they were, it was not rea- 
 sonable to suppose that they showed their necks from 
 a love of display, but rather from some obligation not 
 inconsistent with sense and modesty. She felt con- 
 is vinced, as she opened her box, that this must be her 
 Aunt Osgood's opinion, for Miss Nancy's mind resem- 
 bled her aunt's to a degree that everybody said was 
 surprising, considering the kinship was on Mr. Osgood's 
 side; and though you might not have supposed it from 
 20 the formality of their greeting, there was a devoted 
 attachment and mutual admiration between aunt and 
 niece. Even Miss Nancy's refusal of her cousin Gil- 
 bert Osgood (on the ground solely that he was her 
 cousin), though it had grieved her aunt greatly, had 
 25 not in the least cooled the preference which had de- 
 termined her to leave Nancy several of her hereditary 
 ornaments, let Gilbert's future wife be whom she might. 
 Three of the ladies quickly retired, but the Miss 
 Gunns were quite content that Mrs. Osgood's inclina- 
 30 tion to remain with her niece gave them also a reason 
 for staying to see the rustic beauty's toilet. And it 
 was really a pleasure — from the first opening of the 
 bandbox, where everything smelled of lavender and rose 
 
SILAS MARNER 151 
 
 leaves, to the clasping of the small coral necklace that 
 fitted closely round her little white neck. Everything 
 belonging to Miss Nancy was of delicate purity and 
 nattiness: not a crease was where it had no business 
 to be, not a bit of her linen professed whiteness with- 5 
 out fulfilling its profession; the very pins on her pin- 
 cushion were stuck in after a pattern from which she 
 was careful to allow no aberration; and as for her own 
 person, it gave the same idea of perfect unvarying neat- 
 ness as the body of a little bird. It is true that her lo 
 light brown hair was cropped behind like a boy's, and 
 was dressed in front in a number of flat rings, that 
 lay quite away from her face; but there was no sort 
 of coiffure that could make Miss Nancy's cheek and 
 neck look otherwise than pretty; and when at last she 15 
 stood complete in her silvery twilled silk, her lace 
 tucker, her coral necklace, and coral eardrops, the Miss 
 Grunns could see nothing to criticise except her hands, 
 which bore the traces of butter- making, cheese crush- 
 ing, and even still coarser work. But Miss Nancy was 20 
 not ashamed of that, for while she was dressing she 
 narrated to her aunt how she and Priscilla had packed 
 their boxes yesterday, because this morning was bak- 
 ing morning, and since they were leaving home, it was 
 desirable to make a good supply of meat pies for the 25 
 kitchen; and as she concluded this judicious remark, 
 she turned to the Miss Gunns that she might not com- 
 mit the rudeness of not including them in the con- 
 versation. The Miss Gunns smiled stiffly, and thought 
 what a pity it was that "these rich country people, who 30 
 could afford to buy such good clothes (really Miss 
 Nancy's lace and silk were very costly), should be 
 brought up in utter ignorance and vulgarity. She ac- 
 
152 SILAS MARNER 
 
 tually said ^^mate^^ for ^^ meat/^ "/appen" for "per- 
 haps/^ and " ^oss '^ for " horse/^ which, to young ladies 
 living in good Lytherly society, who habitually said 
 ^orse, even in domestic privacy, and only said ^appen 
 5 on the right occasions, was necessarily shocking. Miss 
 Nancy, indeed, had never been to any school higher 
 than Dame Tedman^s: her acquaintance with profane 
 literature hardly went beyond the rhymes she had 
 worked in her large sampler under the lamb and the 
 
 10 shepherdess; and in order to balance an account, she 
 was obliged to effect her subtraction by removing visi- 
 ble metallic shillings and sixpences from a visible me- 
 tallic total. There is hardly a servant maid in these 
 days who is not better informed than Miss Nancy; yet 
 
 15 she had the essential attributes of a lady — high verac- 
 ity, delicate honor in her dealings, deference to others, 
 and refined personal habits — and lest these should not 
 suffice to convince grammatical fair ones that her feel- 
 ings can at all resemble theirs, I will add that she was 
 
 20 slightly proud and exacting, and as constant in her 
 affection toward a baseless opinion as toward an erring 
 lover. 
 
 The anxiety about Sister Priscilla, which had grown 
 rather active by the time the coral necklace was clasped, 
 
 25 was happily ended by the entrance of that cheerful- 
 looking lady herself, with a face made blowsy by cold 
 and damp. After the first questions and greetings, she 
 turned to Nancy and surveyed her from head to foot 
 — then wheeled her round, to ascertain that the back 
 
 30 view was equally faultless. 
 
 " What do you think o^ tJiese gowns, Aunt Osgood ? '^ 
 said Priscilla, while Nancy helped her to unrobe. 
 " Very handsome indeed, niece,^^ said Mrs. Osgood, 
 
SILAS MARNER I53 
 
 with a slight increase of formality. She always thought 
 Kiece Priscilla too rough. 
 
 " I'm obliged to have the same as ISTancy, you know, 
 for all I'm five years older, and it makes me look yal- 
 low ; for she never will have anything without I have 5 
 mine just like it, because she wants us to look like 
 gisters. And I tell her folks 'ull think it's my weak- 
 aess makes me fancy as I shall look pretty in what she 
 looks pretty in. For I am ugly — there's no denying 
 that : I feature my father's family. But, law ! I don't 10 
 mind, do you?'^ Priscilla here turned to the Miss 
 Gunns, rattling on in too much preoccupation with the 
 delight of talking to notice that her candor was not 
 appreciated. " The pretty nns do for flycatchers — 
 they keep the men off us. I've no opinion o' the men, 15 
 Miss Gunn — I don't know what you have. And as for 
 fretting and stewdng about •what they'll think of you 
 from morning till night, and making your life uneasy 
 about what they're doing when they're out o' your 
 sight — as I tell Nancy, it's a folly no woman need be 2C 
 guilty of, if she's got a good father and a good home: 
 let her leave it to them as have got no fortin, and 
 can't help themselves. As I say, Mr. Have-your-own- 
 way is the best husband, and the only one I'd ever prom- 
 ise to obey. I know it isn't pleasant, when you've been 25 
 used to living in a big way, and managing hogsheads 
 and all that, to go and put your nose in by somebody 
 else's fireside, or to sit down by yourself to a scrag or 
 a knuckle; but, thank God! my father's a sober man 
 and likely to live; and if you've got a man by the chim- so 
 ney corner, it doesn't matter if he's childish — the busi- 
 ness needn't be broke up." 
 
 The delicate process of getting her narrow gowp 
 
154 SILAS MARNER 
 
 over her head without injury to her smooth curls 
 obliged Miss Priscilla to pause in this rapid survey of 
 life, and Mrs. Osgood seized the opportunity of rising 
 and saying: 
 5 " Well, niece, you'll follow us. The Miss Gunng 
 will like to go down.'' 
 
 " Sister," said Nancy, when they were alone, 
 ^^ you've offended the Miss Gunns, I'm sure." 
 
 "What have I done, child?" said Priscilla, in some 
 
 XO alarm. 
 
 " Why, you asked them if they minded about being 
 ugly — you're so very blunt." 
 
 "Law, did I? Well, it popped out; it's a mercy 
 I said no more, for I'm a bad un to live with folks 
 
 15 when they don't like the truth. But as for being 
 ugly, look at me, child, in this silver-colored silk — I 
 told you how it 'ud be — I look as yallow as a daffa- 
 dil. Anybody 'ud say you wanted to make a mawkin 
 of me." 
 
 20 " No, Priscy, don't say so. I begged and prayed 
 of you not to let us have this silk if you'd like an- 
 other better. I was willing to have your choice, you 
 know I was,'' said Nancy, in anxious self -vindication. 
 " Nonsense, child ! you know you'd set your heart 
 
 25 on this; and reason good, for you're the color o' cream. 
 It 'ud be fine doings for you to dress yourself to suit 
 my skin. What I find fault with is that notion o' yours 
 
 • as I must dress myself just like you. But you do as 
 you like with me — you always did from when first you 
 
 30 begun to walk. If you wanted to go the field's length, 
 the field's length you'd go; and there was no whipping 
 you, for you looked as prim and innicent as a daisy all 
 the while." 
 
SILAS MARNER 155 
 
 I ^^ Priscy/^ said Nancy gently, as she fastened a coral 
 necklace, exactly like her own, round Priscilla's neck, 
 which was very far from being like her own, " Tm sure 
 Fm willing to give way as far as is right, but who 
 shouldn't dress alike if it isn't sisters? Would you have 5 
 us go about looking as if we were no kin to one an- 
 other — us that have got no mother and not another 
 sister in the world? I'd do what was right, if I dressed 
 in a gown dyed with cheese coloring; and I'd rather 
 you'd choose, and let me wear what pleases you." lo 
 
 " There you go again ! You'd come round to the 
 same thing if one talked to you from Saturday night 
 till Saturday morning. It'll be fine fun to see how 
 you'll master your husband and never raise your voice 
 above the singing o' the kettle all the while. I like to is 
 see the .men mastered! " 
 
 "Don't talk so, Priscy," said ]!^ancy, blushing. 
 " You know I don't mean ever to be married." 
 
 " Oh, you never mean a fiddlestick's end ! " said 
 Priscilla, as she arranged her discarded dress, and closed 20 
 her bandbox. "Who shall I have to work for when 
 father's gone, if you are to go and take notions in your 
 head and be an old maid, because some folks are no 
 better than they should be ? I haven't a bit o' patience 
 with you — sitting on an addled egg forever, as if there 25 
 was never a fresh un in the world. One old maid's 
 enough out o' two sisters; and I shall do credit to a 
 single life, for God A'mighty meant me for it. Come, 
 we can go down now. I'm as ready as a mawkin can 
 be — there's nothing a-wanting to frighten the crows, 30 
 now I've got my ear-droppers in." 
 
 As the two Miss Lammeters walked into the large 
 parlor together, any one who did not know the char- 
 
156 SILAS MARNER 
 
 acter of both might certainly have supposed that the 
 reason why the square-shouldered, clumsy, high-fea- 
 tured Priscilla wore a dress the facsimile of her pretty 
 sister's was either the mistaken vanity of the one, or the 
 5 malicious contrivance of the other in order to set off 
 her own rare beauty. But the good-natured self -for- 
 getful cheeriness and common sense of Priscilla would 
 soon have dissipated the one suspicion; and the modest 
 calm of Nancy^s speech and manners told clearly of a 
 
 io mind free from all disavowed devices. 
 
 Places of honor had been kept for the Miss Lam- 
 meters near the head of the principal tea table in the 
 wainscoted parlor, now looking fresh and pleasant with 
 handsome branches of holly, yew, and laurel, from the 
 
 15 abundant growths of the old garden; and Nancy felt 
 an inward flutter, that no firmness of purpose could 
 prevent, when she saw Mr. Godfrey Cass advancing 
 to lead her to a seat between himself and Mr. Cracken- 
 thorp, while Priscilla was called to the opposite side 
 \/ 20 between her father and the Squire. It certainly did 
 make some difference to Nancy that the lover she had 
 given up was the young man of quite the highest con- 
 sequence in the parish — at home in a venerable and 
 unique parlor, which was the extremity of grandeui' 
 
 25 in her experience, a parlor where she might one day 
 have been mistress, with the consciousness that she was 
 spoken of as '' Madam Cass,^^ the Squire's wife. These 
 circumstances exalted her inward drama in her own 
 eyes, and deepened the emphasis with which she de- 
 
 30 clared to herself that not the most dazzling rank should 
 induce her to marry a man whose conduct showed him 
 careless of his character, but that, "love once, love al- 
 ways/^ was the motto of a true and pure woman, and 
 
SILAS MARNER 157 
 
 no man should ever have any right over her which 
 would be a call on her to destroy the dried flowers that 
 she treasured, and always would treasure, for Godfrey 
 Cass's sake. And Nancy was capable of keeping her 
 word to herself under very trying conditions. Nothing 5 
 but a becoming blush betrayed the moving thoughts 
 that urged themselves upon her as she accepted the 
 seat next to Mr. Crackenthorp; for she was so instinc- 
 tively neat and adroit in all her actions, and her pretty 
 lips met each other with such quiet firmness, that it lo 
 would have been difficult for her to appear agitated. 
 
 It was not the rector'^ practice to let a charming 
 blush pass without an appropriate compliment. He 
 was not in the least lofty or aristocratic, but simply a 
 merry-eyed, small-featured, gray-haired man, with his 15 
 chin propped by an ample, many-creased white neck- 
 cloth, which seemed to predominate over every other 
 point in his person, and somehow to impress its pe- 
 culiar character on his remarks; so that to have con- 
 sidered his amenities apart from his cravat would have 20 
 been a severe, and perhaps a dangerous, effort of ab- 
 straction. 
 
 " Ha, Miss Nancy,'' he said, turning his head with- 
 in his cravat, and smiling down pleasantly upon her, 
 "^ when anybody pretends this has been a severe win- 25 
 ter, I shall tell them I saw the roses blooming on New 
 Year's Eve — eh, Godfrey, what do you say? " 
 
 Godfrey made no reply, and avoided looking at 
 Nancy very markedly; for though these complimen- 
 tary personalities were held to be in excellent taste in 30 
 old-fashioned Eaveloe society, reverent love has a po- 
 liteness of its own which it teaches to men otherwise 
 of siaaall schooling. But the Squire was rather impa- 
 
158 SILAS MARNER 
 
 tient at Godfrey's showing himself a dull spark in this 
 way. By this advanced hour of the day, the Squire 
 was always in higher spirits than we have seen him in 
 at the breakfast table, and felt it quite pleasant to ful- 
 5 fill the hereditary duty of being noisily jovial and pat- 
 ronizing: the large silver snuffbox was in active service, 
 and was offered without fail to all neighbors from time 
 to time, however often they might have declined the 
 favor. At present, the Squire had only given an ex- 
 
 10 press welcome to the heads of families as they appeared; 
 but always as the evening deepened, his hospitality 
 rayed out more widely, till he had tapped the youngest 
 guests on the back and shown a peculiar fondness for 
 their presence, in the full belief that they must feel 
 
 15 their lives made happy by their belonging to a parish 
 where there was such a hearty man as Squire Cass to 
 invite them and wish them well. Even in this earlj 
 stage of the jovial mood, it was natural that he should 
 wish to supply his son's deficiencies by looking and 
 
 20 speaking for him. 
 
 " Ay, ay,'' he began, offering his snuffbox to Mr. 
 Lammeter, who for the second time bowed his head 
 and waved his hand in stiff rejection of the offer, '' us 
 old fellows may wish ourselves young to-night, when 
 
 25 we see the mistletoe bough in the White Parlor. It's 
 true, most things are gone back'ard in these last thirty 
 years — the country's going down since the old king 
 fell ill. But when I look at Miss ISTancy here, I begin 
 to think the lasses keep up their quality — ding me 
 
 30 if I remember a sample to match her, not when I was 
 a fine young fellow, and thought a deal about my pig- 
 
 27. the old king. The reference is to the insanity of George III. 
 
f- SILAS MARNER I59 
 
 tail. ISTo offense to you, madam/^ he added, bending 
 to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who sat by him, " I didn't know 
 you when you were as young as Miss Nancy here.'^ 
 
 Mrs. Crackenthorp — a small, blinking woman, who 
 fidgeted incessantly with her lace, ribbons, and golds 
 chain, turning her head about and making subdued 
 noises, very much like a guinea pig, that twitches its 
 nose and soliloquizes in all company indiscriminately — 
 now blinked and fidgeted toward the Squire, and said, 
 '' Oh, no — no offense.^' 10 
 
 This emphatic compliment of the Squire's to Nancy 
 was felt by others besides Godfrey to have a diplomatic 
 significance; and her father gave a slight additional 
 erectness to his back as he looked across the table at 
 her with complacent gravity. That grave and orderly 15 
 senior was not going to bate a jot of his dignity by 
 seeming elated at the notion of a match between his 
 family and the Squire's: he was gratified by any honor 
 paid to his daughter; but he must see an alteration 
 in several ways before his consent would be vouchsafed. 20 
 His spare but healthy person, and high-featured firm 
 face, that looked as if it had never been flushed by 
 excess, was in strong contrast, not only with the 
 Squire's, but with the appearance of the Kaveloe farm- 
 ers generally — in accordance with a favorite saying of 25 
 his own, that "breed was stronger than pasture." 
 
 " Miss Nancy's wonderful like what her mother was, 
 though; isn't she, Kimble? " said the stout lady of that 
 name, looking round for her husband. 
 
 But Dr. Kimble (country apothecaries in old days 30 
 enjoyed that title without authority of diploma), 
 being a thin and agile man, was flitting about the 
 room with his hands in his pockets, making himself 
 
160 SILAS MARNER 
 
 agreeable to his feminine patients, with, medical im- 
 partiality, and being welcomed everywhere as a doctor 
 by hereditary right — not one of those miserable apothe- 
 caries who canvass for practice in strange neighbor- 
 6 hoods, and spend all their income in starving their one 
 horse, but a man of substance, able to keep an extrava- 
 gant table like the best of his patients. Time out of 
 mind the Eaveloe doctor had been a Kimble; Kimble 
 was inherently a doctor's name; and it was difficult to 
 
 ic contemjDlate firmly the melancholy fact that the actual 
 Kimble had no son, so that his practice might one day 
 be handed over to a successor, with the incongruous 
 name of Taylor or Johnson. But in that case the wiser 
 people in Eaveloe would employ Dr. Blick, of Flitton — 
 
 15 as less unnatural. 
 
 '' Did you speak to me, -my dear? ^^ said the authen- 
 tic doctor, coming quickly to his wife's side; but, as if 
 foreseeing that she would be too much out of breath 
 to repeat her remark, he went on immediately: " Ha, 
 
 20 Miss Priscilla, the sight of you revives the taste of that 
 super-excellent pork pie. I hope the batch isn't near 
 an end.'^ 
 
 " Yes, indeed, it is, doctor,^^ said Priscilla; " but I'll 
 answer for it the next shall be as good. My pork pies 
 
 ^ don't turn out well by chance." 
 
 " Not as your doctoring does, eh, Kimble ? — ^because 
 folks forget to take your physic, eh?'^ said the Squire, 
 who regarded physic and doctors as many loyal church- 
 men regard the church and the clergy— tasting a joke 
 
 30 against them when he was in health, but impatiently 
 eager for their aid when anything was the matter with 
 him. He tapped his box, and looked round with a tri- 
 umphant laugh. 
 
SILAS MARNER 161 
 
 " Ah, she has a quick wit, my friend Priscilla has/* 
 said the doctor, choosing to attribute the epigram to 
 a lady rather than allow a brother-in-law that advan- 
 tage over him. " She saves a little pepper to sprinkle 
 over her talk— that's the reason why she never puts 5 
 too much into her pies. There's my wife now, she 
 never has an answer at her tongue's end; but if I of- 
 fend her, she's sure to scarify my throat with black 
 pepper the next day, or else give me the colic with 
 watery greens. That's an awful tit-for-tat." Here lo 
 the vivacious doctor made a pathetic grimace. 
 
 " Did you ever hear the like ? " said Mrs. Kimble, 
 laughing above her double chin with much good-humor, 
 aside to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who blinked and nodded, 
 and amiably intended to smile, but the intention lost 15 
 itself in small twitchings and noises. 
 
 " I suppose that's the sort of tit-for-tat adopted in 
 your profession, Kimble, if you've a grudge against a 
 patient," said the rector. 
 
 "Never do have a grudge against our patients," 20 
 said Mr. Kimble, " except when they leave us; and 
 then, you see, we haven't the chance of prescribing for 
 'em. Ha, Miss Nancy," he continued, suddenly skip- 
 ping to iSTancy's side, "you won't forget your promise? 
 You're to save a dance for me, you know." 25 
 
 " Come, come, Kimble, don't you be too f or'ard," 
 said the Squire. " Give the young uns fair play. 
 There's my son Godfrey'll be wanting to have a round ^ 
 with you if you run off with Miss Nancy. He's be- 
 spoke her for the first dance, I'll be bound. Eh, sir! sa 
 what do you say?" he continued, throwing himself 
 backward, and looking at Godfrey. "Haven't you 
 asked Miss Nancy to open the dance with you?" 
 
162 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Godfrey, sorely uncomfortable under this significant 
 insistence about Nancy, and afraid to think where it 
 would end by the time his father had set his usual 
 hospitable example of drinking before and after sup- 
 5 per, saw no course open but to turn to Nancy and say, 
 with as little awkwardness as possible — 
 
 " No, Tye not asked her yet, but I hope she'll con- 
 sent^-if somebody else hasn't been before me." 
 
 ^^ No, I've not engaged myself," said Nancy quietly, 
 
 10 though blushingly. (If Mr. Godfrey founded any 
 
 hopes on her consenting to dance with him he would 
 
 soon be undeceived, but there was no need for her to 
 
 be uncivil.) 
 
 " Then I hope you've no objections to dancing with 
 
 15 me," said Godfrey, beginning to lose the sense that 
 
 there was anything uncomfortable in this arrangement. 
 
 " No, no objections," said Nancy, in a cold tone. 
 
 ^^ Ah, well, you're a lucky fellow, Godfrey," said 
 Uncle Kimble; ^^ but you're my godson, so I won't stand 
 20 in your way. Else I'm not so very old, eh, my dear? " 
 he went on, skipping to his wife's side again. " You 
 wouldn't mind my having a second after you were gone 
 — not if I cried a good deal first? " 
 
 " Come, come, take a cup o' tea and stop your 
 
 25 tongue, do," said good-humored Mrs. Kimble, feeling 
 
 some pride in a husband who must be regarded as so 
 
 clever and amusing by the company generally. If he 
 
 had only not been irritable at cards! 
 
 While safe, well-tested personalities were enlivening 
 30 the tea in this way, the sound of the fiddle approach- 
 ing within a distance at which it could be heard dis- 
 tinctly made the young people look at each other with 
 sympathetic impatience for the end of the meal. 
 
SILAS MARNER 163 
 
 " Why, there's Solomon in the hall/' said the Squire, 
 '^ and playing my f av'rite tune, I believe — ' The flaxen- 
 headed ploughboy' — he's for giving us a hint as we 
 aren't enough in a hurry to hear him play. Bob/' he 
 called out to his third long-legged son, who was at the 5 
 other end of the room, " open the door, and tell Solo- 
 mon to come in. He shall give us a tune here." 
 
 Bob obeyed, and Solomon walked in, fiddling as he 
 walked, for he would on no account break off in the 
 middle of a tune. lo 
 
 " Here, Solomon," said the Squire, with loud pat- 
 ronage. " Bound here, my man. Ah, I knew it was 
 ^The flaxen-headed ploughboy': there's no finer tune." 
 
 Solomon Macey, a small, hale old man with an 
 abundant crop of long white hair reaching nearly to 15 
 his shoulders, advanced to the indicated spot, bowing 
 reverently while he fiddled, as much as to say that he 
 respected the company, though he respected the key- 
 note more. As soon as he had repeated the tune and 
 lowered his fiddle, he bowed again to the Squire and 20 
 the rector, and said, " I hope I see your honor and 
 your reverence well, and wishing you health and long 
 life and a happy New Year. And wishing the same to 
 you, Mr. Lammeter, sir; and to the other gentlemen, 
 and the madams, and the young lasses." 25 
 
 As Solomon uttered the last words, he bowed in all 
 directions solicitously, lest he should be wanting in due 
 respect. But thereupon he immediately began to pre- 
 lude, and fell into the tune which he knew would be 
 taken as a special compliment by Mr. Lammeter. 30 
 
 " Thank ye, Solomon, thank ye/' said Mr. Lam- 
 meter, when the fiddle paused again. " That's ' Over 
 the hills and far away/ that is. My father used to say 
 
164 SILAS MARNER 
 
 to me whenever we heard that tune, ^ Ah, lad, I come 
 from over the hills and far away/ There's a many 
 tunes I donH make head or tail of; but that speaks to 
 me like the blackbird's whistle. I suppose it's the 
 6 name; there's a deal in the name of a tune." 
 
 But Solomon was already impatient to prelude 
 again, and presently broke with much spirit into " Sir 
 Eoger de Coverley," at which there was a sound of 
 chairs pushed back, and laughing voices. 
 
 10 " Ay, ay, Solomon, we know what that means," said 
 the Squire, rising. "It's time to begin the dance, eh? 
 Lead the way, then, and we'll all follow you." 
 
 So Solomon, holding his white head on one side, 
 and playing vigorously, marched forward at the head 
 
 15 of the gay procession into the White Parlor, where 
 the mistletoe bough was hung, and multitudinous tal- 
 low candles made rather a brilliant effect, gleaming 
 from among the berried holly boughs, and reflected in 
 the old-fashioned oval mirrors fastened in the panels of 
 
 20 the white wainscot. A quaint procession! Old Solo- 
 mon, in his seedy clothes and long white locks, seemed 
 to be luring that decent company by the magic scream 
 of his fiddle — luring discreet matrons in turban-shaped 
 caps, nay, Mrs. Crackenthorp herself, the summit of 
 
 55 whose perpendicular feather was on a level with the 
 Squire's shoulder — luring fair lasses complacently con- 
 scious of very short waists and skirts blameless of front 
 folds — luring burly fathers, in large variegated waist- 
 coats, and ruddy sons, for the most part shy and sheep- 
 
 30 ish, in short nether garments and very long coattails. 
 Already, Mr. Macey and a few other privileged vil- 
 lagers, who were allowed to be spectators on these great 
 occasions, were seated on benches placed for them near 
 
SILAS MARNER 165 
 
 the door; and great was the admiration and satisfac- 
 tion in that quarter when the couples had formed 
 themselves for the dance, and the Squire led off with 
 Mrs. Crackenthorp, joining hands with the rector and 
 Mrs. Osgood. That was as it should be — that was what 5 
 everybody had been used to — and the charter of Eave- 
 loe seemed to be renewed by the ceremony. It was 
 not thought of as an unbecoming levity for the old 
 and middle-aged people to dance a little before sitting 
 down to cards, but rather as part of their social duties, lo 
 For what were these if not to be merry at appropri- 
 ate times, interchanging visits and poultry with due 
 frequency, paying each other old-established compli- 
 ments in sound traditional phrases, passing well-tried 
 personal jokes, urging your guests to eat and drink is 
 too much out of hospitality, and eating and drinking 
 too much in your neighbor's house to show that you 
 liked your cheer? And the parson naturally set an 
 example in these social duties. For it would not have 
 been possible for the Raveloe mind, without a peculiar 20 
 revelation, to know that a clergyman should be a pale- 
 faced memento of solemnities, instead of a reasonably 
 faulty man, whose exclusive authority to read prayers 
 and preach, to christen, marry, and bury you, neces- 
 sarily co-existed with the right to sell you the ground 2S 
 to be buried in, and to take tithe in kind; on which 
 last point, of course, there was a little grumbling, but 
 not to the extent of irreligion — not of deeper signifi- 
 cance than the grumbling at the rain, which was by no 
 means accompanied with a spirit of impious defiance, so 
 but with a desire that the prayer for fine weather might 
 be read forthwith. 
 
 There was no reason, then, why the rector's dan- 
 
166 SILAS MARNER 
 
 cing should not be received as part of the fitness of 
 things quite as much as the Squire^s, or why, on the 
 other hand, Mr. Macey^s official respect should restrain 
 him from subjecting the parson^s performance to that 
 6 criticism with which minds of extraordinary acuteness 
 must necessarily contemplate the doings of their fal- 
 lible fellow-men. 
 
 " The Squire^s pretty springe, considering his 
 weight/^ said Mr. Macey, '' and he stamps uncommon 
 
 ID well. But Mr. Lammeter beats ^em all for shapes: you 
 see, he holds his head like a sodger, and he isnH so 
 cushiony as most o' the oldish gentlefolks — they run 
 fat in general; and he's got a fine leg. The parson's 
 nimble enough, but he hasn't got much of a leg: it's 
 
 It) a bit too thick down'ard, and his knees might be a bit 
 nearer wi'out damage; but he might do worse, he might 
 do worse. Though he hasn't that grand way o' waving 
 his hand as the Squire has." 
 
 " Talk o' nimbleness, look at Mrs. Osgood," said 
 
 20 Ben Winthrop, who was holding his son Aaron between 
 his knees. " She trips along with her little steps, so 
 as nobody can see how she goes — it's like as if she had 
 little wheels to her feet. She doesn't look a day older 
 nor last year: she's the finest made woman as is, let 
 
 25 the next be where she will." 
 
 " I don't heed how the women are made," said Mr. 
 Macey, with some contempt. " They wear nayther 
 coat nor breeches; you can't make much out o' their 
 shapes." 
 
 80 " Fayder," said Aaron, whose feet were busy beat- 
 ing out the tune, "how does that big cock's feather 
 stick in Mrs. Crackenthorp's yead? Is there a little 
 hole for it^ like in my shuttlecock?" 
 
SILAS MARNER 167 
 
 "Hush, lad, hush; that's the way the ladies dress 
 theirselves, that is/' said the father, adding, however,, 
 in an undertone, to Mr. Macey: "It does make her 
 look funny, though — partly like a short-necked bottle 
 wi' a long quill in it. Hey, by jingo, there's the young 5 
 Squire leading off now, wi' Miss Nancy for partners. 
 There's a lass for you! — like a pink-and- white posy — 
 there's nobody 'ud think as anybody could be so pritty. 
 I shouldn't wonder if she's Madam Cass some day, arter 
 all — and nobody more rightfuller, for they'd make a 10 
 fine match. You can find nothing against Master God- 
 frey's shapes, Macey, I'll bet a penny." 
 
 Mr. Macey screwed up his mouth, leaned his head 
 further on one side, and twirled his thumbs with a 
 presto movement as his eyes followed Godfrey up the is 
 dance. At last he summed up his opinion: 
 
 " Pretty well down'ard, but a bit too round i' the . 
 shoulder-blades. And as for them coats as he gets 
 from the Flitton tailor, they're a poor cut to pay dou- 
 ble money for." 20 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Macey, you and me are two folks," said 
 Ben, slightly indignant at this carping. " When I've 
 got a pot o' good ale, I like to swaller it, and do my 
 inside good, i'stead o' smelling and staring at it to see 
 if I can't find faut wi' the brewing. I should like you 25 
 to pick me out a finer-limbed young fellow nor Master 
 Godfrey — one as''ud knock you down easier, or 's more 
 pleasanter looksed when he's piert and merry." 
 
 " Tchuh ! " said Mr. Macey, provoked to increased 
 severity, "he isn't come to his right color yet: he's 30 
 partly like a slack-baked pie. And I doubt he's got a 
 soft place in his head, else why should he be turned 
 round the finger by that offal Dunsey as nobody's seen 
 
168 SILAS MARNER 
 
 >/ late, and let him kill that fine hunting hoss as was 
 che talk o^ the country? And one while he was allays 
 after Miss Nancy, and then it all went off again, like 
 a smell o^ hot porridge, as I may say. That wasn't 
 5 my way when I went a-coorting/' 
 
 '' Ah, but mayhap Miss Nancy hung off, like, and 
 your lass didn't,^' said Ben. 
 
 " I should say she didn't,^' said Mr. Macey, signifi- 
 cantly. " Before I said ' sniff,' I took care to know 
 
 10 as she'd say ' snaff,' and pretty quick, too. I wasn't 
 a-going to open my mouth, like a dog at a fly, and 
 snap it to again, wi' nothing to swaller." 
 
 " Well, I think Miss Nancy's a-coming round 
 again," said Ben, " for Master Godfrey doesn't look 
 
 15 so downhearted to-night. And I see he's for taking 
 her away to sit down, now they're at the end o' the 
 dance: that looks like sweethearting, that does." 
 
 The reason why Godfrey and Nancy had left the 
 dance was not so tender as Ben imagined. In the 
 
 20 close press of couples a slight accident had happened 
 to Nancy's dress, which, while it was short enough to 
 show her neat ankle in front, was long enough behind 
 to be caught under the stately stamp of the Squire's 
 foot, so as to rend certain stitches at the waist, and 
 
 25 cause much sisterly agitation in Priscilla's mind, as 
 well as serious concern in Nancy's. One's thoughts 
 may be much occupied with love struggles, but hardly 
 so as to be insensible to a disorder in the general 
 framework of things. Nancy had no sooner completed 
 
 W) her duty in the figure they were dancing than she said 
 to Godfrey, with a deep blush, that she must go and 
 sit down till Priscilla could come to her; for the sisters 
 had already exchanged a short whisper and an open- 
 
SILAS MARNER 169 
 
 eyed glance full of meaning. No reason less urgent 
 than this could have prevailed on Nancy to give God- 
 frey this opportunity of sitting apart with her. As for 
 Godfrey, he was feeling so happy and oblivious under 
 the long charm of the country-dance with Nancy, that 5 
 he got rather bold on the strength of her confusion, 
 and w^as capable of leading her straight away, without 
 leave asked, into the adjoining small parlor, where the 
 card-tables were set. 
 
 " Oh, no, thank you,^^ said Nancy coldly, as soon as lo 
 she perceived where he was going, " not in there. Fll 
 wait here till Priscilla's ready to come to me. Fm 
 sorry to bring you out of the dance and make myself 
 troublesome.^^ 
 
 " Why, you^ll be more comfortable here by your- 15 
 self, ^^ said the artful Godfrey; ^^ I'll leave you here till 
 . jour sister can come.'^ He spoke in an indifferent tone. 
 
 That was an agreeable proposition, and just what 
 Nancy desired; why, then, was she a little hurt that 
 Mr. Godfrey should make it? They entered, and she 20 
 seated herself on a chair against one of the card-tables, 
 as the stiffest and most unapproachable position she 
 could choose. 
 
 "Thank you, sir,^^ she said immediately. "I 
 needn't give you any more trouble. I'm sorry you've 25 
 •had such an unlucky partner." 
 
 ^' That's very ill-natured of you," said Godfrey, 
 standing by her without any sign of intended depar- 
 ture, ^ to be sorry you've danced with me." 
 
 ^ Oh, no, sir, I don't mean to say what's ill-natured 30 
 ;at all," said Nancy, looking distractingly prim and 
 pretty. " When gentlemen have so many pleasures, 
 one dance can matter but very little." 
 
170 SILAS MARNER 
 
 "You know that isn^t true. You know one dance 
 with you matters more to me than all the other pleas- 
 ures in the world/^ 
 
 It was a long, long while since Godfrey had said 
 
 5 anything so direct as that, and Nancy was startled. 
 
 But her instinctive dignity and repugnance to any show 
 
 of emotion made her sit perfectly still, and only throw 
 
 a little more decision into her voice as she said — 
 
 " N'o, indeed, Mr. Godfrey, that's not known to me, 
 10 and I have very good reasons for thinking different. 
 But if it's true, I don't wish to hear it." 
 
 " Would you never forgive me, then, Nancy — never 
 
 think well of me, let what would happen — would you 
 
 never think the present made amends for the past? 
 
 15 Not if I turned a good fellow, and gave up everything 
 
 you didn't like?" 
 
 Godfrey was half conscious that this sudden oppor- 
 tunity of speaking to Nancy alone had driven him be- 
 side himself; but blind feeling had got the mastery of 
 20 his tongue. Nancy really felt much agitated by the 
 possibility Godfrey's words suggested, but this very 
 pressure of emotion that she was in danger of finding 
 too strong for her roused all her power of self-com- 
 mand. 
 25 "I should be glad to see a good change in anybody, 
 Mr. Godfrey," she answered, with the slightest dis- 
 cernible difference of tone, " but it 'ud be better if no 
 change was wanted." 
 
 "You're very hard-hearted, Nancy," said Godfrey 
 30 pettishly. " You might encourage me to be a better 
 fellow. I'm very miserable — ^but you've no feeling." 
 
 " I think those have the least feeling that act wrong 
 to begin with," said Nancy, sending out a flash in spite 
 
SILAS MARNER 171 
 
 of herself. Godfrey was delighted with that little flash, 
 and would have liked to go on and make her quarrel 
 with him; Nancy was so exasperatingly quiet and firm. 
 But she was not indifferent to him yet. 
 
 The entrance of Priscilla, bustling forward and say- 5 
 ing, '' Dear heart alive, child, let us look at this gown,^^ 
 cut off Godfrey's hopes of a quarrel. 
 
 " I suppose I must go now,'' he said to Priscilla. 
 
 "It's no matter to me whether you go or stay," 
 said that frank lady, searching for something in her lo 
 pocket, with a preoccupied brow. 
 
 " Do you want me to go ? " said Godfrey, looking 
 at !N"ancy, who was now standing up by Priscilla's order. 
 
 " As you like," said Nancy, trying to recover all her 
 former coldness, and looking down carefully at the hem 15 
 of her gown. 
 
 " Then I like to stay," said Godfrey, with a reckless 
 determination to get as much of this joy as he could 
 to-night, and think nothing of the morrow. 
 
CHAPTEK XII 
 
 While Godfrey Cass was taking draughts of forget- 
 fulness from the sweet presence of Nancy, wilhngly 
 losing all sense of that hidden bond which at other 
 moments galled and fretted him so as to mingle irri- 
 
 5 tation with the very sunshine, Godfrey's wife was walk- 
 ing with slow uncertain steps through the snow-cov- 
 ered Eaveloe lanes, carrying her child in her arms. 
 
 This journey on New Year's Eve w^as a premedi- 
 tated act of vengeance which she had kept in her heart 
 
 10 ever since Godfrey, in a fit of passion, had told her he 
 would sooner die than acknowledge her as his wife. 
 There would be a great party at the Eed House on 
 New Year's Eve, she knew: her husband would be 
 smiling and smiled upon, hiding lier existence in the 
 
 15 darkest corner of his heart. But she w^ould mar his 
 pleasure: she would go in her dingy rags, with her 
 faded face, once as handsome as the best, with her 
 little child that had its father's hair and eyes, and 
 disclose herself to the Squire as his eldest son's wife. 
 
 20 It is seldom that the miserable can help regarding 
 their misery as a wrong inflicted by those who are less 
 miserable. Molly knew that the cause of her dingy 
 rags was not her husband's neglect, but the demon 
 Opium, to whom she was enslaved, body and soul, ex-^ 
 
 25 cept in the lingering mother's tenderness that refused 
 172 
 
I SILAS MARNER 173 
 
 to give him her hungry child. She knew this well; 
 and yet, in the moments of wretched iinbennmbed con- 
 sciousness, the sense of her want and degradation trans- 
 formed itself continually into bitterness toward God- 
 frey. He was well off; and if she had her rights she 5 
 would be well off, too. The belief that he repented his 
 marriage, and suffered from it, only aggravated her 
 rindictiveness. Just and self -reproving thoughts do 
 not come to us too thickly, even in the purest air, and 
 with the best lessons of heaven and earth; how should lo 
 those white- winged delicate messengers make their way 
 to Molly's poisoned chamber, inhabited by no higher 
 memories than those of a barmaid's paradise of pink 
 libbons and gentlemen's jokes? 
 
 She had set out at an early hour, but had lingered 15 
 on the road, inclined by her indolence to believe that 
 if she waited under a warm shed the snow would cease 
 to fall. She had waited longer than she knew, and 
 now that she found herself belated in the snow-hidden 
 ruggedness of the long lanes, even the animation of a 20 
 vindictive purpose could not keep her spirit from fail- 
 ing. It was seven o'clock, and by this time she was 
 not very far from Eaveloe, but she was not familiar 
 .^enough with those monotonous lanes to know how near 
 she was to her journey's end. She needed comfort, 25 
 and she knew but one comforter — the familiar demon 
 in her bosom ; but she hesitated a moment, after draw- 
 ing out the black remnant, before she raised it to her 
 lips. In that moment the mother's love pleaded for 
 painful consciousness rather than oblivion — ^pleaded to 30 
 be left in aching weariness, rather than to have the 
 encircling arms benumbed so that they could not feel 
 the dear burden. In another moment Molly had flung 
 
174 SILAS MARNER 
 
 something away, but it was not the black remnant — ► 
 it was an empty phial. And she walked on again 
 under the breaking cloud, from which there came now 
 and then the light of a quickly veiled star, for a freez- 
 
 5 ing wind had sprung up since the snowing had ceased. 
 But she walked always more and more drowsily, and 
 clutched more and more automatically the sleeping 
 child at her bosom. 
 
 Slowly the demon was working his will, and cold 
 
 10 and weariness were his helpers. Soon she felt nothing 
 but a supreme immediate longing that curtained off 
 all futurity — the longing to lie down and sleep. She 
 had arrived at a spot where her footsteps were no 
 longer checked by a hedgerow, and she had wandered 
 
 15 vaguely, unable to distinguish any objects, notwith- 
 standing the wide whiteness around her, and the grow- 
 ing starlight. She sank down against a straggling 
 furze bush, an easy pillow enough ; and the bed of snow, 
 too, was soft. She did not feel that the bed was cold, 
 
 20 and did not heed whether the child would wake and 
 
 cry for her. But her arms had not yet relaxed their 
 
 instinctive clutch; and the little one slumbered on as 
 
 gently as if it had been rocked in a lace-trimmed cradle. 
 
 But the complete torpor came at last: the fingers 
 
 25 lost their tension, the arms unbent; then the httle 
 head fell away from the bosom, and the blue eyes opened 
 wide on the cold starlight. At first there was a little 
 peevish cry of " mammy ,^^ and an effort to regain the 
 pillowing arm and bosom; but mammy^s ear was deaf, 
 
 30 and the pillow seemed to be slipping away backward. 
 Suddenly, as the child rolled downward on its mother's 
 knees, all wet with snow, its eyes were caught by a 
 bright glancing light on the white ground, and, with 
 
I SILAS MARNER 175 
 
 the ready transition of infancy, it was immediately ab- 
 sorbed in watching the bright living thing running 
 toward it, yet never arriving. That bright living thing 
 must be caught; and in an instant the child had slipped 
 on all fours, and held out one little hand to catch the 5 
 gleam. But the gleam would not be caught in that 
 way, and now the head was held up to see where the 
 cunning gleam came from. It came from a very bright 
 place; and the little one, rising on its legs, toddled 
 through the snow, the old grimy shawl in which it was lo 
 wrapped trailing behind it, and the queer little bon- 
 net dangling at its back — toddled on to the open door 
 of Silas Marner^s cottage, and right up to the warm 
 hearth, where there was a bright fire of logs and sticks, 
 which had thoroughly warmed the old sack (Silas's 15 
 greatcoat) spread out on the bricks to dry. The little 
 one, accustomed to be left to itself for long hours with- 
 out notice from its mother, squatted down on the sack, 
 and spread its tiny hands toward the blaze, in perfect 
 contentment, gurgling and making many inarticulate 20 
 communications to the cheerful fire, like a new-hatched 
 gosling beginning to find itself comfortable. But pres- 
 ently the warmth had a lulling effect, and the little 
 golden head sank down on the old sack, and the 
 blue eyes were veiled by their delicate, half-transpar- 25 
 ent lids. 
 
 But where was Silas Marner while this strange vis- 
 itor had come to his hearth?. He was in the cottage, 
 but he did not see the child. During the last few 
 weeks, since he had lost his money, he had contracted 30 
 the habit of opening his door and looking out from time 
 to time, as if he thought that his money might be 
 somehow coming back to him, or that some trace, some 
 
. 176 SILAS MARNER 
 
 news of it, might be mysteriously on the road, and be 
 caught by the listening ear or the straining eye. It 
 was chiefly at night, when he was not occupied in his 
 loom, that he fell into this repetition of an act for 
 5 which he could have assigned no definite purpose, and 
 which can hardly be understood except by those who 
 have undergone a bewildering separation from a su- 
 premely loved object. In the evening twilight, and 
 later whenever the night was not dark, Silas looked 
 
 10 out on that narrow prospect round the Stone-pits, lis- 
 tening and gazing, not with hope, but with mere yearn- 
 ing and unrest. 
 
 This morning he had been told by some of his 
 neighbors that it was New Year's Eve, and that he 
 
 15 must sit up and hear the old year rung out and the 
 new rung in, because that was good luck, and might 
 bring his money back again. This was only a friendly 
 Eaveloe way of jesting with the half-crazy oddities of 
 a miser, but it had perhaps helped to throw Silas into 
 
 20 a more than usually excited state. Since the on-com- 
 ing of twilight he had opened his door again and again, 
 though only to shut it immediately at seeing all dis- 
 tance veiled by the falling snow. But the last time 
 he opened it the snow had ceased, and the clouds were 
 
 25 parting here and there. He stood and listened, and 
 gazed for a long while — there was really something on 
 the road coming toward him then, but he caught no 
 sign of it; and the stillness and the wide trackless snow 
 seemed to narrow his solitude, and touched his yearn- 
 
 80 ing with the chill of despair. He went in again, and 
 put his right hand on the latch of the door to close 
 it — but he did not close it: he was arrested, as he 
 had been already since his loss^ by the invisible wand 
 
SILAS MARNER 177 
 
 of cttalepsy, and stood like a graven image, with 
 wide but sightless eyes, holding open his door, power- 
 less to resist either the good or evil that might enter 
 there. 
 
 When Marner's sensibility returned, he continued 5 
 the a.£tion which had been arrested, and closed his 
 door, unaware of the chasm in his consciousness, un- 
 aware of any intermediate change, except that the light 
 had gyown dim, and that he was chilled and faint. He 
 thought he had been too long standing at the door and i& 
 locking out. Turning toward the hearth where the 
 two logs had fallen apart, and sent forth only a red 
 uncertain glimmer, he seated himself on his fireside • 
 chair, and was stooping to push his logs together, when, 
 to his blurred vision, it seemed as if there were gold 15 
 on the floor in front of the hearth. Gold! — his own 
 gold — brought back to him as mysteriously as it had 
 been taken away! He felt his heart begin to beat vio- 
 lently, and for a few moments he was unable to stretch 
 out his hand and grasp the restored treasure. The 20 
 heap of gold seemed to glow and get larger beneath his 
 agitated gaze. He leaned forward at last, and stretched 
 forth his hand; but instead of the hard coin with the 
 familiar resisting outline, his fingers encountered soft 
 warm curls. In utter amazement, Silas fell on his 25 
 knees and bent his head low to examine the marvel: 
 it was a sleeping child — a round, fair thing, with soft 
 yellow rings all over its head. Could this be his little 
 ciister come back to him in a dream — ^his little sister 
 whom he had carried about in his arms for a year be- 30 
 fore she died, when he was a small boy without shoes 
 or stockings? That was the first thought that darted 
 across Silas's blank wonderment. Was it a dream? 
 
178 SILAS MARNER 
 
 He rose to his feet again, pushed his logs together, and, 
 throwing on some dried leaves and sticks, raised a flame; 
 but the flame did not disperse the vision — it only lit 
 up more distinctly the little round form of the child 
 
 5 and its shabby clothing. It was very much like his 
 little sister, Silas sank into his chair powerless, under 
 the double presence of an inexplicable surprise and a 
 hurrying influx of memories. How and when had the 
 child come in without his knowledge? He had never 
 
 10 been beyond the door. But along with that question, 
 and almost thrusting it away, there was a vision of the 
 old home and the old streets leading to Lantern Yard 
 — and within that vision another, of the thoughts which 
 had been present with him in those far-off scenes. The 
 
 15 thoughts were strange to him now, like old friendships 
 impossible to revive; and yet he had a dreamy feeling 
 that this child was somehow a message come to him 
 from that far-off life: it stirred fibers that had never 
 been moved in Eaveloe — old quiverings of tenderness 
 
 20 — old impressions of awe at the presentiment of some 
 Power presiding over his life; for his imagination had 
 not yet extricated itself from the sense of mys- 
 tery in the child^s sudden presence, and had formed no 
 conjectures of ordinary natural means by which the 
 
 25 event could have been brought about. 
 
 But there was a cry on the hearth: the child had 
 awaked, and Marner stooped to lift it on his knee. It 
 clung round his neck, and burst louder and louder into 
 that mingling of inarticulate cries with " mammy '^ by 
 
 30 which little children express the bewilderment of wak- 
 ing. Silas pressed it to him, and almost unconsciously 
 uttered sounds of hushing tenderness, while he be- 
 thought himself that some of his porridge, which had 
 

 SILAS MARNER I79 
 
 got cool by the dying fire, would do to feed the child 
 with if it were only warmed up a little. 
 
 He had plenty to do through the next hour. The 
 porridge, sweetened with some dry brown sugar from 
 an old store which he had refrained from using for 5 
 himself, stopped the cries of the little one, and made 
 her lift her blue eyes with a wide quiet gaze at Silas, 
 as he put the spoon into her mouth. Presently she 
 slipped from his knee and began to toddle about, but 
 with a pretty stagger that made Silas jump up and 10 
 follow her lest she should fall against anything that 
 would hurt her. But she only fell in a sitting posture 
 on the ground, and began to pull at her boots, looking 
 up at him with a crying face, as if the boots hurt her. 
 He took her on his knee again, but it was some time 15 
 before it occurred to Silas's dull bachelor mind that 
 the wet boots were the grievance, pressing on her warm 
 ankles. He got them off with difficulty, and baby was 
 at once happily occupied with the primary mystery of 
 her own toes, inviting Silas, with much chuckling, to 20 
 consider the mystery too. But the wet boots had at 
 last suggested to Silas that the child had been walk- 
 ing on the snow, and this roused him from his entire 
 oblivion of any ordinary means by which it could have 
 entered or been ' brought into his house. Under the 2$ 
 prompting of this new idea, and without waiting to 
 form conjectures, he raised the child in his arms, and 
 went to the door. As soon as he had opened it there 
 was the cry of " mammy ^^ again, which Silas had not 
 heard since the child's first hungry waking. Bending 30 
 forward, he could just discern the marks made by the 
 little feet on the virgin snow, and he followed their 
 track to the furze bushes. " Mammy! " the little one 
 
' 180 SILAS MARNER 
 
 cried again and again, stretching itself forward so as 
 almost to escape from Silases arms, before he himself 
 was aware that there was something more than the bush 
 before him — that there was a human body, with the 
 5 head sunk low in the furze, and half covered with the 
 shaken snow. 
 
CHAPTEE XIII 
 
 It was after the early supper time at the Eed House, 
 and the entertainment was in that stage when bash- 
 fulness itself had passed into easy jollity^ when gentle- 
 men^ conscious of unusual accomplishments, could at 
 length be prevailed on to dance a hornpipe, and when 5 
 the Squire preferred talking loudly, scattering snuff, 
 and patting his visitors^ backs, to sitting longer at the 
 whist table — a choice exasperating to Uncle Kimble, 
 who, being always volatile in sober business hours, be- 
 came intense and bitter over cards and brandy, shuffled lo 
 before his. adversary's deal with a glare of suspicion, 
 and turned up a mean trump card with an air of inex- 
 pressible disgust, as if in a world where such things . 
 could happen one might as well enter on a course of 
 reckless profligacy. When the evening had advanced if. 
 to this pitch of freedom and enjoyment, it was usual 
 for the servants, the heavy duties of supper being well 
 over, to get their share of amusement by coming to 
 look on at the dancing; so that the back regions of the 
 house were left in solitude. 20 
 
 There were two doors by which the White Parlor 
 was entered from the hall, and they were both stand- 
 ing open for the sake of air; but the lower one was 
 crowded with the servants and villagers, and only the 
 upper doorway was left free. Bob Cass was figuring 25 
 
 181 
 
182 SILAS MARNER 
 
 in a hornpipe^ and his father, very proud of this lithe 
 son, whom he repeatedly declared to be just like him- 
 self in his young days in a tone that implied this to 
 be the- very highest stamp of juvenile merit, was the 
 5 center of a group who had placed themselves opposite 
 the performer, not far from the upper door. Godfrey 
 was standing a little way off, not to admire his brother's 
 dancing, but to keep sight of Nancy, who was seated 
 in the group, near her father. He stood aloof, because 
 \o he wished to avoid suggesting himself as a subject for 
 the Squire's fatherly jokes in connection with matri- 
 mony and Miss Nancy Lammeter's beauty, which were 
 likely to become more and more explicit. But he had 
 the prospect of dancing with her again when the horn- 
 l/i pipe was concluded, and in the meanwhile it was very 
 pleasant to get long glances at her quite unobserved. 
 
 But when Godfrey was lifting his eyes from one of 
 those long glances they encountered an object as star- 
 tling to him at that moment as if it had been an appa- 
 4a) rition from the dead. It was an apparition from that 
 hidden life which lies, like a dark by-street, behind the 
 goodly ornamented fagade that meets the sunlight and 
 the gaze of respectable admirers. It was his own child, 
 carried in Silas Marner's arms. That was his instan- 
 ts taneous impression, unaccompanied by doubt, though 
 he had not seen the child for months past; and when 
 the hope was rising that he might possibly be mistaken, 
 Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Lammeter had already ad- 
 vanced to Silas in astonishment at this strange advent.\ 
 w Godfrey joined them immediately, unable to rest with- 
 out hearing every word — trying to control himself, but 
 conscious that if any one noticed him, they must see 
 that he was white-lipped aiid trembling. 
 
SILAS MARNER 183 
 
 But now all eyes at that end of the room were bent 
 on Silas Marner; the Squire himself had risen, and 
 asked angrily, " How^s this ? — what^s this ? — what do 
 you do coming in here in this way ? ^^ 
 
 " I'm come for the doctor — I want the doctor/' 5 
 Silas had said, in the first moment, to Mr. Cracken- 
 thorp. 
 
 '^ Why, what's the matter, Marner ? " said the rector. 
 " The doctor's here; but say quietly what you want 
 him for." lo 
 
 " It's a woman," said Silas, speaking low, and half 
 breathlessly, just as Godfrey came up. " She's dead, 
 I think — dead in the snow at the Stone-pits — not far 
 from my door." 
 
 Godfrey felt a great throb: there was one terror 15 
 in his mind at that moment: it was, that the woman 
 might not be dead. That was an evil terror — an ugly 
 inmate to have found a nestling place in Godfrey's 
 kindly disposition; but no disposition is a security from 
 evil wishes to a man whose happiness hangs on du- 20 
 plicity. 
 
 "Hush, hush!" said Mr. Crackenthorp. "Go out 
 into the hall there. I'll fetch the doctor to you. 
 Found a woman in the snow — and thinks she's dead," 
 he added, speaking low to the Squire. " Better say 25 
 as little about it as possible: it will shock the ladies. 
 Just tell them a poor woman is ill from cold and hun- 
 ger. I'll go and fetch Kimble." 
 
 By this time, however, the ladies had pressed for- 
 ward, curious to know what could have brought the 30 
 solitary linen weaver there under such strange circum- 
 stances, and interested in the pretty child, who, half 
 alarmed and half attracted by the brightness and the 
 
184 SILAS MAKNER 
 
 numerous company, now frowned and hid her face, 
 now lifted up her head again and looked round placa- 
 bly, until a touch or a coaxing word brought back the 
 frown, and made her bury her face with new determi- 
 5 nation. 
 
 " What child is it ? ^^ said several ladies at once, 
 and, among the rest, Kancy Lammeter, addressing 
 Godfrey. 
 
 " I don't know — some poor woman's who has been 
 
 10 found in the snow, I believe," was the answer Godfrey 
 
 wrung from himself with a terrible effort. {'' After 
 
 all, am I certain ? " he hastened to add, in anticipation 
 
 of his own conscience.) 
 
 " Why, you'd better leave the child here, then, Mas- 
 15 ter Marner," said good-natured Mrs. Kimble, hesitat- 
 ing, however, to take those dingy clothes into contact 
 with her own ornamented satin bodice. " I'll tell one 
 o' the girls to fetch it." 
 
 "No — no — I can't part with it, I can't let it go,'^ 
 20 said Silas abruptly. " It's come to me — I've a right 
 to keep it." 
 
 The proposition to take the child from him had come 
 
 to Silas quite unexpectedly, and his speech, uttered 
 
 under a strong sudden impulse, was almost like a reve- 
 
 25 lation to himself: a minute before he had no distinct 
 
 intention about the child. 
 
 " Did you ever hear the like ? " said Mrs. Kimble 
 in mild surprise, to her neighbor. 
 
 " Now, ladies, I must trouble you to stand asid^,'^ 
 
 30 said Mr. Kimble, coming from the card room, in some 
 
 bitterness at the interruption, but drilled by the long 
 
 habit of his profession into obedience to unpleasant 
 
 calls, even when he was hardly sober. 
 
SILAS MARNER 185 
 
 "It's a nasty business turning out now, eh, Kim- 
 ble ? '' said the Squire. " He might ha' gone for 
 your young fellow — the 'prentice, there — what's his 
 name?" 
 
 "Might? ay-^what's the use of talking about 5 
 might?" growled Uncle Kimble, hastening out with 
 Marner, and followed by Mr. Crackenthorp and God- 
 frey. " Get me a pair of thick boots, Godfrey, will 
 you? And stay, let somebody run to Winthrop's and 
 fetch Dolly — she's the best woman to get. Ben was lo 
 here himself before supper; is he gone?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, I met him," said Marner; " but I couldn't 
 stop to tell him anything, only I said I was going for 
 the doctor, and he said the doctor was at the Squire's. 
 And I made haste and ran, and there was nobody to 15 
 be seen at the back o' the house, and so I went in to 
 where the company was." 
 
 The child, no longer distracted by the bright light 
 and the smiling women's faces, began to cry and call 
 for " mammy," though always clinging to Marner, who 2:) 
 had apparently won her thorough confidence. Godfrey 
 had come back with the boots, and felt the cry as if 
 some fiber were drawn tight within him. 
 
 " I'll go," he said hastily, eager for some movement; 
 " I'll go and fetch the woman — Mrs. Winthrop." - 25 
 
 " Oh, pooh — send somebody else," said Uncle Kim- 
 ble, hurrying away with Marner. 
 
 " You'll let me know if I can be of any use, Kim- 
 ble," said Mr. Crackenthorp. But the doctor was out 
 of hearing. 30 
 
 Godfrey, too, had disappeared: he was gone to 
 snatch his hat and coat, having just reflection enough 
 to remember that he must not look like a madman; 
 
186 SILAS MARKER 
 
 but he rushed out of the house into the snow without 
 heeding his thin shoes. 
 
 In a few minutes he was on his rapid way to the 
 Stone-pits by the side of Dolly, who, though feeHng 
 
 5 that she was entirely in her place in encountering cold 
 and snow on an errand of mercy, was much concerned 
 at a young gentleman's getting his feet wet under a 
 like impulse. 
 
 " You'd a deal better go back, sir," said Dolly, with 
 
 10 respectful compassion. '' You've no call to catch cold: 
 and I'd ask you if you'd be so good as tell my hus- 
 band to come, on your way back — he's at the Rainbow, 
 I doubt — if you found him any way sober enough to 
 be o' use. Or else, there's Mrs. Snell 'ud happen send 
 
 15 the boy up to fetch and carry, for there may be things 
 wanted from the doctor's." 
 
 " No, ril stay, now I'm once out — I'll stay outside 
 here," said Godfrey, when they came opposite Mar- 
 ner's cottage. " You can come and tell me if I can do 
 
 '^ anything." 
 
 " Well, sir, you're very good: you've a tender heart," 
 said Dolly, going to the door. 
 
 Godfrey was too painfully preoccupied to feel a 
 twinge of self-reproach at this undeserved praise. He 
 
 ^ walked up and down, unconscious that he was plung- 
 ing ankle-deep in snow, unconscious of everything but 
 trembling suspense about what was going on m the 
 cottage, and the effect of each alternative on his future 
 lot. Xo, not quite unconscious of everything else. 
 
 30 Deeper down, and half smothered by passionate desire 
 and dread, there was the sense that he ought not to 
 be waiting on these alternatives; that he ought to ac- 
 cept the consequences of his deeds, own the miserable 
 
SILAS MARNER 187 
 
 wife, and fulfill the claims of the helpless child. But 
 he had not moral courage enough to contemplate that 
 active renunciation of Nancy as possible for him: he 
 had only conscience and heart enough to make him for- 
 ever uneasy under the weakness that forbade the re- 5 
 nunciation. And at this moment his mind leaped away 
 from all restraint toward the sudden prospect of de- 
 liverance from his long bondage. 
 
 "Is she dead?^^ said the voice that predominated 
 over every other within him. " If she is, I may marry lo 
 Nancy; and then I shall be a good fellow in future, 
 and have no secrets, and the child — shall be taken care 
 of somehow.^^ But across that vision came the other 
 possibility — " She may live, and then it's all up with 
 me.'' 15 
 
 Godfrey never knew how long it was before the door 
 of the cottage opened and Mr. Kimble came out. He 
 went forward to meet his uncle, prepared to suppress 
 the agitation he must feel, whatever news he was to 
 hear. 20 
 
 " I waited for you, as I'd come so far," he said, 
 speaking first. 
 
 " Pooh, it was nonsense for you to come out. Why 
 didn't you send one of the men? There's nothing to 
 be done. She's dead — has been dead for hours, I 25 
 should say." 
 
 " What sort of woman is she ? " said Godfrey, f eel- 
 mg the blood rush to his face. 
 
 " A young woman, but emaciated, with long black 
 hair. Some vagrant — quite in rags. She's got a wed- 30 
 ding-ring on, however. They must fetch her away to 
 ^he workhouse to-morrow. Come, come along." 
 
 " I want to look at her," said Godfrey. " I think 
 
188 SILAS MARNER 
 
 I saw such a woman yesterday. 1^11 overtake you in 
 a minute or two/^ 
 
 Mr. Kimble went on, and Godfrey turned back to 
 the cottage. He cast only one glance at the dead face 
 5 on the pillow, which Dolly had smoothed with decent 
 care; but he remembered that last look at his unhappy 
 hated wife so well, that at the end of sixteen years every 
 line in the worn face was present to him when he told 
 the full story of this night. 
 
 10 He turned immediately toward the hearth where 
 Silas Marner sat lulling the child. She was perfectly 
 quiet now, but not asleep — only soothed by sweet por- 
 ridge and warmth into that wide-gazing calm which 
 makes us older human beings, with our inward turmoil, 
 
 15 feel a certain awe in the presence of a little child, such 
 as we feel before some qniiet majesty or beauty in the 
 earth or sky — before a steady-glowing planet, or a full- 
 flowered eglantine, or the bending trees over a silent 
 pathway. The wide-open blue eyes looked up at God- 
 
 20 frey's without any uneasiness or sign of recognition; 
 the child could make no visible audible claim on its 
 father; and the father felt a strange mixture of feel- 
 ings, a conflict of regret and joy, that the pulke of that 
 little heart had no response for the half-jealous yeam- 
 
 25 ing in his own, when the blue eyes turned away from 
 him slowly, and fixed themselves on the weaver^s queer 
 face, which was bent low down to look at them, while 
 the small hand began to pull Marner's withered cheek 
 with loving disfiguration. 
 
 80 " You'll take the child to the parish to-morrow ? '' 
 asked Godfre3% speaking as indifferently as he could. 
 
 "Who says sof said Marner sharply. '^Will they 
 ^ake me take her? ^' 
 
SILAS MARNER 189 
 
 "Why, you wouldn't like to keep her, should you 
 • — an old bachelor like you ? '^ 
 
 " Till anybody shows they've a right to take hJr 
 away from me/' said Marner. " The mother's dead, 
 and I reckon it's got no father; it's a lone thing — and 5 
 I'm a lone thing. My money's gone, I don't know 
 where — and this is come from I don't know where. I 
 know nothing — I'm partly mazed." 
 
 " Poor little thing ! " said Godfrey. ^^ Let me give 
 something toward finding it clothes." lo 
 
 He had put his hand in his pocket and found half 
 a guinea, and, thrusting it into Silas's hand, he hurried 
 out of the cottage to overtake Mr. Kimble. 
 
 " Ah, I see it's not the same woman I saw," he said, 
 as he came up. It's a pretty little child; the old fel- 15 
 low seems to want to keep it; that's strange for a miser 
 like him. But I gave him a trifle to help him out; 
 the parish isn't likely to quarrel with him for the right 
 to keep the child." 
 
 " No; but I've seen the time when I might have 20 
 quarreled with him for it myself. It's too late now, 
 though. If the child ran into the fire, your aunt's too 
 fat to overtake it; she could only sit and grunt like 
 an alarmed sow. But what a fool you are, God- 
 frey, to come out in your dancing shoes and stock- 25 
 ings in this way — and you one of the beaux of the 
 evening, and at your own house! What do you mean 
 by such freaks, young fellow? Has Miss Fancy been 
 cruel, and do you want to spite her by spoiling your 
 pumps ? " 30 
 
 " Oh, everything has been disagreeable to-night. I 
 was tired to death of jigging and gallanting, and that 
 bother about the hornpipes. And I'd got to dance with 
 
19U SILAS MARKER 
 
 the other Miss Gunn," said Godfrey^ glad of the sub- 
 terfuge his uncle had suggested to him. 
 
 t^The prevarication and white lies which a mind that 
 
 keeps itself ambitiously pure is as uneasy under as a 
 
 5 great artist under the false touches that no eye detects 
 
 but his own^ are worn as lightly as mere trimmings 
 
 when once the actions have become a lie. 
 
 Godfrey reappeared in the White Parlor with dry 
 feet, and, since the truth must be told, with a sense of 
 
 10 relief and gladness that was too strong for painful 
 thoughts to struggle with. For could he not venture 
 now, whenever opportunity offered, to say the tenderest 
 things to Nancy Lammeter — to promise her and him- 
 self that he would alwa3^s be just what she would de- 
 
 15 sire to see him? There was no danger that his dead 
 wife would be recognized: those were not days of active 
 inquiry and wide report; and as for the registry of 
 their marriage, that was a long way off, buried in un- 
 turned pages, away from every one's interest but his 
 
 20 own. Dunsey might betray him if he came back; but 
 Dunsey might be won to silence. 
 
 And when events turn out so much better for a 
 man than he has had reason to dread, is it not a proof 
 that his conduct has been less foolish and blameworthy , 
 
 25 than it might otherwise have appeared? When we are j 
 treated well, we naturally begin to think that we are ' 
 not altogether unmeritorious, and that it is only just 
 we should treat ourselves well, and not mar our own 
 good fortune. Where, after all, would be the use of 
 
 30 his confessing the past to Xancy Lammeter, and throw- 
 ing away his happiness? — nay, hers? for he felt some 
 confidence that she loved him. As for the child, he 
 would see that it was cared for; he would never for- 
 
r SILAS MARNER 191 
 
 sake it; he would do everything but own it. Perhaps 
 it would be just as happy in life without being owned 
 by its father, seeing that nobody could tell how things 
 would turn out, and that — is there any other reason 
 wanted? — well, then, that the father would be much 
 happier without owning the child. 
 
CHAPTEE XIV 
 
 There was a pauper's burial that week in Eaveloe, 
 and up Kench Yard at Batherley it was known that 
 the dark-haired woman with the fair child, who had 
 lately come to lodge there, was gone away again. That 
 5 was all the express note taken that Molly had disap- 
 peared from the eyes of men. But the unwept death 
 which, to the general lot, seemed as trivial as the sum- 
 mer-shed leaf, was charged with the force of destiny to 
 certain human lives that we know of, shaping their; 
 
 10 joys and sorrows even to the end. 
 
 Silas Marner's determination to keep the " tramp's 
 child '' was matter of hardly le^ss surprise and iterated 
 talk in the village than the robber)^ of his money. That 
 softening of feeling toward him which dated from his 
 
 15 misfortune, that merging of suspicion and dislike in a 
 rather contemptuous pity for him as lone and crazy, 
 was now accompanied with a more active sympathy, 
 especially among the women. Notable mothers, who 
 knew what it was to keep children " whole and sweet "; 
 
 20 lazy mothers, who knew what it was to be interrupted 
 in folding their arms and scratching their elbows by 
 the mischievous propensities of children just firm on 
 their legs, were equally interested in conjecturing how 
 a lone man would manage with a two-year-old child on 
 
 25 his hands, and were equally ready with their sugges- 
 192 
 
SILAS MARKER 193 
 
 tions: the notable chiefly telling him what he had bet- 
 cer do, and the lazy ones being emphatic in telling him 
 what he would never be able to do. 
 
 Among the notable mothers, Dolly Winthrop was 
 the one whose neighborly ofiices were the most accept- 5 
 able to Marner, for they were rendered without any 
 show of bustling instruction. Silas had shown her the 
 half guinea given to him by Godfrey, and had asked 
 her what he should do about getting some clothes for 
 the child. 10 
 
 " Eh, Master Marner,*^ said Dolly, " there's no call 
 to buy, no more nor a pair o' shoes; for I've got the 
 little petticoats as Aaron wore ^nq years ago, and it's 
 ill spending the money on them baby clothes, for the 
 child 'ull grow like grass i' May, bless it — that it will." 15 
 
 And the same day Dolly brought her bundle, and 
 displayed to Marner, one by one, the tiny garments in 
 their due order of succession, most of them patched 
 and darned, but clean and neat as fresh-sprung herbs. 
 This was the introduction to a great ceremony with 20 
 soap and water, from which Baby came out in new 
 beauty, and sat on Dolly's knee, handling her toes and 
 chuckling and patting her palms together with an air 
 of having made several discoveries about herself, which 
 she communicated by alternate sounds of ^^gug-gug- 25 
 gug," and '^ mammy." The " mammy " was not a cry 
 of need or uneasiness; Baby had been used to utter 
 it without expecting either tender sound or touch to 
 follow. 
 
 " Anybody 'ud think the angils in heaven couldn't 30 
 be prettier," said Dolly, rubbing the golden curls and 
 kissing them. " And to think of its being covered wi' 
 them dirty rags — and the poor mother — froze to death; 
 
194 SILAS MARNER 
 
 but there's Them as took care of it, and brought it to 
 your door, Master Marner. The door was open, and it 
 walked in over the snow, like as if it had been a little 
 starved robin. Didn't you say the door was open?" 
 5 " Yes," said Silas meditatively. " Yes — the door 
 was open. The money's gone I don't know where, and 
 this is come from I don't know where." 
 
 He had not mentioned to any one his unconscious- 
 ness of the child's entrance, shrinking from questions 
 
 10 which might lead to the fact he himself suspected — 
 namely, that he had been in one of his trances. 
 
 " Ah," said Dolly, with soothing gravity, " it's like 
 the night and the morning, and the sleeping and the 
 waking, and the rain and the harvest — one goes and 
 
 15 the other comes, and we know nothing how nor where. 
 We may strive and scrat and fend, but it's little we 
 can do arter all — the big things come and go wi' no 
 striving o' our'n — they do, that they do; and I think 
 you're in the right on it to k^ep the little un. Master 
 
 20 Marner, seeing as it's been sentio you, though there's 
 folks as thinks different. YouHl happen be a bit 
 moithered with it while it's so little; but I'll come, 
 and welcome, and see to it for you; I've a bit o' time 
 to spare most days, for when one gets up betimes i' the 
 
 25 morning, the clock seems to stan' still tow'rt ten, afore 
 it's time to go about the victual. So, as I say, I'll 
 come and see to the child for you, and welcome." 
 
 '' Thank you . . . kindly," said Silas, hesitating a 
 little. "I'll be glad if you'll tell me things. But," 
 
 16. scrat and fend. Scrat is a provincial form of scratch ; and 
 fend if used in sense of provide and not ward off is also provincial. 
 
 21. happen. Perhaps. 
 
 22. moithered. Perplexed, bothered. 
 
SILAS MARKER 195 
 
 he added uneasily^ leaning forward to look at Baby 
 with some jealousy, as she was resting her head back- 
 ward against Dolly^s arm, and eyeing him contentedly 
 from a distance, " but I want to do things for it myself, 
 else it may get fond o' somebody else, and not fond o' 5 
 me. I^ve been used to fending for myself in the house 
 — I can learn, I can learn.'^ 
 
 " Eh, to be sure,^^ said Dolly gently. " I've seen 
 men as are wonderful handy wi' children. The men 
 are awkward and contrairy mostly, God help 'em — but lo 
 when the drink's out of 'em, they aren't unsensible, 
 though they're bad for leeching and bandaging — so 
 fiery and unpatient. You see this goes first, next the 
 skin," proceeded Dolly, taking up the little shirt, and 
 putting it on. 15 
 
 " Yes," said Marner docilely, bringing his eyes very 
 close, that they might be initiated in the mysteries; 
 whereupon Baby seized his head with both her small 
 arms, and put her lips against his face w4th purring 
 noises. 20 
 
 " See there," said Dolly, with a woman's tender tact, 
 '" she's fondest o' you. She wants to go o' your lap, 
 I'll be bound. Go, then; take her. Master Marner; 
 you can put the things on, and then you can say as 
 you've done for her from the first of her coming 25 
 to you." 
 
 Marner took her on his lap, trembling, with an 
 emotion mysterious to himself, at something unknown 
 dawning on his life. Thought and feeling were so con- 
 fused within, him that if he had tried to give them 30 
 utterance, he could only have said that the child was 
 come instead of the gold — ^that the gold had turned 
 into the child. He took the garments from Dolly, and 
 
196 SILAS MARNER 
 
 put them on under her teaching, interrupted, of course, 
 by Baby's gymnastics. 
 
 "There, then! why, you take to it quite easy. Mas- 
 ter Marner,'' said Dolly; " but what shall you do when 
 
 5 you're forced to sit in your loom? For she'll get busier 
 and mischievouser every day — she will, bless her. It's 
 lucky as you've got that high hearth i'stead of a grate, 
 for that keeps the fire more out of her reach; but if 
 you've got anything as can be spilt or broke, or as is 
 
 10 fit to cut her fingers off, she'll be at it — and it is but 
 right you should know." 
 
 Silas meditated a little while in some perplexity. 
 " I'll tie her to the leg o' the loom," he said at last — • 
 " tie her with a good long strip o' something." 
 
 15 " Well, mayhap that'll do, as it's a little gell, for 
 they're easier persuaded to sit i'^one place nor the lads. 
 I know what the lads are, for I'v^ had four — four I've 
 had, God knows — and if you v^s to take and tie 
 'em up, they'd make a fighting and a crying as if you 
 
 20 was ringing the pigs. But I'll bring you my little 
 chair, and some bits o' red rag and things for her to 
 play wi'; an' she'll sit and chatter to 'em as if they 
 was alive. Eh, if it wasn't a sin to the lads to wish 
 'em made different, bless 'em, I should ha' been glad 
 
 25 for one of 'em to be a little gell; and to think as I 
 could ha' taught her to scour, and mend, and the knit- 
 ting, and everything. But I can teach 'em this little 
 un, Master Marner, when she gets old enough." 
 
 "But she'll be my little un," said Marner, rather 
 
 30 hastily. " She'll be nobody else's." 
 
 " N'o, to be sure; you'll have a right to her if you're 
 
 20. ringing the pigs. Putting rings in their snouts to keep them 
 from rooting. 
 
SILAS MARNER 197 
 
 a father to her, and bring her up according. But/' 
 added Dolly, coining to a point which she had deter- 
 mined beforehand to touch upon, " you must bring her 
 up like christened folks^s children, and take her to 
 church, and let her learn her catechise, as my little 5 
 Aaron can say off — the ' I believe,^ and everything, and 
 ' hurt nobody by word or deed ^ — as well as if he was 
 the clerk. Thaf s what you must do Master Marner, 
 if you'd do the right thing by the orphin child.'' 
 
 Marner's pale face flushed suddenly under a new lo 
 anxiety. His mind was too busy trying to give some 
 definite bearing to Dolly's words for him to think of 
 answering her. 
 
 " And it's my belief," she went on, " as the poor 
 little creature has never been christened, and it's noth- 15 
 ing but right as the parson should be spoke to; and 
 if you w^as noways unwilling, I'd talk to Mr. Macey 
 about it this very day. For if the child ever went any- 
 ways wrong, and you hadn't done your part by it. Mas- 
 ter Marner — 'noculation, and everything to save it from 20 
 harm — it 'ud be a thorn i' your bed forever 0' this side 
 the grave; and I can't think as it 'ud be easy lying 
 down for anybody when they'd got to another world, 
 if they hadn't done their part by the helpless children 
 as come wi'out their own asking." 25 
 
 Dolly herself was disposed to be silent for some 
 time now, for she had spoken from the depths of her 
 own simple belief, and was much concerned to know 
 whether her words would produce the desired effect on 
 Silas. He w^as puzzled and anxious, for Dolly's word 30 
 " christened " conveyed no distinct meaning to him. 
 He had only heard of baptism, and had only seen the 
 baptism of grown-up men and women. 
 
198 SILAS MARNER 
 
 " What is it as you mean by ' christened ^V^ he said 
 at last timidly. " Won^t folks be good to her with- 
 out it?^^ 
 
 '' Dear^ dear! Master Marner/^ said Dolly, with gen- 
 
 5 tie distress and compassion. " Had you never no father 
 
 nor mother as taught you to say your prayers, and as 
 
 there's good words and good things to keep us from 
 
 harm?^^ 
 
 "Yes/^ said Silas, in a low voice; ^^ I know a deal 
 lo about that — used to, used to. But your ways are dif- 
 ferent; my country was a good way oRJ' He paused 
 a few moments, and then added, more decidedly, " But 
 I want to do everything as can be done for the child. 
 And whatever's right for it i' 4his country, and you 
 15 think \ill do it good, I'll act according, if you'll tell me.^^ 
 
 " Well, then. Master Marner," said Dolly, inwardly 
 rejoiced, " I'll ask Mr. Macey to speak to the parson 
 about it; and you must fix on a name for it, because 
 it must have a name giv' it when it's christened." 
 20 " My mother's name was Hephzibah," said Silas, 
 " and my little sister was named after her." 
 
 " Eh, that's a hard name," said Dolly. " I partly 
 think it isn't a christened name." 
 
 " It's a Bible name," said Silas, old ideas recurring. 
 25 " Then I've no call to speak again' it," said Dolly, 
 rather startled by Silas's knowledge on this head; '^ but 
 you see I'm no scholard, and I'm slow at catching the 
 words. My husband says I'm allays like as if I was 
 putting the haft for the handle — that's what he says 
 30 — for he's very sharp, God help him. But it was awk- 
 'ard calling your little sister by such a hard name, when 
 you'd got nothing big to say, like — wasn't it. Master 
 Marner? " 
 
SILAS MARNER 199 
 
 "We called her Eppie/^ said Silas. 
 
 " Well^ if it was noways wrong to shorten the name, 
 it \\d be a deal handier. And so Til go now, Master 
 Marner, and 1^11 speak about the christening afore dark; 
 and I wish you the best o^ luck, and it's my belief as 5 
 it'll come to you, if you do what's right by the orphin 
 child; and there's the 'noculation to be seen to; and 
 as to washing its bits o' things, you need look to no- 
 body but me, for I can do 'em wd' one hand when I've 
 got my suds about. Eh, the blessed angil! You'll let lo 
 me bring my Aaron one o' these days, and he'll show 
 her his little cart as his father's made for him, and 
 the black-and-white pup as he's got a-rearing." 
 
 Baby was christened, ttie rector deciding that a 
 double baptism was the lesser risk to incur; and on this 15 
 occasion Silas, making himself as clean and tidy as he 
 could, appeared for the first time within the church, 
 and shared in the observances held sacred by his neigh- 
 bors. He was quite unable, by means of anything he 
 heard or saw, to identify the Eaveloe religion with his 20 
 old faith; if he could at any time in his previous life 
 have done so, it must have been by the aid of a strong 
 feeling ready to vibrate with sympathy rather than by 
 a comparison of phrases and ideas; and now for long 
 years that feeling had been dormant. He had no dis- 25 
 tinct idea about the baptism and the church-going, ex- 
 cept that Dolly had said it was for the good of the 
 child; and in this way, as the weeks grew to months, 
 the child created fresh and fresh links between his 
 life and the lives from which he had hitherto shrunk 30 
 continually into narrower isolation. Unlike the gold 
 which needed nothing, and must be worshiped in close- 
 locked solitude — which was hidden away from the day- 
 
^00 SILAS MARKER 
 
 light, was deaf to the song of birds, and started to no 
 human tones — Eppie was a creature of endless claims 
 and ever-growing desires, seeking and loving sunshine, 
 and living sounds, and living movements; making trial 
 5 of everything, with trust in new joy, and stirring the 
 human kindness in all eyes that looked on her. The 
 gold had kept his thoughts in an ever-repeated circle, 
 leading to nothing beyond itself; but Eppie was an ob- 
 ject compacted of changes and hopes that forced his 
 10 thoughts onward, and carried them far away from their 
 old eager pacing toward the same blank limit — carried 
 them away to the new things that would come with 
 the coming years, when Eppie \would have learned to 
 understand how her father Silas cared for her; and 
 15 made him look for images of that time in the ties and 
 charities that bound together the families of his neigh- 
 bors. The gold had asked that he should sit weaving 
 longer and longer, deaf-ened and blinded more and more 
 to all things except the monotony of his loom and the 
 20 repetition of his web; but Eppie called him away from 
 his weaving, and made him think all its pauses a holi- 
 day, reawakening his senses with her fresh life, even 
 to the old winter-flies that came crawling forth in the 
 early spring sunshine, and warming him into joy be- 
 gs cause she had joy. 
 
 And when the sunshine grew strong and lasting, so 
 that the buttercups were thick in the meadows, Silas 
 might be seen in the sunny midday, or in the late 
 afternoon when the shadows were lengthening under 
 30 the hedgerows, strolling out with uncovered head to 
 carry Eppie beyond the Stone-pits to where the flowers 
 grew, till they reached some favorite bank where he 
 could sit down, while Eppie toddled to pluck the flow- ^ 
 
 i 
 
SILAS MARNER 201 ' 
 
 ers, and make remarks to the winged things that mur- 
 mured happily above the bright petals, calling " Dad- 
 dad^s '^ attention continually by bringing him the 
 flowers. Then she would turn her ear to some sudden 
 bird-note, and Silas learned to please her by making 5 
 signs of hushed stillness, that they might listen for the 
 note to come again : so that when it came, she set up her 
 small back and laughed with gurgling triumph. Sit- 
 ting on the banks in this way, Silas began to look for 
 the once familiar herbs again; and as the leaves, with it> 
 their unchanged outline and markings, lay on his palm, 
 there was a sense of crowding remembrances from which 
 he turned away timidly, taking refuge in Eppie's little 
 world, that lay lightly on his enfeebled spirit. 
 
 As the child^s mind was growing into knowledge, 15 
 his mind was growing into memory; as her life un- 
 folded, his soul, long stupefied in a cold, -narrow prison, 
 was unfolding too, and trembling gradually into full 
 consciousness. 
 
 It was an influence which must gather force with 20 
 every new year: the tones that stirred Silas's heart 
 grew articulate, and called for more distinct answers; 
 shapes and sounds grew clearer for Eppie's eyes and 
 ears, and there was more that " Dad-dad '' was impera- 
 tively required to notice and account for. Also, by 25 
 the time Eppie was three years old, she developed a 
 fine capacity for mischief, and for devising ingenious 
 ways of being troublesome, which found much exercise, 
 not only for Silas's patience, but for his watchfulness 
 and penetration. Sorely was poor Silas puzzled on such 30 
 occasions by the incompatible demands of love. Dolly 
 Winthrop told him that punishment was good for Ep- 
 pie, and that as for rearing a child without making it 
 
202 SILAS MARNER 
 
 tingle a little in soft and safe places now and then^ it 
 was not to be done. 
 
 " To be sure, there's another thing you might do. 
 Master Marner/' added Dolly meditatively; ^' you might 
 
 5 shut her up once i' the coal-hole. That was what I 
 did wi' Aaron; for I was that silly wi' the youngest 
 lad as I could never bear to smack him. Not as I could 
 find i' my heart to let him stay i' the coal-hole more 
 nor a minute, but it was enough to colly him all over, 
 
 1.0 so as he must be new washed and dressed, and it was 
 as good as a rod to him — that was. But I put it upo' 
 your conscience, Master MarneA, as there's one of 'em 
 yon must choose — ayther smacking or the coal-hole — 
 else she'll get so masterful, there'll be no holding her." 
 
 15 Silas was impressed with the melancholy truth of 
 this last remark; but his force of mind failed before 
 the only two penal methods open to him, not only be- 
 cause it was painful to him to hurt Eppie, but because 
 he trembled at a moment's contention with her, lest 
 
 20 she should love him the less for it. Let even an affec- 
 tionate Goliath get himself tied to a small, tender thing, 
 dreading to hurt it by pulling, and dreading still more 
 to snap the cord, and which of the two, pray, will be 
 master? It was clear that Eppie, with her short tod- 
 
 85 dling steps, must lead father Silas a pretty dance on any 
 fine morning when circumstances favored mischief. 
 
 For example. He had wisely chosen a broad strip 
 of linen as a means of fastening her to his loom when 
 he was busy; it made a broad belt round her waist, 
 
 SO and was long enough to allow of her reaching the 
 truckle bed and sitting down on it, but not long enough 
 for her to attempt any dangerous climbing. One bright 
 summer's morning Silas had been more engrossed than 
 
SILAS MARNER 203 
 
 usual in " setting up " a new piece of work, an occasion 
 on which his scissors were in requisition. These scis- 
 sors, owing to an especial warning of Dolly's, had been 
 kept carefully out of Eppie's reach; but the click of 
 them had had a peculiar attraction for her ear, and, 5 
 watching the results of that click, she had derived the 
 philosophic lesson that the same cause would produce 
 the same effect. Silas had seated himself in his loom, 
 and the noise of weaving had begun; but he had left 
 his scissors on a ledge which Eppie's arm was long lo 
 enough to reach; and now, like a small mouse, watch- 
 ing her opportunity, she stole quietly from her corner, 
 secured the scissors, and toddled to the bed again, set- 
 ting up her back as a mode of concealing the fact. She 
 had a distinct intention as to the use of the scissors; 15 
 and having cut the linen strip in a jagged but effectual 
 manner, in two moments she had run out at the open 
 door where the sunshine was inviting her, while poor 
 Silas believed her to be a better child than usual. It 
 was not until he happened to need his scissors that the 20 
 terrible fact burst upon him: Eppie had run out by 
 herself — had perhaps fallen into the Stone-pit. Silas, 
 shaken by the worst fear that could have befallen him, 
 rushed out, calling "Eppie!'" and ran eagerly about 
 the unenclosed space, exploring the dry cavities into 25 
 which she might have fallen, and then gazing with ques- 
 tioning dread at the smooth red surface of the water. 
 The cold drops stood on his brow. How long had she 
 been out? There was one hope — that she had crept 
 through the stile and got into the fields where he habit- so 
 ually took her to stroll. But the grass was high in the 
 meadow, and there was no descrying her, if she were 
 there, except by a close search that would be a trespass 
 
204 SILAS MARNER 
 
 on Mr. Osgood^s crop. Stilly, that misdemeanor must 
 be committed; and poor Silas, after peering all round 
 the hedgerows, traversed the grass, beginning with per- 
 turbed vision to see Eppie behind every group of red 
 
 5 sorrel, and to see her moving always farther off as he 
 approached. The meadow was searched m vain; and 
 he got over the stile into the next field, looking with 
 dying hope toward a small pond which was now reduced 
 to its summer shallowness, so as to leave a wide mar- 
 
 10 gin of good adhesive mud. Here, however, sat Eppie, 
 discoursing cheerfully to her own small boot, which she 
 was using as a bucket to convey the water into a deep 
 hoof mark, w^hile her little naked foot was planted com- 
 fortably on a cushion of olive-green mud. A red-headed 
 
 15 calf was observing her with alarmed doubt through the 
 opposite hedge. 
 
 Here was clearly a case of aberration in a christened 
 child which demanded severe treatment; but Silas, over- 
 come with convulsive joy at finding his treasure again, 
 
 20 could do nothing but snatch her up, and cover her with 
 half-sobbing kisses. It was not until he had carried 
 her home, and had begun to think of the necessary 
 Avashing, that he recollected the need that he should 
 punish Eppie, and *^^ make her remember. ^^ The idea 
 
 25 that she might run away again and come to harm gave 
 him unusual resolution, and for the first time he deter- 
 mined to try the coal-hole — a small closet near the 
 hearth. 
 
 "!N"aughty, naughty Eppie,^^ he suddenly began, 
 
 30 holding her on his knee, and pointing to her muddy 
 feet and clothes; "naughty to cut with the scissors, 
 and run away. Eppie must go into the coal-hole for 
 being naughty. Daddy must put her in the coal-hole '' 
 
SILAS MARKER 205 
 
 He half expected that this would be shock enough, 
 and that Eppie would begin to cry. But instead of 
 that^ she began to shake herself on his knee, as if the 
 proposition opened a pleasing novelty. Seeing that he 
 must proceed to extremities, he put her into the coal- 5 
 hole, and held the door closed, with a trembling sense 
 that he was using a strong measure. For a moment 
 there was silence, but then came a little cry, " Opy, 
 opy ! ^^ and Silas let her out again, saying, " Now Eppie 
 ^ull never be naughty again, else she must go in the lo 
 coal-hole — a black, naughty place.^^ 
 
 The weaving must stand still a long while this 
 morning, for now Eppie must be washed and have 
 clean clothes on; but it was to be hoped that this pun- 
 ishment would have a lasting effect, and save time in 15 
 future; though, perhaps, it would have been better if 
 Eppie had cried more. 
 
 In half an hour she was clean again, and Silas, 
 having turned his back to see what he could do with 
 the linen band, threw it down again, with the reflection 20 
 that Eppie would be good without fastening for the 
 ^est of the morning. He turned round again, and was 
 going to place her in her little chair near the loom, 
 when she peeped out at him with black face and hands 
 again, and said, " Eppie in de toal-hole ! ^^ 25 
 
 This total failure of the coal-hole discipline shook 
 Silas's belief in the efficacy of punishment. '' She'd 
 take it all for fun," he observed to Dolly, " if I didn't 
 hurt her, and that I can't do, Mrs. Winthrop. If she 
 makes me a bit o' trouble I can bear it. And she's 30 
 got no tricks but what she'll grow out of." 
 
 "Well, that's partly true, Master Marner," said 
 Dolly sympathetically; "and if 3^ou can't bring your 
 
206 SILAS MARNER 
 
 mind to frighten her off touching things, you must do 
 what you can to keep ^em out of her way. That'& 
 what I do wi^ the pups as the lads are allays a-rearing. 
 They will worry and gnaw — worry and gnaw they will, 
 5 if it was one^s Sunday cap as hung anywhere so as they 
 could drag it. They know no difference, God help ^em; 
 it^s the pushing o^ the teeth as sets ^em on, that's what 
 it is.'' \ 
 
 So Eppie was reared without punishment, the bur- 
 
 10 den of her misdeeds being borne vicariously by father 
 Silas. The stone hut was made a soft nest for her^ 
 lined with downy patience; and also in the world that 
 lay beyond the stone hut she knew nothing of frowns 
 and denials. 
 
 15 Notwithstanding the difHculty of carrying her and 
 his yarn or linen at the same time, Silas took her with 
 him in most of his journeys to the farm-houses, un- 
 willing to leave her behind at Dolly Winthrop's, who 
 was always ready to take care of her; and little curly- 
 
 20 headed Eppie, the weaver's child, became an object of 
 interest at several outlying homesteads, as well as in 
 the village. Hitherto he had been treated very much 
 as if he had been a useful gnome or brownie — a queer 
 and unaccountable creature, who must necessarily be 
 
 25 looked at with wondering curiosity and repulsion, and 
 with whom one would be glad to make all greetings 
 and bargains as brief as possible, but who must be 
 dealt with in a propitiatory way, and occasionally have 
 a present of pork or garden-stuff to carry home with 
 
 30 him, seeing that without him there was no getting the 
 yarn woven. But now Silas met with open, smiling 
 faces and cheerful questioning, as a person whose satis- 
 factions and difficulties could be understood. Every- 
 
SILAS MARKER 207 
 
 where he must sit a little and talk about the child, and 
 words of interest were always ready for him: " Ah, 
 Master Marner, you'll be lucky if she takes the measles 
 soon and easy! '' — or, " Why, there isn't many lone men 
 \id ha' been wishing to take up with a little un like 5 
 that; but I reckon the weaving makes you handier than 
 men as do outdoor woi*k; you're partly as handy as a 
 woman, for weaving comes next to spinning." Elderly 
 masters and mistresses, seated observantly in large 
 kitchen armchairs, shook their heads over the difficul- 10 
 ties attendant on rearing children, felt Eppie's round 
 arms and legs, and pronounced them remarkably firm, 
 and told Silas that, if she turned out well (which, how- 
 ever, there was no telling), it would be a fine thing for 
 him to have a steady lass to do for him when he got 15 
 helpless. Servant maidens were fond of carrying her 
 out to look at the hens and chickens, or to see if any 
 cherries could be shaken down in the orchard; and the 
 small boys and girls approached her slowly, with cau- 
 tious movement and steady gaze, like little dogs face 20 
 to face with one of their own kind, till attraction had 
 reached the point at which the soft lips were put out 
 for a kiss. No child was afraid of approaching Silas 
 when Eppie was near him: there was no repulsion 
 around him now, either for young or old; for the little 25 
 child had come to link him once more with the whole 
 world. There was love between him and the child that 
 blent them into one, and there was love between the 
 child and the world — from men and women with pa- 
 rental looks and tones to the red lady-birds and the 30 
 round pebbles. 
 
 Silas began now to think of Eaveloe life entirely 
 in relation to Eppie: she must have everything that 
 
208 SILAS MARNER 
 
 was a good in Eaveloe; and he listened docilely, that 
 he might come to understand better what this life was, 
 from which, for fifteen years, he had stood aloof as 
 from a strange thing, wherewith he could have no com- 
 5 munion; as some man who has a precious plant to 
 which he would give a nu^rturing home in a new soil 
 thinks of the rain, and the sunshine, and all influences, 
 in relation to his nursling,/ and asks industriously for 
 all knowledge that will help him to satisfy the wants 
 
 10 of the searching roots, or to guard leaf and bud from 
 invading harm. The disposition to hoard had been 
 utterly crushed at the very first by the loss of his long- 
 stored gold; the coins he earned afterward seemed as 
 irrelevant as stones brought to complete a house sud- 
 
 15 denly buried by an earthquake; the sense of bereave- 
 ment was too heavy upon him for the old thrill of satis- 
 faction to arise again at the touch of the newly earned 
 coin. And now something had come to replace his 
 hoard which gave a growing impulse to the earnings, 
 
 20 drawing his hope and joy continually onward beyond 
 the money. 
 
 In old days there were angels who came and took 
 men by the hand and led them away from the city of 
 destruction. We see no white-winged angels now. 
 
 25 But yet men are led away from threatening destruc- 
 tion: a hand is put into theirs which leads them forth 
 gently toward a calm and bright land, so thnt they 
 look no more backward; and the hand may b^ a little 
 child's. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 Theee was one person, as you will believe, who 
 watched, with keener though more hidden interest than 
 any other, the prosperous growth of Eppie under the 
 weaver's care. He dared not do anything that would 
 imply a stronger interest in a poor man's adopted child 5 
 than could be expected from the kindliness of the young 
 Squire, when a chance meeting suggested a little pres- 
 ent to a simple old fellow whom others noticed with 
 good will; but he told himself that the time would 
 come when he might do something toward furthering 10 
 the welfare of his daughter without incurring suspi- 
 cion. Was he very uneasy in the meantime at his in- 
 ability to give his daughter her birthright? I can not 
 say that he was. The child was being taken care of, 
 and would very likely be happy, as people in humble 15 
 stations often were — happier, perhaps, than those 
 brought up in luxury. 
 
 That famous ring that pricked its owner when he 
 forgot duty and followed desire — I wonder if it pricked 
 very hard when he set out on the chase, or whether it 20 
 pricked but lightly then, and only pierced to the quick 
 when the chase had long been ended, and Hope, fold- 
 ing her wings, looked backward and became Regret. 
 
 Godfrey Cass's cheek and e^^e were brighter than 
 ever now. He was so undivided in his aims that he 25 
 ' 209 
 
210 SILAS MARKER 
 
 ; seemed like a man of firmness. 'No Dunsey had comer 
 
 ' back; people had made up their minds that he was 
 
 gone for a soldier^ or gone '' out of the country/^ and 
 
 no one cared to be specific in their inquiries on a sub- 
 
 5 ject delicate to a respectable family. Godfrey had 
 ceased to see the shadow ofj Dunsey across his path; 
 and the path now lay straight forward to the accom- 
 plishment of his best, longest-cherished wishes. Every- 
 body said Mr. Godfrey had taken the right turn; and 
 
 10 it was pretty clear what would be the end of things, 
 for there were not many days in the week that he was 
 not seen riding to the Warrens. Godfrey himself, when 
 he was asked jocosely if the day had been fixed, smiled 
 with the pleasant consciousness of a lover who could 
 
 15 say ^^ yes '^ if he liked. He felt a reformed man, de- 
 livered from temptation; and the vision of his future 
 life seemed to him as a promised land for which he had 
 no cause to fight. He saw himself with all his hap- 
 piness centered on his own hearth, while Nancy would 
 
 20 smile on him as he played with the children. 
 
 And that other child — not on the hearth — he would 
 not forget it; he would see that it was well provided 
 for. That was a father's duty. 
 
PART II 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 It was a bright autumn Sunday, sixteen years after 
 Silas Marner had found his new treasure on the hearth. 
 The bells of the old Eaveloe church were ringing the 
 cheerful peal which told that the morning service was 
 ended; and out of the arched doorway in the tower 5 
 came slowly, retarded by friendly greetings and ques- 
 tions, the richer parishioners who had chosen this bright 
 Sunday morning as eligible for church-going. It was 
 the rural fashion of that time for the more important; 
 members of the congregation to depart first, while their lo 
 humbler neighbors waited and looked on, stroking their 
 bent heads or dropping their courtesies to any large 
 rate-payer who turned to notice them. 
 
 Foremost among these advancing groups of well- 
 clad people there are some whom we shall recognize 15 
 in spite of Time, who has laid his hand on them all. 
 The tall blond man of forty is not much changed in 
 feature from the Godfrey Cass of six-and-twenty; he 
 is only fuller in flesh, and has only lost the indefinable 
 look of youth — a loss which is marked even when the 20 
 eye is undulled and the wrinkles are not yet come. 
 Perhaps the pretty woman, not much younger than he, 
 who is leaning on his arm, is more changed than her 
 husband; the lovely bloom that used to be always on 
 her cheek now comes but fitfully, with the fresh morn- 26 
 
 211 
 
212 SILAS MARNER 
 
 ing air or with some strong surprise; yet to all who 
 love human faces best for what they tell of human 
 experience^ JSTancy^s beauty has a heightened interest. 
 Often the soul is ripened into fuller goodness while age 
 5 has spread an ugly film^ so that mere glances can never 
 divine the preciousness of the fruit. But the years 
 have not been so cruel to Nancy. The firm yet placid 
 mouthy the clear veracious glance of the brown eyes, 
 speak now of a nature that has been tested and has 
 
 10 kept its highest qualities; and even the costume, wHh 
 its dainty neatness and purity, has more significance 
 now the coquetries of youth can have nothing to do 
 with it. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass (any higher title has 
 
 15 died away from Eaveloe lips since the old Squire was 
 gathered to his fathers and his inheritance was divided) 
 have turned round to look for the tall, aged man and 
 the plainly dressed woman who are a little behind — 
 !N'ancy having observed that they must wait for " father 
 
 «o and Priscilla ^^ — and now they all turn into a narrower 
 path leading across the churchyard to a small gate op- 
 posite the Ked House. We will not follow them now; 
 for may there not be some others in this departing con- 
 gregation whom we should like to see again — some of 
 
 25 those who are not likely to be handsomely clad, and 
 whom we may not recognize so easily as the master 
 and mistress of the Eed House? 
 
 But it is impossible to mistake Silas Marner. His 
 large brown eyes seem to have gathered a longer vision, 
 
 30 as is the way with eyes that have been short-sighted 
 in early life, and they have a less vague, a more an- 
 swering gaze; but in everything else one sees signs of 
 a frame much enfeebled by the lapse of the sixteen 
 
i 
 
 SILAS MARNER 213 
 
 years. The weaver's bent shoulders and white hair give 
 him almost the look of advanced age, though he is not 
 more than five and fifty; but there is the freshest 
 blossom of youth close by his side — a blond, dimpled 
 girl of eighteen, who has vainly tried to chastise her 5 
 curly auburn hair into smoothness under her brown 
 bonnet; the hair ripples as obstinately as a brooklet 
 under the March breeze, and the little ringlets burst 
 away from the restraining comb behind and show them- 
 selves below the bonnet crown. Eppie can not help lo 
 being rather vexed about her hair, for there is no other 
 girl in Eaveloe who has hair at all like it, and she 
 thinks hair ought to be smooth. She does not like to 
 be blameworthy even in small things: you see how 
 neatly her prayer-book is folded in her spotted hand- 15 
 kerchief. 
 
 That good-looking young fellow, in a new fustian 
 suit, who walks behind her, is not quite sure upon the 
 question of hair in the abstract when Eppie puts it to 
 him, and thinks that perhaps straight hair is the best 20 
 in general, but he doesn't want Eppie's hair to be dif- 
 ferent. She surely divines that there is some one be- 
 hind her who is thinking about her very particularly, 
 and mustering courage to come to her side as soon as 
 they are out in the lane, else why should she look 25 
 rather shy, and take care not to turn away her head 
 from her father Silas, to whom she keeps murmuring 
 little sentences as to who was at church, and who was 
 not at church, and how pretty the red mountain-ash is 
 over the Rectory wall! 30 
 
 " I wish we had a little garden, father, with double 
 daisies in, like Mrs. Winthrop's," said Eppie, when 
 they were out in the lane; ^^ only they say it 'ud take 
 
214 SILAS MARNER 
 
 a deal of digging and bringing fresh soil — and you 
 conldn^t do that, could you, father? Anyhow, I 
 shouldn't like you to do it, for it ^ud be too hard work 
 for you/' V 
 
 5 " Yes, I could do it, chil^, if you want a bit o' gar- 
 den: these long evenings I could work at taking in a 
 little bit o' the waste, just enough for a root or two o' 
 flowers for you; and again, i' the morning, I could have 
 a turn wi' the spade before I sat down to the loom. 
 10 Why didn't you tell me before as you wanted a bit o^ 
 garden ? '' 
 
 "7 can dig it for you, Master Marner," said the 
 young man in fustian, who was now by Eppie's side, 
 entering into the conversation without the trouble of 
 15 formalities. " It'll be play to me after I've done my 
 day's work, or any odd bits o' time when the work's 
 slack. And I'll bring you some soil from Mr. Cass's 
 garden — he'll let me, and willing." 
 
 ^^Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you there?" said Silas. 
 
 ^0 "^ I wasn't aware of you; for when Eppie's talking o^ 
 
 things I see nothing but what she's a-saying. Well, 
 
 if you could help me with the digging, we might get 
 
 her a bit o' garden all the sooner." 
 
 " Then, if you think well and good," said Aaron, 
 25 " I'll come to the Stone-pits this afternoon, and we'll 
 . settle what land's to be taken in, and I'll get up an 
 hour earlier i' the morning, and begin on it." 
 
 " But not if you don't promise me not to work 
 
 at the hard digging, father," said Eppie. " For I 
 
 30 shouldn't ha' said anything about it," she added, half 
 
 bashfully, lialf roguishly, '' only Mrs. Winthrop said as 
 
 Aaron 'ud be so good, and " 
 
 " And you might ha' known it without mother tell^ 
 
SILAS MARKER 215 
 
 ing you/^ said Aaron. " And Master Marner knows 
 too, I hope, as I'm able and willing to do a turn o' work 
 for him, and he won't do me the unkindness to any- 
 ways take it out o' my hands." 
 
 " There, now, father, you won't work in it till it's 5 
 all easy," said Eppie; " and you and me can mark out 
 the beds, and make holes and plant the roots. It'll be 
 a deal livelier at the Stone-pits when we've got some 
 flowers, for I always think the flowers can see us and 
 know what we're talking about. And I'll have a bit lo 
 o' rosemary, and bergamot, and thyme, because they're 
 50 sweet smelling; but there's no lavender only in the 
 gentlefolks' gardens, I think." 
 
 " That's no reason why you shouldn't have some," 
 said Aaron, '^ for I can bring you slips of anything; 15 
 I'm forced to cut no end of 'em when I'm gardening, 
 xnd throw 'em away mostly. There's a big bed o' lav- 
 3nder at the Eed House; the missis is very fond of it." 
 
 " Well," said Silas gravely, " so as you don't make 
 free for us, or ask for anything as is worth much at 20 
 the Eed House; for Mr. Cass's been so good to us, and 
 built us up the new end o' the cottage, and given us 
 beds and things, as I couldn't abide to be imposin' for 
 garden stuff or anything else." 
 
 " No, no, there's no imposin'," said Aaron; " there's 25 
 never a garden in all the parish but w^hat there's end- 
 less waste in it for want o' somebody as could use every- 
 thing up. It's what I think to myself sometimes, as 
 there need nobody run short o' victuals if the land was 
 made the most on, and there was never a morsel but 30 
 what could find its way to a mouth. It sets one think- 
 ing o' that — gardening does. But I must go back now, 
 else mother 'ull be in trouble as I aren't there," 
 
216 SILAS MARNER 
 
 "Bring her with you this afternoon, Aaron/^ said 
 Eppie; "I shouldn't like to fix about the garden, and 
 her not know everything fi^om the first — should you, 
 father? ^^ J 
 
 5 "Ay, bring her if you can, Aaron,^' said Silas; 
 " she's sure to have a word to say as '11 help us to set 
 things on their right end." 
 
 Aaron turned back up the village, while Silas and 
 Eppie went on up the lonely sheltered lane. 
 
 10 " daddy! '' she began, when they were in privacy, 
 clasping and squeezing Silas's arm, and skipping round 
 to give him an energetic kiss. "My little old daddy! 
 I'm so glad. I don't think I shall want anything else 
 when we've got a little garden; and I knew Aaron 
 
 15 would dig it for us," she went on with roguish triumph; 
 " I knew that very well." 
 
 " You're a deep little puss, you are," said Silas, 
 with the mild, passive happiness of love-crowned age 
 in his face; " but you'll make yourself fine and be- 
 
 20 holden to Aaron." 
 
 " Oh, no, I shan't," said Eppie, laughing and frisk- 
 ing; "he likes it." 
 
 " Come, come, let me carry your prayer-book, else 
 you'll be dropping it, jumping i' that way." 
 
 25 Eppie was now aware that her behavior was under 
 observation, but it was only the observation of a friend- 
 ly donkey, browsing with a log fastened to his foot — 
 a meek donkey, not scornfully critical of human trivi- 
 alities, but thankful to share in them, if possible, by 
 
 30 getting his nose scratched; and Eppie did not fail to 
 gratify him with her usual notice, though it was at- 
 tended with the inconvenience of his following them, 
 painfully, up to the very door of their home. 
 
SILAS MARKER 217 
 
 But the sound of a sharp bark inside, as Eppie put 
 the key in the door, modified the donkey's views, and 
 he limped away again without bidding. The sharp 
 bark was the sign of an excited welcome that was await- 
 ing them from a knowing brown terrier, who, after 5 
 dancing at their leg& in a hysterical manner, rushed 
 with a w^orrying noise at a tortoise-shell kitten under 
 the loom, and then rushed back with a sharp bark 
 again, as much as to say, '' I have done my duty by this 
 feeble creature, you perceive ^^; while the lady-mother 10 
 of the kitten sat sunning her white bosom in the win- 
 dow, and looked round with a sleepy air of expecting 
 caresses, though she was not going to take any trouble 
 for them. 
 
 The presence of this happy animal life was not the 15 
 only change which had come over the interior of the 
 stone cottage. There was no bed now in the living 
 room, and the small space was well filled with decent 
 furniture, all bright and clean enough to satisfy Dolly 
 Winthrop's eye. The oaken table and three-cornered 20 
 oaken chair were hardly what was likely to be seen in 
 so poor a cottage; they had come, with the beds and 
 other things, from the Eed House; for Mr. Godfrey 
 Cass, as every one said in the village, did very kindly 
 by the weaver; and it was nothing but right a man 25 
 should be looked on and helped by those who could 
 afford it, when he had brought up an orphan child, 
 and been father and mother to her — and had lost his 
 money, too, so as he had nothing but what he worked 
 for week by week, and when the weaving was going 30 
 down, too — for there was less and less flax spun — and 
 Master Mamer was none so young. Nobody wa« jeal- 
 ous of the weaver, for he was regarded as an excep- 
 
218 SILAS MARKER 
 
 tional person^ whose claims on neighborly help were 
 not to be matched in Eaveloe. Any superstition that 
 remained concerning him liM taken an entirely new 
 color; and Mr. Macey, now a) very feeble old man of 
 
 5 fourscore and six, never seen except in his chimney 
 corner or sitting in the sunshine at his doorsill, was of 
 opinion that when a man had done what Silas had done 
 by an orphan child, it was a sign that his money would 
 come to light again, or leastwise that the robber would 
 
 10 be made to answer for it; for, as Mr. Macey observed 
 of himself, his faculties were as strong as ever. 
 
 Silas sat down now and watched Eppie with a satis- 
 fied gaze as she spread the clean cloth, and set on it 
 the potato pie, warmed up slowly in a safe Sunday fash- 
 
 15 ion, by being put into a dry pot over a slowly dying fire, 
 as the best substitute for an oven. For Silas would 
 not consent to have a grate and oven added to his con- 
 veniences: he loved the old brick hearth as he had loved 
 his brown pot — and was it not there when he had found 
 
 20 Eppie? The gods of the hearth exist for us still; and 
 let all new faith be tolerant of that fetichism, less it 
 bruise its own roots. 
 
 Silas ate his dinner more silently than usual, soon 
 laying down his knife and fork, and watching half ab- 
 
 25 stractedly Eppie's play with Snap and the cat, by which 
 her own dining was made rather a lengthy business. 
 Yet it was a sight that might well arrest wandering 
 thoughts: Eppie, with the rippling radiance of her hair 
 and the whiteness of her rounded chin and throat set 
 
 %o off by the dark-blue cotton gown, laughing merrily as 
 the kitten held on with her four claws to one shoulder, 
 like a design for a jug handle, while Snap on the right 
 hand and Puss on the other put up their paws toward a 
 
:S1LAS MAKJSEU 219 
 
 morsel which she held out of the reach of both — Snap 
 occasionally desisting in order to remonstrate with the 
 cat by a cogent worrying growl on the greediness and 
 futility of her conduct; till Eppie relented, caressed 
 them both, and divided the morsel between them. 5 
 
 But at last Eppie, glancing at the clock, checked 
 the play and said, " daddy, you^re wanting to go 
 into the sunshine to smoke your pipe. But I must 
 clear away first, so as the house may be tidy when god- 
 mother comes. I'll make haste — I won't be long." lo 
 
 Silas had taken to smoking a pipe daily during the 
 last two years, having been strongly urged to it by the 
 sages of Eaveloe, as a practice ^^good for the fits''; 
 and this advice was sanctioned by Dr. Kimble, on the 
 ground that it was as well to try what could do no 15 
 harm — a principle which was made to answer for a 
 great deal of work in that gentleman's medical practice. 
 Silas did not highly enjoy smoking, and often wondered 
 how his neighbors could be so fond of it; but a hum- 
 ble sort of acquiescence in what was held to be good 20 
 had become a strong habit of that new self which had 
 been developed in him since he had found Eppie on 
 his hearth; it had been the only clew his bewildered 
 mind could hold by in cherishing this young life that 
 had been sent to him out of the darkness into which 25 
 his gold had departed. By seeking what was needful 
 for Eppie, by sharing the effect that everything pro- 
 duced on her, he had himself come to appropriate the 
 forms of custom and belief which were the mold of 
 Raveloe life; and as, with reawakening sensibilities, 30 
 memory also reawakened, he had begun to ponder over 
 the elements of his old faith, and blend them with his 
 new impressions, til] he recovered a consciousness of 
 
220 SILAS MARKER 
 
 unity between his past and present. The sense of pre- 
 siding goodness and the humin trust which come with 
 all pure peace and joy had given him a dim impression 
 that there had been some error, some mistake, which 
 5 had thrown that dark shadow over the days of his best 
 years; and as it grew more and more easy to him to 
 open his mind to Dolly Winthrop, he gradually com- 
 municated to her all he could describe of his early life. 
 The communication was necessarily a slow and difficult 
 
 10 process, for Silases meager power of explanation was 
 not aided by any readiness of interpretation in Dolly, 
 whose narrow outward experience gave her no key to 
 strange customs, and made every novelty a source of 
 wonder that arrested them at every step of the narra- 
 
 15 tive. It was only by fragments, and at intervals which 
 left Dolly time to revolve what she had heard till it 
 acquired some familiarity for her, that Silas at last 
 arrived at the climax of the sad story — the drawing of 
 lots, and its false testimony concerning him; and this 
 
 20 had to be repeated in several interviews, under new 
 questions on her part as to the nature of this plan for 
 detecting the guilty and clearing the innocent. 
 
 " And yourn^s the same Bible, you^re sure o' that. 
 Master Marner — the Bible as you brought wi' you from 
 
 25 that country — it's the same as what they've got at 
 church, and w^hat Eppie's a-learning to read in ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Silas, " every bit the same; and there's 
 drawing o' lots in the Bible, mind you," he added in 
 a lower tone. 
 
 30 '' Oh, dear, dear," said Dolly, in a grieved voice, as 
 if she were hearing an unfavorable report of a sick 
 man's case. She was silent for some minutes; at last 
 she said— 
 
SILAS MARNER 221 
 
 ^^ There's wise folks, happen, as know how it all is; 
 the parson knows, I'll be bound; but it takes big words 
 to tell them things, and such as poor folks can't make 
 much out on. I can never rightly know the meaning 
 o' what I hear at church, only a bit here and there, 5 
 but I know it's good words — I do. But what lies upo' 
 your mind — it's this, Master Marner: as, if Them above 
 had done the right thing by you. They'd never ha' let 
 you be turned out for a wicked thief when you was 
 innicent." lo 
 
 "Ah!" said Silas, who had now come to under- 
 stand Dolly's phraseology, "that was what fell on me 
 like as if it had been red-hot iron ; because, you see, 
 there was nobody as cared for me or clave to me above 
 nor below. And him as I'd gone out and in wi' for is 
 ten year and more, since when we was lads and went 
 halves — mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted, 
 had lifted up his heel again' me, and worked to 
 ruin me." 
 
 " Eh, but he was a bad un — I can't think as there's 20 
 another such," said Dolly. " But I'm o'ercome. Mas- 
 ter Marner; I'm like as if I'd waked and didn't know 
 whether it was night or morning. I feel somehow as 
 sure as I do when I've laid something up though I 
 can't justly put my hand on it, as there was a rights 25 
 in what happened to you, if one could but make it 
 out; and you'd no call to lose heart as you did. But 
 we'll talk on it again; for sometimes things come 
 into my head when I'm leeching or poulticing, or 
 such, as I could never think on when I was sitting 3« 
 still." 
 
 Dolly was too useful a woman not to have many 
 opportunities of illumination of the kind she alluded 
 
222 SILAS MARNER 
 
 to^ and she was not long be|ore she recurred to the 
 subject. / 
 
 " Master Marner/^ she s^ud^, one day that she came 
 to bring home Eppie's washing, " Tve been sore puz- 
 5 zled for a good bit wi^ that trouble o' yourn and the 
 drawing o' lots; and it got twisted backwards and for- 
 wards, as I didn't know which end to lay hold on. But 
 it come to me all clear like, that night when I was 
 sitting up wi' poor Bessy Fawkes, as is dead and left 
 
 10 her children behind, God help 'em — it come to me as 
 clear as daylight; but whether I\e got hold on it now, 
 or can anyways bring it to my tongue's end, that I 
 don't know. For I've often a deal inside me as '11 never 
 come out; and for what you talk o' your folks in your 
 
 15 old country niver saying prayers by heart nor saying 
 'em out of a book, they must be wonderful cliver; for 
 if I didn't know ^ Our Father,' and little bits o' good 
 words as I can carry out o' church wi' me, I might down 
 o' my knees every night, but nothing could I say." 
 
 20 " But you can mostly say something as I can make 
 sense on, Mrs. Winthrop," said Silas. 
 
 " Well, then. Master Marner, it come to me summat 
 like this: I can make nothing o' the drawing o' lots 
 and the answer coming wrong; it 'ud mayhap take the 
 
 25 parson to tell that, and he could only tell us i' big 
 words. But what come to me as clear as the daylight, 
 it was when I was troubling over poor Bessy FawkeSj 
 and it allays comes into my head when I'm sorry for 
 folks, and feel as I can't do a power to help 'em, not if 
 
 30 I was to get up i' the middle o' the night — it comes 
 into my head as Them above has got a deal tenderer 
 heart nor what I've got — for I can't be anyways bet- 
 ter nor Them as made me; and if anything looks hard 
 
SILAS MARNER 223 
 
 to me, it^s because there's things I don't know on; 
 and for the matter o' that, there may be plenty o' things 
 I don't know on, for it's little as I know — that it is. 
 And so, while I was thinking o' that, you come into 
 my mind. Master Marner, and it all come pouring in — 5 
 if I felt i' my inside what was the right and just thing 
 by you, and them as prayed and drawed the lots, all 
 but that wicked un, if they'di ha' done the right thing 
 by you if they could, isn't there Them as was at the 
 making on us, and knows better and has a better will? lo 
 And that's all as ever I can be sure on, and everything 
 else is a big puzzle to me when I think on it. For 
 there was the fever come and took off them as were full- 
 growed, and left the helpless children; and there's the 
 breaking o' limbs; and them as 'ud do right and be 15 
 sober have to suffer by them as are contrairy — eh, 
 there's trouble i' this world, and there's things as we 
 can niver make out the rights on. And all as we've 
 got to do is to trusten. Master Marner — to do the right 
 thing as fur as we know, and to trusten. For if us 20 
 as knows so little can see a bit o' good and rights, we 
 may be sure as there's a good and a rights bigger nor 
 what we can know — I feel it i' my inside as it must be 
 so. And if you could but ha' gone on trustening, Mas- 
 ter Marner, you wouldn't ha' run away from your fel- 25 
 low-creaturs and been so lone." 
 
 " Ah, but that 'ud ha' been hard," said Silas, in an 
 undertone; "it 'ud ha' been hard to trusten then." 
 
 " And so it would," said Dolly, almost with com- 
 punction; "them things are easier said nor done; and 30 
 I'm partly ashamed 0' talking." 
 
 "iSTay, nay," said Silas, "you're i' the right, Mrs. 
 Winthrop — you're i' the right. There's good i' this 
 
224 SILAS MARNER 
 
 world — I've a feeling o' that now; and it makes a nian 
 feel as there's a good more :Hor he can see, i' spite 
 o' the trouble and the wickedness. That drawing o' 
 the lots is dark; but the child was sent to me: there's 
 
 ^5 dealings with us — there's dealings." 
 
 This dialogue took place in Eppie's earlier years, 
 when Silas had to part with her for two hours every 
 day, that she might learn to read at the dame school, 
 after he had vainly tried himself to guide her in that 
 
 10 first step to learning. Now that she was grown up, 
 Silas had often been led, in those moments of quiet 
 outpouring which come to people who live together in 
 perfect love, to talk with her, too, of the past, and how 
 and why he had lived a lonely man until she had been 
 
 15 sent to him. For it would have been impossible for 
 him to hide from Eppie that she was not his own 
 child: even if the most delicate reticence on the point 
 could have been expected from Eaveloe gossips in her 
 presence, her own questions about her mother could 
 
 20 not have been parried, as she grew up, without that 
 complete shrouding of the past which would have made 
 a painful barrier between their minds. So Eppie had 
 long known how her mother had died on the snowy 
 ground, and how she herself had been found on the 
 
 25 hearth by father Silas, Avho had taken her golden curls 
 for his lost guineas brought back to him. The tender 
 and peculiar love with which Silas had reared her in 
 almost inseparable companionship with himself, aided 
 by the seclusion of their dwelling, had preserved her 
 
 30 from the lowering influences of the village talk and 
 habits, and had kept her mind in that freshness which 
 is sometimes falsely supposed to be an invariable at- 
 tribute of rusticity. Perfect love has a breath of 
 
SILAS MARNER 225 
 
 poetry which can exalt the relations of the least in- 
 structed human beings; and this breath of poetry had 
 surrounded Eppie from the time when she had fol- 
 lowed the bright gleam that beckoned her to Silas's 
 hearth; so that it is not surprising if, in other things 5 
 besides her delicate prettiness, she was not quite a com- 
 mon village maiden, but had a touch of refinement and 
 fervor which came from no other teaching than that 
 of tenderly nurtured unvitiated feeling.. She was too 
 childish and simple for her imagination to rove into lo 
 questions about her unknown father; for a long while 
 it did not even occur to her that she must have had 
 a father; and the first time that the idea of her mother 
 having had a husband presented itself to her was when 
 Silas showed her the wedding-ring which had been 15 
 taken from the wasted finger, and had been carefully 
 preserved by him in a little lacquered box shaped like 
 a shoe. He delivered this box into Eppie's charge when 
 she had grown up, and she often opened it to look at 
 the ring; but still she thought hardly at all about the 20 
 father of whom it was the symbol. Had she not a fa- 
 ther very close to her, who loved her better than any 
 real fathers in the village seemed to love their daugh- 
 ters? On the contrary, who her mother was and how 
 she came to die in that forlornness were questions that 25 
 often pressed on Eppie's mind. Her knowledge of Mrs. 
 Winthrop, who was her nearest friend next to Silas, 
 made her feel that a mother must be very precious; 
 and she had again and again asked Silas to tell her 
 how her mother looked, whom she was like, and how 30 
 he had found her against the furze bush, led toward it 
 by the little footsteps and the outstretched arms. The 
 furze bush was there still; and this afternoon, when 
 
226 SILAS MARKER 
 
 Eppie came out with Silas into the sunshine^ it was the 
 first object that arrested her eyes and thoughts. 
 
 " Father/^ she said, in a tone of gentle gravity, 
 which sometimes came like a sadder, slower cadence 
 6 across her playfulness, " we shall take the furze bush 
 into the garden; it'll come into the corner, and just 
 against it I'll put snowdrops and crocuses, ^cause Aaron 
 says they won't die out, but'll always get more and 
 more." 
 
 10 " Ah, child " said Silas, always ready to talk when 
 he had his pipe in his hand, apparently enjoying the 
 pauses more than the puffs, " it wouldn't do to leave 
 out the furze bush; and there's nothing prettier, to 
 my thinking, when it's yallow with flowers. But it's 
 
 15 just come into my head what we're to do for a fence 
 — mayhap Aaron can help us to a thought; but a fence 
 we must have^ else the donkeys and things 'ull come 
 and trample everything down. And fencing's hard to 
 be got at, by what I can make out." 
 
 20 '' Oh, I'll tell you, daddy," said Eppie, clasping her 
 hands suddenly, after a minute's thought. " There's 
 lots o' loose stones about, some of 'em not big, and we 
 might lay 'em atop of one another, and make a wall. 
 You and me could carry the smallest, and Aaron 'ud 
 
 25 carry the rest — I know he would." 
 
 " Eh, my precious un," said Silas, " there isn't - 
 enough stones to go all round; and as for you carry- 
 ing, why, wi' your little arms you couldn't carry a stone 
 no bigger than a turnip. You're dillicate made, my 
 
 80 dear," he added, with a tender intonation — " that's 
 what Mrs. Winthrop says." 
 
 " Oh, I'm stronger than you think, daddy," said 
 Eppie; " and if there wasn't stones enough to go all 
 
SILAS MARNER 227 
 
 round, why they'll go part o' the way, and then it'll 
 be easier to get sticks and things for the rest. See 
 here, round the big pit, what a many stones! " 
 
 She skipped forward to the pit, meaning to lift one 
 of the stones and exhibit her strength, but she started 5 
 back in surprise. 
 
 " Oh, father, just come and look here," she ex- 
 claimed; " come and see how the water's gone down 
 since yesterday! Why, yesterday the pit was ever so 
 full! " 10 
 
 "Well, to be sure," said Silas, coming to her side. 
 " Why, that's the draining they've begun on, since har- 
 vest, i' Mr. Osgood's fields, I reckon. The foreman 
 said to me the other day, when I passed by 'em, ' Mas- 
 ter Marner,' he said, ' I shouldn't wonder if we lay your 15 
 bit 0' waste as dry as a bone.' It was Mr. Godfrey Cass, 
 he said, had gone into the draining: he'd been taking 
 these fields 0' Mr. Osgood." 
 
 " How odd it'll seem to have the old pit dried up! " 
 said Eppie, turning away, and stooping to lift rather 2a 
 a large stone. " See, daddy, I can carry this quite 
 well," she said, going along with much energy for a 
 few steps, but presently letting it fall. 
 
 " Ah, you're fine and strong, aren't you ? " said 
 Silas, while Eppie shook her aching arms and laughed. 25 
 "' Come, come, let us go and sit down on the bank 
 against the stile there, and have no more lifting. You 
 might* hurt yourself, child. You'd need have some- 
 body to work for you — and my arm isn't over strong.'^ 
 
 Silas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it im- 30 
 plied more than met the ear; and Eppie, when they 
 sat down on the bank, nestled close to his side, and, 
 taking hold caressingly of the arm that was not over 
 
228 SILAS MARITOR 
 
 
 strong, held it on her lap, while Silas puffed again 
 dutifully at the pipe, which occupied his other arm. 
 An ash in the hedgerow behind made a fretted screen 
 from the sun, and threw happy playful shadows all 
 5 about them. 
 
 " Father,^^ said Eppie, very gently, after they had 
 been sitting in silence a little while, '^ if I was to be 
 married, ought I to be married with my mother's 
 ring ? ^' 
 10 Silas gave an almost imperceptible start, though 
 the question fell in with the under-current of thought 
 in his own mind, and then said, in a subdued tone, 
 "Why, Eppie, have you been a-thinking on it?^^ 
 
 " Only this last week, father," said Eppie, ingenu- 
 15 ously, " since Aaron talked to me about it." 
 
 ^^ And what did he say?" said Silas, still in the 
 same subdued way, as if he were anxious lest he should 
 fall into the slightest tone that was not for Eppie^s 
 good. 
 20 " He said he should like to be married, because he 
 was a-going in four-and-twenty, and had got a deal 
 of gardening work, now Mr. Mott's given up; and he 
 goes twice a week regular to Mr. Cass's, and once to 
 Mr. Osgood's, and they're going to take him on at the 
 25 Eectory." 
 
 "And who is it as he's wanting to marry?" said 
 Silas, with rather a sad smile. 
 
 " Why, me, to be sure, daddy," said Eppie,- with 
 dimpling laughter, kissing her father's cheek; "as if 
 30 he'd want to marry anybody else! " 
 
 " And you mean to have him, do you ? " said Silas. 
 
 " Yes, some time," said Eppie, " I don't know when. 
 
 Everybody's married some time, Aaron says. But I 
 
SILAS MARKER 229 
 
 told him that wasn't true; for, I said, look at father 
 —he's never been married." 
 
 '*^No, child/' said Silas, "your father was a lone 
 man till you was sent to him." 
 
 " But you'll never be lone again, father," said 5 
 Eppie tenderly. " That was what Aaron said — ' I 
 could never think o' taking you away from Master Mar- 
 ner, Eppie.' And I said, ' It 'ud be no use if you did, 
 Aaron.' And he wants us all to live together, so as 
 you needn't work a bit, father, only what's for your own lo 
 pleasure; and he'd be as good as a son to you — ^that 
 was what he said." 
 
 "And should you like that, Eppie?" said Silas, 
 looking at her. 
 
 "I shouldn't mind it, father," said Eppie, quite 15 
 simply. "And I should like things to be so as you 
 needn't work much. But if it wasn't for that, I'd 
 sooner things didn't change. I'm very happy: I like 
 Aaron to be fond of me, and come and see us often, 
 and behave pretty to you — he always does behave pretty 20 
 to you, doesn't he, father?" 
 
 " Yes, child, nobody could behave better," said Silas 
 emphatically. "He's his mother's lad." 
 
 " But I don't want any change," said Eppie. " I 
 should like to go on a long, long while, just as we are. 25 
 Only Aaron does want a change; and he made me cry 
 a bit — only a bit — because he said I didn't care for him, 
 for if I cared for him I should want us to be married, 
 as he did." 
 
 *' Eh, my blessed child," said Silas, laying down his 30 
 pipe as if it were useless to pretend to smoke any longer, 
 " you're o'er young to be married. We'll ask Mrs. Win- 
 throp — we'll ask Aaron's mother what she thinks; if 
 
230 SILAS MARNER 
 
 there's a right thing to do, she'll come at it. But 
 there's this to be thought on, Eppie: things will change, 
 whether we like it or not; things won't go on for a 
 long while just as they are and no difference. I shall 
 5 get older and helplesser, and be a burden on you, bcr 
 like, if I don't go away from you altogether. Not as 
 I mean you'd think me a burden — I know you wouldn't 
 — but it 'ud be hard upon you; and when I look for- 
 'ard to that, I like to think as you'd have somebody else 
 
 10 besides me — somebody young and strong, as'll outlast 
 your own life, and take care on you to the end." Silas 
 paused, and, resting his wrists on his knees, lifted his 
 hands up and down meditatively as he looked on the 
 ground. 
 
 15 ^^ Then, would you like me to be married, father? " 
 said Eppie, with a little trembling in her voice. 
 
 " I'll not be the man to say no, Eppie," said Silas 
 emphatically; " but we'll ask your godmother. She'll 
 wish the right thing by you and her son, too." 
 
 80 ^^ There they come then," said Eppie. " Let us go 
 and meet 'em. Oh, the pipe! won't you have it lit 
 again, father ? " said Eppie, lifting that medicinal ap- 
 pliance from the ground. 
 
 ^^ N'ay, child," said Silas, " I've done enough for to- 
 
 35 day. I think, mayhap, a little of it does me more good 
 than so much at once." 
 
CHAPTEK XVII 
 
 While Silas and Eppie were seated on the bank 
 discoursing in the fleckered shade of the ash-tree, Miss 
 Priscilla Lammeter was resisting her sister's arguments, 
 that it would be better to take tea at the Eed House, 
 and let her father have a long nap, than drive home 5 
 to the Warrens so soon after dinner. The family party 
 (of four only) were seated round the table in the dark 
 wainscoted parlor, with the Sunday dessert before them, 
 of fresh filberts, apples, and pears, duly ornamented 
 with leaves by Nancy's own hand before the bells had lO 
 rung for church. 
 
 A great change has come over the dark wainscoted 
 parlor since we saw it in Godfrey's bachelor days, and 
 under the wifeless reign of the old Squire. ISTow all 
 is polish, on which no yesterday's dust is ever allowed 15 
 to rest, from the yard's width of oaken boards round 
 the carpet to the old Squire's gun and whips and walk- 
 ing-sticks, ranged on the stag's antlers above the man- 
 telpiece. All other signs of sporting and outdoor occu- 
 pation N^ancy has removed to another room; but she ao 
 has brought into the Eed House the habit of filial rev- 
 erence, and preserves sacredly in a place of honor these 
 relics of her husband's departed father. The tankards 
 are on the side-table still, but the bossed silver is un- 
 dimmed by handling, and there are no dregs to send 2^ 
 
 231 
 
232 SILAS MARKER 
 
 forth unpleasant suggestions: the only prevailing scent 
 is of the lavender and rose leaves that fill the vases of 
 Derbyshire spar. All is purity and order in this once 
 dreary room, for, fifteen years ago, it was entered by 
 5 a new presiding spirit. 
 
 '' Nay, f ather,^^ said Xancy, " is there any call for 
 you to go home to tea? Mayn^t you just as well 
 stay with us? — such a beautiful evening as it's likely 
 to be.'' 
 
 10 The old gentleman had been talking with Godfrey 
 
 about the increasing poor-rate and the ruinous times, 
 
 and had not heard the dialogue between his daughters. 
 
 ^^ My dear, you must ask Priscilla," he said, in the 
 
 once firm voice, now become rather broken. " She 
 
 15 manages me and the farm too." 
 
 " And reason good as I should manage you, father," 
 said Priscilla, ^^ else you'd be giving yourself your death 
 with rheumatism. And as for the farm, if anything 
 turns out wrong, as it can't but do in these times, there's 
 
 20 nothing kills a man so soon as having nobody to find 
 fault with but himself. It's a deal the best way o^ 
 being master, to let somebody else do the ordering, and 
 keep the blaming in your own hands. It 'ud save many 
 a man a stroke, / believe." 
 
 25 " Well, well, my dear," said her father, with a quiet 
 laugh, " I didn't say you don't manage for everybody's 
 good." 
 
 "^ Then manage so as you may stay tea, Priscilla," 
 said Nancy, putting her hand on her sister's arm affec- 
 
 30 tionately. " Come, now; and we'll go round the gar- 
 den while father has his nap." 
 
 "My dear child, he'll have a beautiful nap in the 
 gig, for I shall drive. And as for staying tea, I can't 
 
SILAS MARKER 233 
 
 hear of it; for there's this dairymaid, now she knows 
 she's to be married, turned Michaelmas, she'd as lieve 
 pour the new milk into the pig trough as into the pans. 
 That's the way with 'em all: it's as if they thought the 
 world 'ud be new-made because they're to be married. 5 
 So come and let me put my bonnet on, and there'll be 
 time for us to walk round the garden while the horse 
 is being put in." 
 
 When the sisters were treading the neatly swept 
 garden walks, between the bright turf that contrasted lo 
 pleasantly with the dark cones and arches and wall- 
 like hedges of yew, Priscilla said — 
 
 '" I'm as glad as anything at your husband's mak- 
 ing that exchange o' land with cousin Osgood, and 
 beginning the dairying. It's a thousand pities you 15 
 didn't do it before; for it'll give you something to fill 
 your mind. There's nothing like a dairy if folks want 
 a bit o' worrit to make the days pass. For as for rub- 
 bing furniture, Avhen you can once see your face in a 
 table there's nothing else to look for; but there's always 20 
 something fresh with the dairy; for even in the depths 
 o' winter there's some pleasure in conquering the butter, 
 and making it come whether or no. My dear," added 
 Priscilla, pressing her sister's hand affectionately as 
 they walked side by side, "you'll never be low when 2^ 
 you've got a dairy." 
 
 " Ah, Priscilla," said Nancy, returning the pressure 
 with a grateful glance of her clear eyes, " but it won't 
 make up to Godfrey: a dairy's not so much to a man. 
 And it's only what he cares for that ever makes me 3^ 
 low. I'm contented with the blessings we have, if he 
 could be contented." 
 
 " It drives me past patience." said Priscilla impeta- 
 
234 SILAS MARKER 
 
 ously^ "'^that way o' the men — always wanting and 
 wanting, and never easy with what they've got: they 
 can't sit comfortable in their chairs when they've nei- 
 ther ache nor pain, hut either they must stick a pipe- 
 5 in their mouths, to make 'em better than well, or else 
 they must be swallowing something strong, though 
 they're forced to make haste before the next meal comes^ 
 in. But joyful be it spoken, our father was never that 
 sort o' man. And if it had pleased God to make you 
 10 ugly, like me, so as the men wouldn't ha' run after 
 you, we might have kept to our own family, and had 
 nothing to do with folks as have got uneasy blood in 
 X^ their veins." 
 
 " Oh, don't say so, Priscilla," said Nancy, repenting 
 15 that she had called forth this outburst; " nobody has 
 any occasion to find fault with Godfrey. It's natural 
 he should be disappointed at not having any children:: 
 every man likes to have somebody to work for and lay 
 by for, and he always counted so on making a fuss 
 20 with 'em when they were little. There's many another 
 man 'ud hanker more than he does. He's the best ot' 
 husbands." 
 
 " Oh, I know," said Priscilla, smiling sarcastically, 
 
 " I know the way o' wives; they set one on to abuse 
 
 25 their husbands, and then they turn round on one and 
 
 praise 'em as if they wanted to sell 'em. But father'll 
 
 be waiting for me; we must turn now." 
 
 The large gig with the steady old gray was at the 
 
 front door, and Mr. Lammeter was already on the stone 
 
 30 steps, passing the time in recalling to Godfrey what 
 
 very fine points Speckle had when his master used to- 
 
 ride him." 
 
 "I always would have a good horse, you know; 
 
 ^y- 
 
SILAS 'MARNER 235 
 
 ;said the old gentleman, not liking that spirited time 
 to be quite effaced from the memory of his juniors. 
 
 '' Mind you bring JSTancy to the Warrens before the 
 week's out, Mr. Cass/' was Priscilla's parting injunc- 
 tion, as she took the reins, and shook them gently, by 5 
 way of friendly incitement to Speckle. 
 
 ^^I shall just take a turn to the fields against the 
 Stone-pits, Nancy, and look at the draining,'' said 
 Godfrey. 
 
 ''You'll be in again by tea-time, dear?". lo 
 
 " Oh, yes, I shall be back in an hour." 
 
 It was Godfrey's custom on a Sunday afternoon to 
 do a little contemplative farming in a leisurely walk. 
 Nancy seldom accompanied him; for the women of her 
 generation — unless, like Priscilla, they took to outdoor 15 
 management — were not given to much walking beyond 
 their own house and garden, finding sufficient exercise 
 in domestic duties. So, when Priscilla was not with 
 her, she usually sat with Mant's Bible before her, and 
 after following the text with her eyes for a little while, 20 
 she would gradually permit them to wander as her 
 thoughts had already insisted on wandering. 
 
 But jSTancy's Sunday thoughts were rarely quite out 
 of keeping with the devout and reverential intention 
 implied by the book spread open before her. She was 25 
 not theologically instructed enough to discern very 
 clearly the relation between the sacred documents of 
 the past which she opened without method, and her own 
 obscure, simple life; but the spirit of rectitude, and 
 the sense of responsibility for the effect of her conduct 30 
 on others, which were strong elements in Nancy's char- 
 acter, had made it a habit with her to scrutinize her 
 past feelings and actions with self-questioning solici- 
 
236 SILAS MARKER 
 
 tude. Her mind not being courted by a great variety 
 of subjects^ she filled the vacant moments by living 
 inwardly^ again and again, through all her remembered 
 experience, especially through the fifteen years of her 
 5 married time, in which her life and its significance had 
 been doubled. She recalled the small details, the 
 words, tones, and looks, in the critical scenes which had 
 opened a new epoch for her by giving her a deeper in- 
 sight into the relations and trials of life, or which had 
 
 10 called on^ her for some little effort of forbearance, or 
 of painful adherence to an imagined or real duty — ask- 
 ing herself continually whether she had been in any 
 respect blamable. This excessive rumination and self- 
 questioning is perhaps a morbid habit inevitable to a 
 
 15 mind of much moral sensibility when shut out from 
 its due share of outward activity and of practical claims 
 on its affections — inevitable to a noble-hearted, child- 
 less woman, when her lot is narrow. " I can do so 
 little — have I done it all well ? " is the perpetually re- 
 
 20 curring thought; and there are no voices calling her 
 away from that soliloquy, no peremptory demands to 
 divert energy from vain regret or superfluous scruple. 
 
 There was one main thread of painful experience 
 in Nancy's married life, and on it hung certain deeply 
 
 25 felt scenes, which were the . of tenest revived in retro- 
 4)ect. The short dialogue with Priscilla in the garden 
 had determined the current of retrospect in that fre- 
 quent direction this particular Sunday afternoon. The 
 first wandering of her thought from the text, which 
 
 30 she still attempted dutifully to follow with her eyes 
 and silent lips, was into an imaginary enlargement of 
 the defense she had set up for her husband against 
 Priscilla's implied blame. The vindication of the 
 
SILAS MARNER 237 
 
 loved object is the best balm affection can find for its 
 wounds. '' A man must have so much on his mind/^ 
 is the belief by which a wife often supports a cheerful 
 face under rough answers and unfeeling words. And 
 Nancy's deepest wounds had all come from the percep- 5 
 tion that the absence of children from their hearth was 
 dwelt on in her husband's mind as a privation to which 
 he could not reconcile himself. 
 
 Yet sweet Nancy might have been expected to feel 
 still more keenly the denial of a blessing to which she i© 
 had looked forward with all the varied expectations 
 and preparations, solemn and prettily trivial, which fill 
 the mind of a loving woman when she expects to be- 
 come a mother. Was there not a drawer filled with 
 the neat work of her hands, all unworn and untouched, 15 
 just as she had arranged it there fourteen years ago — 
 just, but for one little dress, which had been made the 
 burial dress? But under this immediate personal trial 
 Xancy was so firmly unmurmuring, that years ago she 
 had suddenly renounced the habit of visiting this 20 
 drawer, lest she should in this way be cherishing a 
 longing for what was not given. 
 
 Perhaps it was this very severity toward any in- 
 dulgence of what she held to be sinful regret in her- 
 self that made her shrink from applying her own stand- 25 
 ard to her husband. " It is very different — it is much 
 worse for a man to be disappointed in that way: a 
 woman can always be satisfied with devoting herself 
 to her husband, but a man wants something that will 
 make him look forward more — and sitting by the fire 30 
 is so much duller to him than to a woman.^' And 
 always, when Nancy reached this point in her medi- 
 tations — trying, with predetermined sympathy, to see 
 
238 SILAS MARNER 
 
 everything as Godfrey saw it — there came a renewal 
 of self-qnestioning. Had she done everything in her 
 power to lighten Godfrey's privation? Had she really 
 been right in the resistance which had cost her so much 
 5 pain six years ago, and again four years ago — the resist- 
 ance to her husband's wish that they should adopt a 
 child? Adoption was more remote from the ideas and 
 habits of that time than of our own ; still iSrancy had her 
 opinion on it. It was as necessary to her mind to have 
 
 10 an opinion on all topics, not exclusively masculine, that 
 had come under her notice, as for her to have a pre- 
 cisely marked place for every article of her personal 
 property: and her opinions were always principles to be 
 unwaveringly acted on. They were firm, not because 
 
 15 of their basis, but because she held them with a tenac- 
 ity inseparable from her mental action. On all the 
 duties and proprieties of life, from filial behavior to the 
 arrangements of the evening toilette, pretty Nancy 
 Lammeter, by the time she was three-and-twenty, had 
 
 20 her unalterable little code, and had formed every one 
 of her habits in strict accordance with that code. She 
 carried these decided judgments within her in the most 
 unobtrusive way: they rooted themselves in her mind, 
 and grew- there as quietly as grass. Years ago,' we 
 
 25 know, she insisted on dressing like Priscilla, because 
 " it was right for sisters to dress alike," and because 
 '^ she would do what w^as right if she wore a gown dyed 
 with cheese coloring." That was a trivial but typical 
 instance of the mode in which ISTancy's life was regu- 
 
 80 lated. 
 
 It was one of those rigid principles, and no petty 
 egoistic feeling, which had been the ground of fancy's 
 difficult resistance to her husband's wish. To adopt a 
 
SILAS MARNER 2b9 
 
 child, because children of your own had been denied 
 you, was to try and choose your lot in spite of Provi- 
 dence: the adopted child, she was convinced, would 
 never turn out well, and would be a curse to those who 
 had willfully and rebelliously sought what it was clear 5 
 that, for some high reason, they were better without. 
 When you saw a thing was not meant to be, said Nancy, 
 is was a bounden duty to leave off so much as wishing 
 for it. And so far, perhaps, the wisest of men could 
 scarcely make more than a verbal improvement in her lo 
 principle. But the conditions under which she held it 
 apparent that a thing was not meant to be depended 
 on a more peculiar mode of thinking. She would have 
 given up making a purchase at a particular place if, 
 on three successive times, rain, or some other cause 15 
 of Heaven's sending, had formed an obstacle; and she 
 would have anticipated a broken limb or other heavy 
 misfortune to any one who persisted in spite of such 
 indications. 
 
 " But why should you think the child would turn 2G 
 out ill ? '' said Godfrey, in his remonstrances. " She 
 has thriven as well as child can do with the weaver; 
 and he adopted her. There isn't such a pretty little 
 girr anywhere else in the parish, or one fitter for the 
 station we could give her. Where can be the likeli- 25 
 hood of her being a curse to anybody? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear Godfrey," said ISTancy, who was sit- 
 ting with her hands tightly clasped together, and with 
 yearning, regretful affection in her eyes. " The child 
 may not turn out ill with the weaver. But, then, he 30 
 didn't go to seek her, as we should be doing. It wi41 
 be wrong; I feel sure it will. Don't you remember 
 what that lady we met at the Eoyston Baths told us 
 
 to 
 
240 SILAS MARNER 
 
 about the child her sister adopted? That was the only 
 adopting I ever heard of: and the child was transported 
 w^hen it was twenty-three. Dear Godfrey, don^t ask 
 me to do what I know is wrong: I should never be 
 
 5 happy again. I know it's very hard for you — it's easier 
 for me — but it's the will of Providence." 
 
 It might seem singular that Nancy — with her re- 
 ligious theory pieced together out of narrow social tra- 
 ditions, fragments of church doctrine imperfectly un- 
 
 10 derstood, and girlish reasonings on her small experience 
 — should have arrived by herself at a way of thinking 
 so nearly akin to that of many devout people, whose 
 beliefs are held in the shape of a system quite remote 
 from her knowledge — singular, if we did not know that 
 
 15 human beliefs, like all other natural growths, elude the 
 barriers of system. 
 
 Godfrey had from the first specified Eppie, then 
 about twelve years old, as a child suitable for them 
 to adopt. It had never occurred to him that Silas 
 
 20 would rather part with his life than with Eppie. 
 Surely the weaver would wish the best to the child 
 he had taken so much trouble with, and would be glad 
 that such good fortune should happen to her; she would 
 always be very grateful to him, and he would be well 
 
 25 provided for to the end of his life — provided for as 
 the excellent part he had done by the child deserved. 
 Was it not an appropriate thing for people in a higher 
 station to take a charge off the hands of a man in a 
 lower? It seemed an eminently appropriate thing to 
 
 30 Godfrey, for reasons that were known only to himself; 
 and by a common fallacy, he imagined the measure 
 would be easy because he had private motives for de- 
 siring it. This was rather a coarse mode of estimat- 
 
SILAS MARNER 241 
 
 ing Silas's relation to Eppie; but we must remember 
 that many of the impressions which Godfrey was likely 
 to gather concerning the laboring people around him 
 would favor the idea that deep affections can hardly 
 go along with callous palms and scant means; and he 6 
 had not had the opportunity, even if he had had the 
 power, of entering intimately into all that was excep- 
 tional in the weaver's experience. It was only the want 
 of adequate knowledge that could have made it possi- 
 ble for Godfrey deliberately to entertain an unfeeling lo 
 project: his natural kindness had outlived that blight- 
 ing time of cruel wishes, and Nancy's praise of him 
 as a husband was not founded entirely on a willful 
 illusion. 
 
 ^^ I was right," she said to herself, when she had re- 15 
 called all their scenes of discussion — " I feel I was 
 right to say him nay, though it hurt me more than 
 anything; but how good Godfrey has been about it! 
 Many men would have been very angry with me for 
 standing out against their wishes; and they might have 20 
 thrown out that they'd had ill-luck in marrying me; 
 but Godfrey has never been the man to say me an un- 
 kind word. It's only what he can't hide: everything 
 seems so blank to him, I know; and the land — ^what 
 a difference it 'ud make to him, when he goes to see 25 
 after things, if he'd children growing up that he was 
 doing it all for. But I won't murmur; and perhaps 
 if he'd married a woman who'd have had children, she'd 
 have vexed him in other ways." 
 
 The possibility was Nancy's chief comfort; and to 30 
 give it greater strength, she labored to make it impos- 
 sible that any other wife should have had more perfect 
 tenderness. She had been forced to vex him by that 
 
242 SILAS MARKER 
 
 one denial. Godfrey was not insensible to her loving 
 effort^ and did Nancy no injustice as to the motives 
 of her obstinacy. It was impossible to have lived with 
 her fifteen years and not be aware that an unselfisli 
 5 clinging to the right and a sincerity clear as the flower- 
 born dew were her main characteristics; indeed, God- 
 frey felt this so strongly, that his own more wavering 
 nature, too averse to facing difllculty to be unvaryingly 
 simple and truthful, was kept in a certain awe of thi» 
 
 10 gentle wife who watched his looks with a yearning to 
 obey them. It seemed to him impossible that he should 
 ever confess to her the truth about Eppie: she would 
 never recover from the repulsion the story of his ear- 
 lier marriage would create, told to her now, after that 
 
 15 long concealment. And the child, too, he thought, 
 must become an object of repulsion: the very sight of 
 her would be painful. The shock to Nancy's mingled 
 pride and ignorance of the world's evil might even be 
 too much for her delicate frame. Since he had mar- 
 
 20 ried her with that secret on his heart he must keep it 
 there to the last. Whatever else he did, he could not 
 make an irreparable breach between himself and this 
 long-loved wife. 
 
 Meanwhile, why could he not make up his mind to 
 
 25 the absence of children from a hearth brightened by 
 such a wife? Why did his mind fly uneasily to that 
 void, as if it were the sole reason why life was not 
 thoroughly joyous to him? I suppose it is the way 
 with all men and women who reach middle age with- 
 
 30 out the clear perception that life never can be thor- 
 oughly joyous: under the vague dullness of the gray 
 hours, dissatisfaction seeks a definite object, and finds 
 it in the privation of an untried good. Dissatisfaction^ 
 
SILAS MARNER 243 
 
 seated musingly on a childless hearth, thinks with envy 
 of the father whose return is greeted by young voices — 
 seated at the meal where the little heads rise one above 
 another like nursery plants, it sees a black care hover- 
 ing behind every one of them, and thinks the impulses 5 
 by which men abandon freedom, and seek for ties, are 
 surely nothing but a brief madness. In Godfrey's case 
 there were further reasons why his thoughts should be 
 continually solicited by this one point in his lot: his 
 conscience, never thoroughly easy about Eppie, now i<^ 
 gave his childless home the aspect of a retribution; and 
 as the time passed on, under Nancy's refusal to adopt 
 her, any retrieval of his error became more and more 
 difficult. 
 
 On this Sunday afternoon it was already four years 15 
 ^ince there had been any allusion to the subject be- 
 tween them, and Xancy supposed that it was forever 
 buried. 
 
 " I wonder if he'll mind it less or more as he gets 
 older," she thought; " I'm afraid more. Aged people 20 
 feel the miss of children: what would father do without 
 Priscilla? And if I die, Godfrey will be very lonely — 
 not holding together with his brothers much. But I 
 won't be overanxious, and trying to make things out 
 beforehand: I must do my best for the present." 2l 
 
 With that last thought Nancy roused herself from 
 her reverie, and turned her eyes again toward the for- 
 saken page. It had been forsaken longer than she 
 imagined, for she was presently surprised by the ap- 
 pearance of the servant with the tea things. It was, 30 
 in fact, a little before the usual time for tea; but Jan^ 
 had her reasons. 
 
 " Is your master come into the yard, Jane ? " 
 
244 SILAS MARKER 
 
 " !^i^o'm, he isn't/^ said Jane, with a slight emphasis, 
 of which, however, her mistress took no notice. 
 
 "I don^t know whether jou\e seen ^em, ^m,^' con- 
 tinued Jane, after a pause, ^^ but there's folks making 
 5 haste all one way, afore the front window. I doubt 
 something's happened. There's niver a man to be seen 
 i' the yard, else I'd send and see. I've been up into 
 the top attic, but there's no seeing anything for trees. 
 I hope nobody's hurt, that's all." 
 
 10 ^^ Oh, no, I dare say there's nothing much the mat- 
 ter," said Nancy. " It's perhaps Mr. Snell's bull got 
 out again, as he did before." 
 
 "I wish he mayn't gore anybody, then, that's all," 
 said Jane, not altogether despising a hypothesis which 
 
 15 covered a few imaginary calamities. 
 
 " That girl is always terrifying me," thought Nancy; 
 " I wish Godfrey would come in." 
 
 She went to the front window and looked as far as 
 she could see along the road, with an uneasiness which 
 
 20 she felt to be childish, for there were now no such 
 signs of excitement as Jane had spoken of, and God- 
 frey would not be likely to return by the village road, 
 but by the fields. She continued to stand, however, 
 looking at the placid churchyard with the long shad- 
 
 25 ows of the gravestones across the bright green hillocks, 
 and at the glowing autumn colors of the Eectory trees 
 beyond. Before such calm external beauty the pres- 
 ence of a vague fear is more distinctly felt — like a raven 
 flapping its slow wing across the sunny air. Nancy 
 
 30 wished more and more that Godfrey would come in. 
 
CHAPTEE XVIII 
 
 Some one opened the door at the other end of the 
 room, and N'ancy felt that it was her husband. She 
 turned from the window with gladness in her eyes, for 
 the wife's chief dread was stilled. 
 
 " Dear, I^m so thankful you^re come/^ she said, 5 
 going toward him. " I began to get " 
 
 She paused abruptly, for Godfrey was laying down 
 his hat with trembling hands, and turned toward her 
 with a pale face and a strange unanswering glance, as 
 if he saw her indeed, but saw her as part of a scene lo 
 invisible to herself. She laid her hand on his arm, 
 not daring to speak again; but he left the touch un- 
 noticed, and threw himself into his chair. 
 
 Jane was already at the door with the hissing urn. 
 *^ Tell her to keep away, will you?^^ said Godfrey; and 15 
 when the door was closed again he exerted himself to 
 speak more distinctly. 
 
 "^ Sit down, Nancy — there,^^ he said, pointing to a 
 chair opposite him. " I came back as soon as I could, 
 to hinder anybody's telling you but me. I've had a so 
 great shock — but I care most about the shock it'll be 
 to you.^^ 
 
 "■'^It isn't father and Priscilla?'^ said Nancy, with 
 quivering lips, clasping her hands together tightly on 
 her lap. 25 
 
 245 
 
246 SILAS MARNER 
 
 ^^ No, it's nobody living/' said Godfrey, unequal to 
 the considerate skill with which he would have wished 
 to make his revelation. " It's Dunstan — my brother 
 Dunstan, that we lost sight of sixteen years ago. We've 
 
 5 found him — found his body — his skeleton." 
 
 The deep dread Godfrey's look had created in Nancy 
 made her feel these words a relief. She sat in com- 
 parative calmness to hear what else he had to tell. He 
 went on: 
 
 10 " The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly — from the 
 draining, I suppose; and there he lies — has lain for six- 
 teen years, wedged between two great stones. There's 
 his watch and seals, and there's my gold-handled hunt- 
 ing whip, with my name on: he took it away, without 
 
 15 my knowing, the day he went hunting on Wildfire, the 
 last time he was seen." 
 
 Godfrey paused: it was not so easy to say what 
 came next. " Do you think he drowned himself ? " said 
 Nancy, almost wondering that her husband should be 
 
 20 so deeply shaken by what had happened all those years 
 ago to an unloved brother, of whom worse things had 
 been augured. 
 
 " No, he fell in," said Godfrey, in a low but dis- 
 tinct voice, as if he felt some deep meaning in the fact. 
 
 25 Presently he added: " Dunstan was the man that robbed 
 Silas Marner." 
 
 The blood rushed to Nancy's face and neck at this 
 surprise and shame, for she had been bred up to regard 
 even a distant kinship with crime as a dishonor. 
 
 so "0 Godfrey! " she said, with compassion in her 
 tone, for she had immediately reflected that the dis- 
 honor must be felt still more keenly by her hus- 
 band. 
 
SILAS MARNER 247 
 
 " There was the money in the pit/^ he continued — 
 '^ all the weaver's money. Everything's been gathered 
 up, and they're taking the skeleton to the Eainbow. 
 But I came back to tell you: there was no hindering 
 it; you must know." 5 
 
 He was silent, looking on the ground for two long 
 minutes. Nancy would have said some words of com- 
 fort under this disgrace, but she refrained, from an in- 
 stinctive sense that there was something behind — that 
 Godfrey had something else to tell her. Presently he lo 
 lifted his eyes to her face, and kept them fixed on her, 
 as he said: 
 
 " Everything comes to light, N'ancy, sooner or later. 
 When God Almighty wills it, our secrets are found out. 
 I've lived with a great secret on my mind, but I'll keep k 
 it from you no longer. I wouldn't have you know it 
 by somebody else, and not by me — I wouldn't have you 
 find it out after I'm dead. I'll tell you now. It's been 
 ' I will ' and ' I won't ' with me all my life — I'll make 
 sure of myself now." 20 
 
 Nancy's utmost dread had returned. The eyes of 
 the husband and wife met with awe in them, as at a 
 crisis which suspended afl^ection. 
 
 " jLSTancy," said Godfrey slowly, '' when I married 
 you, I hid something from you — something I ought to 25 
 have told you. That woman Marner found dead in 
 the snow — Eppie's mother — that wretched woman- 
 was my wife: Eppie is my child." 
 
 He paused, dreading the effect of his confession. 
 But Nancy sat quite still, only that her eyes dropped 30 
 and ceased to meet his. She was pale and quiet as a 
 meditative statue, clasping her hands on her lap. 
 
 " You'll never think the same of me again," said 
 
248 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Godfrey, after a little while, with some tremor in hia 
 voice. 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 ^^I oughtn't to have left the child unowned: I 
 6 oughtn't to have kept it from you. But I couldn't bear 
 to give you up, Nancy. I was led away into marrying 
 her — I suffered for it." 
 
 Still Nancy was silent, looking down; and he al- 
 most expected that she would presently get up and say 
 10 she would go, to her father's. How could she have any 
 mercy for faults that must seem so black to her, with 
 her simple, severe notions? 
 
 But at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and 
 spoke. There was no indignation in her voice — only 
 15 deep regret. 
 
 " Godfrey, if you had but told me this six years 
 
 ago, we could have done some of our duty by the child. 
 
 Do you think I'd have refused to take her in, if I'd 
 
 known she was yours?" 
 
 20 At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of 
 
 an error that was not simply futile, but had defeated 
 
 its own end. He had not measured this wife with 
 
 whom he had lived so long. But she spoke again, 
 
 with more agitation: 
 
 25 '^ And — Godfrey — if we'd had her from the first, 
 
 if you'd taken to her as you ought, she'd have loved 
 
 me for her mother — and you'd have been happier with 
 
 me: I could better have bore my little baby dying, and 
 
 our life might have been more like what we used to 
 
 80 think it 'ud be." 
 
 The tears fell, and Nancy ceased to speak. 
 
 " But you wouldn't have married me then, Nancy, 
 if I'd told yoUj" said Godfrey, urged, in the bitterness 
 
SILAS MARNER 249 
 
 of his self-reproach, to prove to himself that his con- 
 duct had not been utter folly. " You may think you 
 would now, but you wouldn't then. With your pride 
 and your father's, you'd have hated having anything 
 to do with me after the talk there'd have been." 5 
 
 " I can't say what I should have done about that, 
 Godfrey. I should never have married anybody else. 
 But I wasn't worth doing wrong for — nothing is in 
 this world. Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand 
 — not even our marrying wasn't, you see." There was lo 
 a faint sad smile on Nancy's face as she said the last 
 words. 
 
 " I'm a worse man than you thought I was, Nancy," 
 said Godfrey, rather tremulously. " Can you forgive 
 me ever?" 15 
 
 " The wrong to me is but little, Godfrey ; you've 
 made it up to me — you've been good to me for fifteen 
 years. It's another you did the wrong to; and I doubt 
 it can never be all made up for." 
 
 " But we can take Eppie now," said Godfrey. " I 20 
 won't mind the world knowing at last. I'll be plain 
 and open for the rest 0' my life." 
 
 " It'll be different coming to us, now she's grown 
 up/' said Nancy, shaking her head sadly. '^ But it's 
 your duty to acknowledge her and provide for her; and 35 
 I'll do my part by her, and pray to God Almighty to 
 make her love me." 
 
 " Then we'll go together to Silas Marner's this very 
 night, as soon as everything's quiet at the Stone-pits." 
 
CHAPTEE XIX 
 
 Between eight and nine o^clock that evening Eppie 
 and Silas were seated alone in the cottage. After the 
 great excitement the weaver had undergone from the 
 events of the afternoon, he had felt a longing for this 
 
 5 quietude, and had even begged Mrs. Winthrop and 
 Aaron, who had naturally lingered behind every one 
 else, to leave him alone with his child. The excite- 
 ment had not passed away: it had only reached that 
 stage when the keenness of the susceptibility makes 
 
 W external stimulus intolerable — when there is no sense 
 of weariness, but rather an intensity of inward life, 
 under which sleep is an impossibility. Any one who 
 has watched such moments in other men remembers the 
 brightness of the eyes and the strange definiteness that 
 
 15 comes over coarse features from that transient influ- 
 ence. It is as if a new fineness of ear for all spiritual 
 voices had sent wonder-working vibrations through the 
 heavy mortal frame — as if "beauty born of murmur- 
 ing sound '^ had passed into the face of the listener. 
 
 jjo Silas's face showed that sort of transfiguration, as 
 he sat in his armchair and looked at Eppie. She had 
 drawn her own chair toward his knees, and leaned for- 
 ward, holding both his hands, while she looked up at 
 him. On the table near them, lit by a candle, lay the 
 
 J85 recovered gold — the old long-loved gold, ranged in or- 
 250 
 
SILAS MARNER 281 
 
 derly heaps, as Silas used to range it in the days when 
 it was his only joy. He had been telling her how he 
 used to count it every night, and how his soul was 
 utterly desolate till she was sent to him. 
 
 " At first, rd a sort o' feeling come across me now 5 
 and then/^ he was saying in a subdued tone, " as if 
 you might be changed into the gold again; for some- 
 times, turn my head which way I would, I seemed to 
 see the gold; and I thought I should be glad if I could 
 feel it, and find it was come back. But that didn't lO 
 last long. After a bit, I should have thought it was 
 a curse come again if it had drove you from me, for 
 I'd got to feel the need o' your looks and your voice and 
 the touch o' your little fingers. You didn't know then, 
 Eppie, when you were such a little un — you didn't know 15 
 what your old father Silas felt for you." 
 
 " But I know now, father," said Eppie. '' If it 
 hadn't been for you, they'd have taken me to the 
 workhouse, and there'd have been nobody to love 
 me." 20 
 
 " Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If 
 you hadn't been sent to save me, I should ha' gone to 
 the grave in my misery. The money was taken away 
 from me in time; and you see it's been kept — kept till 
 it was wanted for you. It's wonderful — our life is 25 
 wonderful." 
 
 Silas sat in silence a few minutes, looking at the 
 money. " It takes no hold of me now," he said, pon- 
 deringly — " the money doesn't. I wonder if it ever 
 could again — I doubt it might if I lost you, Eppie. I 30 
 might come to think I was forsaken again, and lose the 
 feeling that God was good to me." 
 
 At that moment there was a knocking at the door. 
 
252 SILAS MARNER 
 
 and Eppie was obliged to rise without answering Silas. 
 Beautiful she looked, with the tenderness of gathering 
 tears in her eyes and a slight flush on her cheeks, as 
 she stepped to open the door. The flush deepened 
 
 5 when she saw Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass. She made 
 her little rustic courtesy, and held the door wide for 
 them to enter. 
 
 " We're disturbing you very late, my dear,'' said 
 Mrs. Cass, taking Eppie's hand, and looking in her face 
 
 10 with an expression of anxious interest and admiration. 
 [N'ancy herself was pale and tremulous. 
 
 Eppie, after placing chairs for Mr. and Mrs. Cass, 
 went to fitand against Silas, opposite to them. 
 
 " Well, Marner,'' said Godfrey, trying to speak with 
 
 15 perfect firmness, " it's a great comfort to me to see 
 you with your money again, that you've been deprived 
 of so many years. It was one of my family did you 
 the wrong — the m.ore grief to me — and I feel bound to 
 make up to you for it in every way. Whatever I can 
 
 20 do for you will be nothing but paying a debt, even if 
 I looked no further than the robbery. But there are 
 other things I'm beholden — shall be beholden to you 
 for, Marner." 
 
 Godfrey checked himself. It had been agreed be^ 
 
 85 tween him and his wife that the subject of his father- 
 hood should be approached very carefully, and that, if 
 possible, the disclosure should be reserved for the fu- 
 ture, so that it might be made to Eppie gradually, 
 ISTancy had urged this, because she felt sti^ongly the 
 
 50 painful light in which Eppie must inevitably see the 
 relation between her father and mother. 
 
 Silas, always ill at ease when he was being spoken 
 to by " betters," such as Mr. Cass — tall, powerful, florid 
 
SILAS MARNER 253 
 
 men, seen chiefly on horseback — answered with some 
 constraint: 
 
 " Sir, IVe a deal to thank you for a'ready. As for 
 the robbery, I count it no loss to me. And if I did, 
 you couldn't help it: you aren^t answerable for iV 5 
 
 " You may look at it in that way, Marner, but I 
 never can; and I hope you'll let me act according to 
 my own feeling of what's just. I know you're easily 
 contented: you've been a hard-working man all your 
 life." 10 
 
 "Yes, sir, yes," said Marner meditatively. "I 
 should ha' been bad off without my work: it was what 
 I held by when everything else was gone from me." 
 
 " Ah," said Godfrey, applying Marner's words sim- 
 ply to his bodily wants, " it was a good trade for you 15 
 in this country, because there's been a great deal of 
 linen weaving to be done. But you're getting rather 
 past such close work, Marner: it's time you laid by and 
 had some rest. You look a good deal pulled down, 
 though you're not an old man,* are you ? " 20 
 
 " Fifty-five, as near as I can say, sir," said Silas. 
 
 " Oh, why, you may live thirty years longer — look 
 at old Macey! And that money on the table, after 
 all, is but little. It won't go far either way — whether 
 it's put out to interest, or you were to live on it as 25 
 long as it would last: it wouldn't go far if you'd no- 
 body to keep but yourself, and you've had two to keep 
 for a good many years now." 
 
 " Eh, sir," said Silas, unaffected by anything God- 
 frey was saying, " I'm in no fear o' want. We shall do 30 
 very well — Eppie and me 'ull do well enough. There's 
 few working folks have got so much laid by as that. 
 T don't know what it is to gentlefolks, but I look upon 
 
254 SILAS MARNER 
 
 it as a deal — almost too much. And as for us, it's little 
 we want/' 
 
 " Only the garden, father/' said Eppie, blushing up 
 to the ears the moment after. 
 5 " You love a garden, do you, my dear? " said N'ancy, 
 thinking that this turn in the point of view might help 
 her husband. " We should agree in that: I give a 
 deal of time to the garden." 
 
 " Ah, there's plenty of gardening at the Eed 
 
 10 House," said Godfrey, surprised at the difficulty he 
 found in approaching a proposition which had seemed 
 so easy to him in the distance. " You've done a good 
 part by Eppie, Marner, for sixteen years. It 'ud be 
 a great comfort to you to see her well provided for, 
 
 15 wouldn't it? She looks blooming and healthy, but 
 not fit for any hardships: she doesn't look like a strap' 
 ping girl come of working parents. You'd like to see 
 her taken care of by those who can leave her well off, 
 and make a lady of her; she's more fit for it than for 
 
 20 a rough life, such as she might come to have in a few 
 years' time." 
 
 A slight flush came over Marner's face, and disap- 
 peared, like a passing gleam. Eppie was simply won- 
 dering Mr. Cass should talk so about things that seemed 
 
 25 to have nothing to do with reality; but Silas was hurt 
 and uneasy. 
 
 " I don't take your meaning, sir," he answered, not 
 having words at command' to express the mingled feel- 
 ings with which he had heard Mr. Cass's words. 
 
 30 " Well, my meaning is this, Marner," said Godfrey, 
 determined to come to the point. ^' Mrs. Cass and I, 
 you know, have no children — nobody to be the better 
 for our good home and everything else we have — more 
 
SILAS MARKER 255 
 
 than enough for ourselves. And we should like to 
 have somebody in the place of a daughter to us — ^we 
 should like to have Eppie, and treat her in every way as 
 our own child. It 'ud be a great comfort to you in your 
 old age, I hope, to see her fortune made in that way, 5 
 after you've been at the trouble of bringing her up so 
 well. And it's right you should have every reward for 
 that. And Eppie, I'm sure, will always love you and 
 be grateful to you: she'd come and see you very often, 
 and we should all be on the lookout to do everything lo 
 we could toward making you comfortable." 
 
 A plain man like Godfrey Cass, speaking under 
 some embarrassment, necessarily blunders on words that 
 are coarser than his intentions, and that are likely to 
 fall gratingly on susceptible feelings. While he had 15 
 been speaking, Eppie had quietly passed her arm be- 
 hind Silas's head, and let her hand rest against it caress- 
 ingly: she felt him trembling violently. He was silent 
 for some moments when Mr. Cass had ended — power- 
 less under the conflict of emotions, all alike painful. 20 
 Eppie's heart was swelling at the sense that her father 
 was in distress; and she was just going to lean down 
 and speak to him, when one struggling dread at last 
 gained the mastery over every other in Silas^ and he 
 said faintly: 25 
 
 " Eppie, my child, speak. I won't stand in your 
 way. Thank Mr. and Mrs. Cass." 
 
 Eppie took her hand from her father's head, and 
 came forward a step. Her cheeks were flushed, but 
 not with shyness this time: the sense that her father 30 
 was in doubt and suffering banished that sort of self- 
 consciousness. She dropped a low courtesy, first to 
 Mrs. Cass and then to Mr. Cass, and said: 
 
256 SILAS MARNER 
 
 " Thank you^ ma'am — thank you, sir. But I can't 
 
 leave my father, nor own anybody nearer than him. 
 
 And I don't want to be a lady — thank you all the same " 
 
 (here Eppie dropped another courtesy). "I couldn't 
 
 5 give up the folks I've been used to." 
 
 Eppie's lip began to tremble a little at the last 
 words. She retreated to her father's chair again, and 
 held him round the neck; while Silas, with a subdued 
 sob, put up his hand to grasp hers. 
 
 10 The tears were in Nancy's eyes, but her sympathy 
 with Eppie was, naturally, divided with distress on her 
 husband's account. She dared not speak, wondering 
 what was going on in her husband's mind. 
 
 Godfrey felt an irritatron inevitable to almost all 
 
 15 of us when we encounter an unexpected obstacle. He 
 had been full of his own penitence and resolution to 
 retrieve his error as far as the time was left to him; 
 he was possessed with all-important feelings, that were 
 to lead to a predetermined course of action which he 
 
 20 had fixed on as the right, and he was not prepared to 
 enter with lively appreciation into other people's feel- 
 ings counteracting his virtuous resolves. The agita- 
 tion with which he spoke again was not quite unmixed 
 with anger. 
 
 25 " But I've a claim on you, Eppie — the strongest of 
 all claims. It's my duty, Marner, to own Eppie as my 
 child, and provide for her. She's my own child: her 
 mother was my wife. I've a natural claim on her that 
 must stand before every other." 
 
 30 Eppie had given a violent start, and turned quite 
 pale. Silas, on the contrary, who had been relieved, 
 by Eppie's answer, from the dread lest his mind should 
 be in opposition to hers, felt the spirit of resistance in 
 
SILAS MARNER 357 
 
 him set free, not without a touch of parental fierceness. 
 ^' Then, sir/^ he answered, with an accent of bitterness 
 that had been silent in him since the memorable day 
 when his youthful hope had perished — " then, sir, why 
 didnH you say so sixteen years ago, and claim her be- 5 
 fore I^d come to love her, instead 0' coming to take 
 her from me now, when you might as well take the 
 heart out o^ my body? God gave her to me because 
 you turned your back upon her, and He looks upon her 
 as mine : you've no right to her ! When a man turns a 10 
 blessing from his door, it falls to them as take it in/' 
 
 " I know that, Marner. I was wrong. I've re- 
 pented of my conduct in that matter," said Godfrey, 
 who could not help feeling the edge of Silas's words. 
 
 " I'm glad to hear it, sir," said Marijer, with gather- 15- 
 ing excitement; "but repentance doesn't alter what's 
 been going on for sixteen year. Your coming now and 
 saying ' I'm her father,' doesn't alter the feelings in- 
 side us. It's me she's been calling her father ever 
 since she could say the word." 20 
 
 " But I think you might look at the thing more 
 reasonably, Marner," said Godfrey, unexpectedly awed 
 by the weaver's direct truth-speaking. " It isn't as if 
 she was to be taken quite away from you, so that you'd 
 never see her again. She'll be very near you, and come 25 
 to see you very often. She'll feel just the same toward 
 you." 
 
 " Just the same ? " said Marner, more bitterly than 
 ever. "How'll she feel just the same for me as she 
 does now, when we eat 0' the same bit, and drink o^ se 
 the same cup, and think o' the same things from one 
 day's end to another? Just the same? That's idle 
 talk. You'd cut us i' two " 
 
258 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Godfrey, unqualified by experience to discern the 
 pregnancy of Marner's simple words, felt rather angry 
 again. It seemed to him that the weaver was very 
 selfish (a judgment readily passed by those who have 
 5 never tested their own power of sacrifice) to oppose 
 what was undoubtedly for Eppie's welfare; and he 
 felt himself called upon, for her sake, to assert his 
 authority. 
 
 " I should have thought, Marner,^^ he said severely 
 
 10 — " I should have thought your affection for Eppie 
 would make you rejoice in what was for her good, even 
 if it did call upon you to give up something. You 
 ought to remember your own life's uncertain, and she's 
 at an age now when her lot may soon be fixed in a 
 
 15 way very different from what it would be in her father's 
 home : she may marry some low working man, and then, 
 whatever I might do for her, I couldn't make her well 
 off. You're putting yourself in the way of her welfare; 
 and though I'm sorry to hurt you after what you've 
 
 20 done, and what I've left undone, I feel now it's my 
 duty to insist on taking care of my own daughter. I 
 want to do my duty." 
 
 It would be difficult to say whether it were Silas 
 or Eppie that was most deeply stirred by this last 
 
 25 speech of Godfrey's. Thought had been very busy in 
 Eppie as she listened to the contest between her old 
 long-loved father and this new unfamiliar father who 
 had suddenly come to fill the place of that black fea- 
 tureless shadow which had held the ring and placed it 
 
 30 on her mother's finger. Her imagination had darted 
 backward in conjectures, and forward in previsions, of 
 what this revealed fatherhood implied; and there were 
 words in Godfrey's last speech which helped to make 
 
SILAS MARNER 259 
 
 the previsions especially definite. Not that these 
 thoughts, either of past or future, determined her reso- 
 lution — that was determined by the feelings which vi- 
 brated to every word Silas had uttered; but they raised, 
 even apart from these feelings, a repulsion toward the 5 
 offered lot and the newly-revealed father. 
 
 Silas, on the other hand, was again stricken in con- 
 science, and alarmed lest Godfrey's accusation should 
 be true — lest he should be raising his own will as an 
 obstacle to Eppie's good. For many moments he was lo 
 mute, struggling for the self-conquest necessary to the 
 uttering of the difficult words. They came out tremu- 
 lously. 
 
 " ril say no more. Let it be as you will. Speak 
 to the child. FU hinder nothing.'^ 15 
 
 Even Nancy, with all the acute sensibility of her 
 own affections, shared her husband's view, that Mar- 
 ner was not justifiable in his wish to retain Eppie, 
 after her real father had avowed himself. She felt 
 that it was a very hard trial for the poor weaver, but 20 
 her code allowed no question that a father by blood 
 must have a claim above that of any foster-father. Be- 
 sides, Nancy, used all her life to plenteous circum- 
 stances and the privileges of ^^respectability,'' could 
 not enter into the pleasures which early nurture and 25, 
 habit connect with all the little aims and efforts of the 
 poor who are born poor: to her mind, Eppie, in being 
 restored to her birthright, was entering on a too long 
 withheld but unquestionable good. Hence she heard 
 Silas's last words with relief, and thought, as Godfrey 30 
 did, that their wish was achieved. 
 
 "Eppie, my dear," said Godfrey, looking at his 
 daughter, not without some embarrassment, under the 
 
260 SILAS MARNER 
 
 sense that she was old enough to judge him, " it'll al- 
 ways be onr wish that you should show your love and 
 gratitude to one who's been a father to you so many 
 years, and we shall want to help you to make him com- 
 5 fortable in every way. But we hope you'll come to 
 love us as well; and though I haven't been what a 
 father should ha' been to you all these years, I wish 
 to do the utmost in my power for you for the rest of 
 my life, and provide for you as my only child. And 
 
 10 you'll have the best of mothers in my wife — that'll be 
 a blessing you haven't known since you were old enough 
 to know it." 
 
 " My dear, you'll be a treasure to me," said Nancy, 
 in her gentle voice. " We shall want for nothing when 
 
 15 we have our daughter." 
 
 Eppie did not come forward and courtesy, as she 
 had done before. She held Silas's hand in hers, and 
 grasped it firmly — it was a weaver's hand, with a palm 
 and finger-tips that were sensitive to such pressure — 
 
 80 while she spoke with colder decision than before. 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am — thank you, sir, for your offers 
 — ^they're very great, and far above my wish. For I 
 should have no delight i' life any more if I was forced 
 to go away from my father, and knew he was sitting 
 
 25 at home, a-thinking of me, and feeling lone. We've 
 been used to be happy together every day, and I can't 
 think o' no happiness without him. And he says he'd 
 nobody i' the world till I was sent to him, and he'd 
 have nothing when I was gene. And he's took care 
 
 ^ of me and loved me from the first, and I'll cleave to 
 him as long as he lives, and nobody shall ever come 
 between him and me." 
 
 " But you must make sure, Eppie," said Silas, in a 
 
SILAS MARKER 261 
 
 low voice — ^^you must make sure as you won^t ever 
 be sorry, because you\e made your choice to stay 
 among poor folks, and with poor clothes and things, 
 when you might ha' had everything o' the best." 
 
 His sensitiveness on this point had increased as he 5 
 listened to Eppie's words of faithful affection. 
 
 "I can never be sorry, father," said Eppie. "I 
 shouldn't know what to think on or to wish for with 
 fine things about me, as I haven't been used to. And 
 it 'ud be poor work for me to put on things, and ride lo 
 in a gig, and sit in a place at church, as 'ud make them 
 as I'm fond of think me unfitting company for 'em. 
 What could I care for then? " 
 
 Nancy looked at Godfrey with a pained, question- 
 ing glance. But his eyes were fixed on the floor, where 15 
 he was moving the end of his stick, as if he were pon- 
 dering on something absently. She thought there was 
 a word which might perhaps come better from her lips 
 than from his. 
 
 " What you say is natural, my dear child — it's natu- go 
 ral you should cling to those who've brought you up," 
 she said mildly; "but there's a duty you owe to your 
 lawful father. There's perhaps something to be given 
 up on more sides than one. When your father opens 
 his home to you, I think it's right you shouldn't turn 25 
 your back on it." 
 
 " I can't feel as I've got any father but one," said 
 Eppie impetuously, while the tears gathered. "I've 
 always thought of a little home where he'd sit i' the 
 corner, and I should fend and do everything for him: 80 
 I can't think 0' no other home. I wasn't brought up 
 to be a lady, and I can't turn my mind to it. I like 
 the working folks, and their victuals, and their ways. 
 
262 SILAS MARNER 
 
 And/^ she ended passionately/ while the tears fell, 
 "Fm promised to marry a working-man, as'll live with 
 father, and help me to take care of him/^ 
 
 Godfrey looked up at i^ancy with a flushed face 
 
 5 and smarting, dilated eyes. This frustration of a pur- 
 pose toward which he had set out under the exalted 
 consciousness that he was about to compensate in some 
 degree for the greatest demerit of his life, made him 
 feel the air of the room stifling. 
 
 10 " Let us go," he said, in an undertone. 
 
 "We won't talk of this any longer now," said 
 Nancy, rising. " We're your well-wishers, my dear — 
 and yours too, Marner. We shall come and see you 
 again. It's getting late now." 
 
 15 In this way she covered her husband's abrupt de- 
 parture, for Godfrey had gone straight to the door, 
 unable to say more. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 !N'ancy and Godfrey walked home under the star- 
 light in silence. When they entered the oaken parlor, 
 Godfrey threw himself into his chair, while Nancy laid 
 down her bonnet and shawl, and stood on the hearth 
 near her husband, unwilling to leave him even for a 5 
 few minutes, and yet fearing to utter any word lest it 
 might jar on his feeling. At last Godfrey turned his 
 head toward her, and their eyes met, dwelling in that 
 meeting without any movement on either side. That 
 quiet mutual gaze of a trusting husband and wife is lo 
 like the first moment of rest or refuge from a great 
 weariness or a great danger — not to be interfered with 
 by speech or action which would distract the sensations 
 from the fresh enjoyment of repose. 
 
 But presently he put out his hand, and as Nancy 15 
 placed hers within it, he drew her toward him, and 
 said: 
 
 "That's ended!'' 
 
 She bent to kiss him, and then said, as she stood 
 by his side, "Yes, I'm afraid we must give up the 20 
 hope of having her for a daughter. It wouldn't be 
 right to want to force her to come to us against her 
 will. We can't alter her bringing up and what's 
 come of it." 
 
 "No," said Godfrey, with a keen decisiveness of 25 
 
 263 
 
264 SILAS MARNER 
 
 tone, in contrast with his usually careless and unem- 
 phatic speech; " there's debts we can't pay like money 
 debts, by paying extra for the years that have slipped 
 hy. While I've been putting off and putting off, the 
 5 trees have been growing — it's too late now. Marner 
 was in the right in what he said about a man's turning 
 away a blessing from his door: it falls to somebody 
 else. I wanted to pass for childless once, Nancy — I 
 shall pass for childless now against my wish." 
 
 10 Nancy did not speak immediately, but after a little 
 while she asked, "You won't make it known, then, 
 about Eppie's being your daughter?" 
 
 " No — where would be the good to anybody? — only 
 harm. I must do what I can for her in the state of 
 
 15 life she chooses. I must see who it is she's thinking 
 of marrying." 
 
 " If it won't do any good to make the thing known," 
 said Nancy, who thought she might now allow herself 
 the relief of entertaining a feeling which she had tried 
 
 20 to silence before, " I should be very thankful for father 
 and Priscilla never to be troubled with knowing what 
 was done in the past, more than about Dunsey: it 
 can't be helped, their knowing that." 
 
 " I shall put it in my will — I think I shall put it 
 
 25 in my will. I shouldn't like to leave anything to be 
 found out, like this about Dunsey," said Godfrey medi- 
 tatively. " But I can't see anything but difficulties 
 that 'ud come from telling it now. I must do what I 
 can to make her happy in her own way. I've a no- 
 
 30 tion," he added, after a moment's pause, "it's Aaron 
 Winthrop she meant she was engaged to. I remem- 
 ber seeing him with her and Marner going away from 
 church." 
 
SILAS MARKER 265 
 
 ^^Well, he's very sober and industrious/^ said 
 Nancy, trying to view the matter as cheerfully as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 Godfrey fell into thoughtfulness again. Presently 
 he looked up at Nancy sorrowfully, and said: 5 
 
 '^'^ She's a very pretty, nice girl, isn't she, Nancy? '^ 
 
 "Yes, dear; and with just your hair and eyes. I 
 wondered it had never struck me before.'' 
 
 "I think she took a dislike to me at the thought 
 of my being her father. I could see a change in her lo 
 manner after that." 
 
 " She couldn't bear to think of not looking on Mar- 
 ner as her father," said Nancy, not wishing to confirm 
 her husband's painful impression. 
 
 " She thinks I did wrong by her mother as well as 15 
 by her. She thinks me worse than I am. But she 
 must think it: she can never know all. It's part of 
 my punishment, Nancy, for my daughter to dislike 
 me. I should never have got into that trouble if I'd 
 been true to you — if I hadn't been a fool. I'd no 20 
 right to expect anything but evil could come of 
 that marriage — and when I shirked doing a father's 
 part, too." 
 
 Nancy was silent: her spirit of rectitude would not 
 let her try to soften the edge of what she felt to be a 25 
 just compunction. He spoke again after a little while, 
 but the tone was rather changed: there was tender- 
 ness mingled with the previous self-reproach. 
 
 "And I got you, Nancy, in spite of all; and yet 
 I've been grumbling and uneasy because I hadn't some- 30 
 thing else — as if I deserved it." 
 
 " You've never been wanting to me, Godfrey," said 
 Nancy, with quiet sincerity. " My only trouble would 
 
266 SILAS MARNER 
 
 be gone if you resigned yourself to the lot that^s been 
 given us." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it isn't too late to mend a bit there. 
 Though it is too late to mend some things, say what 
 5 they will/^ 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 The next morning, when Silas and Eppie were 
 seated at their breakfast, he said to her: 
 
 " Eppie, there's a thing I've had on my mind to do 
 this two year, and now the money's been brought back 
 to ns, we can do it. I've been turning it over and 5 
 over in the night, and I think we'll set out to-morrow, 
 while the fine days last. We'll leave the house and 
 everything for your godmother to take care on, and 
 we'll make a little bundle o' things and set out." 
 
 ^^ Where to go, daddy?" said Eppie, in much sur- 10 
 prise. 
 
 " To my old country — to the town where I was 
 born — up Lantern Yard. I want to see Mr. Paston, 
 the minister: something may ha' come out to make 'em 
 know I was innicent o' the robbery. And Mr. Paston 15 
 was a man with a deal o' light — I want to speak to 
 him about the drawing 0' the lots. And I should like 
 to talk to him about the religion 0' this country-side, 
 for I partly think he doesn't know on it." 
 
 Eppie was very joyful, for there was the prospect 20 
 not only of wonder and delight at seeing a strange 
 country, but also of coming back to tell Aaron all 
 about it. Aaron was so much wiser than she was about 
 most things — it would be rather pleasant to have this 
 little advantage over him. Mrs. Winthrop, though 25 
 
 267 
 
268 SILAS MARNER 
 
 possessed with a dim fear of dangers attendant on so 
 long a journey, and requiring many assurances that it 
 would not take them out of the region of carriers^ carts 
 and slow wagons, was nevertheless well pleased that 
 5 Silas should revisit his own countiy, and find out if he 
 had been cleared from that false accusation. 
 
 " You^d be easier in your mind for the rest o' yoar 
 life, Master Marner/^ said Dolly — " that you would. 
 And if there's any light to be got up the Yard as you 
 
 10 talk on, we've need of it i' this world, and I'd be glad 
 on it myself, if you could bring it back." 
 
 So, on the fourth day from that time, Silas and 
 Eppie, in their Sunday clothes, with a small bundle 
 tied in a blue linen handkerchief, were making their 
 
 15 way through the streets of a great manufacturing town. 
 Silas, bewildered by the changes thirty years had 
 brought over his native place, had stopped several per- 
 sons in succession to ask them the name of this town, 
 that he might be sure he was not under a mistake 
 
 20 about it. 
 
 " Ask for Lantern Yard, father — ask this gentle- 
 man with the tassels on his shoulders a-standing at the 
 shop door; he isn't in a hurry like the rest," said Eppie, 
 in some distress at her father's bewilderment, and ill 
 
 25 at ease, besides, amidst the noise, the movement, and 
 the multitude of strange indiiferent faces. 
 
 "Eh, my child, he won't know anything about it," 
 said Silas; " gentlefolks didn't ever go up the Yard. 
 But happen somebody can tell me which is the way to 
 
 30 Prison Street, where the jail is. I know the way out 
 o' that as if I'd seen it yesterday." 
 
 With some difficulty, after many turnings and new 
 inquiries, they reached Prison Street; and the grim 
 
SILAS MARNEfl 269 
 
 w^alls of the jail, the first object that answered to any 
 image in Silas's memory, cheered him with the certi- 
 tude, which no assurance of the town's name had hith- 
 erto given him, that he was in his native place. 
 
 " Ah/' he said, drawing a long breath, " there's the 5 
 jail, Eppie; that's just the same: I aren't afraid now. 
 It's the third turning on the left hand from the jail 
 doors — that's the way we must go." 
 
 " Oh, what a dark ugly place! " said Eppie. " How 
 it hides the sky! It's worse than. the workhouse. I'm lo 
 glad you don't live in this town now, father. Is Lan- 
 tern Yard like this street ? " 
 
 '' My precious child," said Silas, smiling, " it isn't 
 a big street like this. I never was easy i' this street 
 myself, but I was fond o' Lantern Yard. The shops 15 
 here are all altered, I think — I can't make 'em out; but 
 1 shall know the turning, because it's the third." 
 
 " Here it is," he said, in a tone of satisfaction, as 
 they came to a narrow alley. " And then we must go 
 to the left again, and then straight for'ard for a bit, 20 
 up Shoe Lane; and then we shall be at the entry 
 next to the o'erhanging wdndow, where there's the 
 nick in the road for the water to run. Eh, I can see 
 it all." 
 
 ^^ father, I'm like as if I was stifled," said Eppie. 25 
 ^' I couldn't ha' thought as any folks lived i' this way, 
 so close together. How pretty the Stone-pits 'ull look 
 when we get back! " 
 
 " It looks comical to me, child, now — and smells 
 bad. I can't think as it usened to smell so." 3(1 
 
 Here and there a sallow, begrimed face looked out 
 from a gloomy doorway at the strangers, and increased 
 Bppie's uneasiness, so that it was a longed-for relief 
 
270 SILAS MARNER 
 
 when they issued from the alleys into Shoe Lane, where 
 there was a broader strip of sky. 
 
 "Dear heart! ^^ said Silas; "why, there's people 
 coming out o' the Yard as if they'd been to chapel at 
 6 this time o' day — a weekday noon! " 
 
 Suddenly he started and stood still with a look of 
 
 distressed amazement, that alarmed Eppie. They were 
 
 before an opening in front of a large factory, from 
 
 which men and women were streaming for their mid- 
 
 10 day meal. 
 
 "Father," said Eppie, clasping his arm, "what's 
 the matter? " 
 
 But she had to speak again and again before Silas 
 could answer her. 
 15 " It's gone, child," he said, at last, in strong agita- 
 tion — " Lantern Yard's gone. It must ha' been here, 
 because here's the house with the o'erhanging window 
 — I know that — it's just the same; but they've made 
 this new opening; and see that big factory! It's all 
 20 gone — chapel and all." 
 
 " Come into that little brush shop and sit down, 
 
 father — they'll let you sit down," said Eppie, always 
 
 on the watch lest one of her father's strange attacks 
 
 should come on. " Perhaps the people can tell you all 
 
 25 about it." 
 
 But neither from the brushmaker, who had come 
 
 to Shoe Lane only ten years ago, when the factory was 
 
 already built, nor from any other source within his 
 
 reach, could Silas learn anything of the old Lantern 
 
 30 Yard friends, or of Mr. Paston, the minister. 
 
 " The old place is all swep' away," Silas said to 
 Dolly Winthrop on the night of his return — " the little 
 ^'-pveyard and everything. The old home's gone; I've 
 
SILAS MARNER 271 
 
 no home but this now. I shall never know whether 
 they got at the truth o' the robbery, nor whether Mr. 
 Paston could ha^ given me any light about the draw- 
 ing 0^ the lots. It's dark to me, Mrs. Winthrop, that 
 is; I doubt it'll be dark to the last.'' 5 
 
 "Well, yes, Master Marner/' said Dolly, who sat 
 with a placid listening face, now bordered by gray 
 hairs; " I doubt it may. It's the will o' Them above 
 as a many things should be dark to us; but there's 
 some things as I've never felt i' the dark about, and lo 
 they're mostly what comes i' the day's work. You were 
 hard done by that once, Master Marner, and it seems 
 as you'll never know the rights of it; but that doesn't 
 hinder there heing a rights. Master Marner, for all it's 
 dark to you and me." 15 
 
 " No," said Silas, " l!^o; that doesn't hinder. Since 
 the time the child was sent to me and I've come to 
 love her as myself, I've had light enough to trusten by; 
 and, now she says she'll never leave me, I think I shall 
 trusten till I die." ao 
 
CONCLUSION 
 
 There was one time of the year which was held in 
 Eaveloe to he especially suitable for a wedding. It 
 was when the great lilacs and laburnums in the old- 
 fashioned gardens showed their golden and purple 
 
 5 wealth above the lichen-tinted walls, and when there 
 were calves still young enough to want bucketfuls of 
 fragrant milk. People were not so busy then as they 
 must become when the full cheese-making and the 
 mowing had set in; and, besides, it was a time when a 
 
 10 light bridal dress could be worn with comfort and seen 
 to advantage. 
 
 Happily the sunshine fell more warmly than usual 
 on the lilac tufts the morning that Eppie was married, 
 for her dress was a very light one. She had often 
 
 15 thought, though with a feeling of renunciation, that 
 the perfection of a wedding dress would be a white 
 cotton, with the tiniest pink sprig at wide intervals; 
 so that when Mrs. Godfrey Cass begged to provide one, 
 and asked Eppie to choose what it should be, previous 
 
 20 meditation had enabled her to give a decided answer 
 at once. 
 
 Seen at a little distance as she walked across the 
 churchyard and down t?ie village, she seemed to be 
 attired in pure white, and her hair looked like the dash 
 
 85 of gold on a lily. One hand was on her husband^s 
 ^ 272 
 
SILAS MARNEK 273 
 
 arm, and with the other she clasped the hand of her 
 father Silas. 
 
 "You won't be giving me away, father/' she had 
 said before they went to church; " you'll only be tak- 
 ing Aaron to be a son to you." 5 
 
 Dolly Winthrop walked behind with her husband; 
 and there ended the little bridal procession. 
 
 There were many eyes to look at it, and Miss Pris- 
 cilla Lammeter was glad that she and her father had 
 happened to drive up to the door of the Eed House 10 
 just in time to see this pretty sight. They, had come 
 to keep N^ancy company to-day, because Mr. Cass had 
 had to go away to Lytherly, for special reasons. That 
 seemed to be a pity, for otherwise he might have, gone, 
 as Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Osgood certainly would, 15 
 to look on at the wedding feast which he had ordered 
 at the Eainbow, naturally feeling a great interest in 
 the weaver who had been wronged by one of his own 
 family. 
 
 "I could ha' wished N"ancy had had the luck to 20 
 find a child like that and bring her up," said Priscilla 
 to her father, as they sat in the gig; " I should ha' had 
 something young to think of then, besides the lambs 
 and the calves." 
 
 "Yes, my dear, yes," said Mr. Lammeter; "one 25 
 feels that as one gets older. Things look dim to old 
 folks: they'd need have some young eyes about 'em, to 
 let 'em know the world's the same as it used to be." 
 
 ^N'ancy came out now to welcome her father and 
 sister; and the wedding group had passed on beyond 30 
 the Eed House to the humbler part of the village. 
 
 Dolly Winthrop was the first to divine that old Mr. 
 Macey, who had been set in his armchair outside his 
 
274 SILAS MARNER 
 
 own door^ would expect some special notice as they 
 
 passed, since he was too old to be at the wedding-feast. 
 
 " Mr. Macey^s looking for a word from us/^ said 
 
 Dolly; " he^ll be hurt if we pass him and say nothing 
 
 5 — and him so racked with rheumatiz.^^ 
 
 So they turned aside to shake hands with the old 
 man. He had looked forward to the occasion, and had 
 his premeditated speech. 
 
 " Well, Master Marner/^ he said, in a voice that 
 
 10 quavered a good deal, " IVe lived to see my words 
 come true.- I was the first to say there was no harm 
 in you, though your looks might be again' you; and I 
 was the first to say you'd get your money back. And 
 it's nothing but rightful as you should. And I'd ha' 
 
 15 said the ' Amens,' and willing, at the holy matrimony; 
 but Tookey's done it a good while now, and I hope 
 you'll have none the worse luck." 
 
 In the open yard before the Eainbow the party of 
 guests were already assembled, though it was still nearly 
 
 20 an hour before the appointed feast-time. But by this 
 means they could not only enjoy the slow advent of 
 their pleasure; they had also ample leisure to talk of 
 Silas Marner's strange history, and arrive by due de- 
 grees at the conclusion that he had brought a blessing 
 
 25 on himself by acting like a father to a lone, motherless 
 child. Even the farrier did not negative this senti- 
 ment: on the contrary, he took it up as peculiarly his 
 own, and invited any hardy person present to contra- 
 dict him. But he met with no contradiction; and all 
 
 30 differences among the company were merged in a gen- 
 eral agreement with Mr. Snell's sentiment, that when 
 a man had deserved his good luck, it was the part of 
 his neighbors to wish him joy. 
 
SILAS MARKER 275 
 
 As the bridal group approached, a hearty cheer was 
 raised in the Kainbow yard; and Ben Wintbrop, whose 
 jokes had retained their acceptable flavor, found it 
 agreeable to turn in there and receive congratulations; 
 not requiring the proposed interval of quiet at the 6 
 Stone-pits before joining the company. 
 
 Eppie had a larger garden than she had ever ex- 
 pected there now; and in other ways there had been 
 alterations at the expense of Mr. Cass, the landlord, 
 to suit Silas's larger family. For he and Eppie had lo 
 declared that they would rather stay at the Stone-pits 
 than go to any new home. The garden was fenced 
 with stones on two sides, but in front there was an 
 open fence, through which the flowers shone with an- 
 swering gladness, as the four united people came within U 
 sight of them. 
 
 " father,^' said Eppie, " what a pretty home ours 
 is! I think nobody could be happier than we are.'^ 
 
COMMENTS AND QUESTIONS 
 
 A child, more than all other gifts 
 That earth can ofler to declining man, 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Note. — The general method that seems to the editors desirable 
 for the handling of fiction in class is dwelt upon at some length 
 in the Introduction. The only suggestions ventured upon as to 
 the special handling of Silas Marner are found in the following 
 comments and questions. There is, of course, no thought that 
 these in any way take the place of the teacher. Practical teachers 
 know that questions prepared in the study, even with special ac- 
 quaintance with the pupils they are meant for, must often be 
 modified beyond recognition in the presence of the class and the 
 difficulties actually encountered. The helps here given will have 
 served their purpose if they bring pupils to the class room in 
 questioning mood. In that case the recitation becomes a natural 
 conversation, in which teacher and pupils interchange judgments, 
 questions, feelings. It will be observed that acquaintance with 
 the whole story is assumed from the start. This acquaintance 
 may be very superficial, and made in a hurried private reading, 
 but it is an essential preliminary to serious study of a novel as a 
 work of art. 
 
 PAET I 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Study this chapter as an introduction to the story. What facts 
 does it give us that are indispensable to our understanding of what 
 follows ? What two periods of Silas Marner's life are here brought 
 
 277 
 
278 SILAS MARNER 
 
 side by side ? The effect of this ? Is there any artistic reason for 
 first picturing Silas as he was at Raveloe? Why is the Lantern- 
 Yard period sketched so briefly? Why sketched at all? The 
 reason for giving in detail only the last scenes of it f What feel- 
 ing for Silas is roused by this chapter ? Does the chapter leave us 
 looking forward with any curiosity ? Why f 
 
 P. 25, 1. In the days when spinning wheels. How does the autl or 
 date her story 1 How is this method better for her purpose than 
 to date exactly or approximately by year ? Though Silas is not 
 introduced in this first paragraph, what setting or background is 
 prepared for him 1 
 
 P. 26, 3-4. To the peasants. Have we a peasant class in this 
 country? Is it safe to interpret village and country life in Silas 
 Marner altogether by our American hamlet and country life? 
 Have you read Miss Mitford's Our Village ? Mrs. Gaskell's Cran- 
 ford? Miss Edge worth's Absentee? Her Castle Rackrent? Philip 
 Gilbert Hamerton's Round my House? Tolstoi's short stories? 
 Sarah Orne Jewett's Deephaven? Country By- Ways? Stories of 
 New England ? Country of the Pointed Firs ? Hamlin Garland's 
 Main-Traveled Roads? Six Mississippi Valley Stories? Prairie 
 Folks? Octave Thanet's Heart of Toil? Missionary Sheriff? 
 Stories of a Western Town ? Do you feel any essential difference 
 between the European life and the American ? 
 
 P. 26, 28. In the early years . . . such. How does this link the 
 second paragraph to the first? Full force of the word such here? 
 How much does it tell us of Silas ? 
 
 \P. 27, 2-3. The Raveloe boys. Through whose eyes do we see 
 Silas first ? From the boys' feeling and behavior what can we infer 
 as to the general feeling about Silas ? Are the diction and what we 
 may call the tone of voice throughout this passage George Eliot's 
 own ? or are there lines where we hear the villagers even when she 
 is not quoting ? Compare the sentence " They had, perhaps," etc., 
 with the following. Are the same voices speaking? 
 
 P. 28, 15. And Raveloe. What is here carried over from the last 
 paragraph into the description of Raveloe ? Is it merely a phys- 
 ical setting for the story that this paragraph gives ? 
 
 P. 29, 5. those war times. How many ways of dating this story 
 thus far? Does any one way give merely the time? 
 
 P. 29, 6. Christmas, Whitsun, and Easter tide. Why are these 
 instanced ? An American author would be apt to instance whaf^ 
 
COMMENTS AND QUESTIONS 279 
 
 days or seasons ? Has this difference any significance and sug- 
 gestiveness ? 
 
 P. 29, 8. It was fifteen years. Note how much of Silas's life in 
 Ravelo3 is summed up in this paragraph ; how many of the vil- 
 lagers are introduced; and the significance of the incidents re- 
 tailed and referred to by Jem Rodney and Mr. Macey. Why, 
 especially, should such prominence be given so early to Silas's 
 peculiar malady and the popular superstitions concerning it! 
 Where in Silas's life does this malady become of critical impor- 
 tance ? And again note the change of voice when the writer has 
 to recount the villagers' ideas, even though she does not quote 
 their words directly. 
 
 P. 31, 25. But while opinion concerning him. How is transition 
 made here from the Raveloe life to Lantern Yard? Why should 
 Silas's religious life be made so prominent in this paragraph and 
 the next? and why dwell again on his malady? Are these mat- 
 ters introduced for their own sake or for the sake of something to 
 come ? Chief traits of Silas's character ? 
 
 P. 33, 11-12. the friend was William Dane. What is there in 
 this paragraph to make us distrust Dane, and to like Silas and 
 be sorry for him ? What additional traits in Silas's character are 
 here brought out ? Are they to play any decisive part later in his 
 life ? What feeling can we detect in George Eliot's voic^ in the 
 last sentence of this paragraph ? 
 
 P. 34, 6. It had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas. Again a skill- 
 ful transition. The words seemed and unsuspecting suggest what 
 as to the actual fact? What does Silas's engagement have to do 
 with the catastrophe that comes upon him in Lantern Yard! 
 Notice how the story of the relations of these three— William, 
 Silas, and Sarah— is given by suggestion and implication, and yet 
 how perfectly we are put in possession of the facts. The artistic 
 reason for the fullness of the treatment of the story from the dis- 
 covery of the deacon's death ? 
 
 P. 39, 6-7. no man is culpable. In Silas's case, was any man 
 culpable? Were the church people? Was Dane? Was Silas 
 himself? Do we ever suffer for our ignorance? For our virtues, 
 even ? Show the parts played in this instance by malice and afiec- 
 tion and trustfulness and ignorance. 
 
280 SILAS MARNER 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 How did the Silas Marner of Lantern Yard become the Silas 
 Marner of Raveloe fifteen years later ? Given a kindly, affection- 
 ate, trustful, honest, simple-hearted, self-doubting, and ignorant 
 man, stricken and bewildered as Marner was by the unfounded con- 
 demnation of the men and women he has most trusted, betrayed 
 by the man and abandoned by the woman he has loved best, and, 
 as he believes, even by the God he has trusted and worshiped — what 
 are the steps by which he becomes a recluse and miser ? This sec- 
 ond chapter is George Eliot's answer. In studying it, notice how 
 every characteristic given to the original Marner plays its part in 
 his transformation. Notice, further, the part played by the new 
 environment and by the ignorance and superstition of the villagers. 
 And, finally, notice how much habit has to do with the change in 
 Marner. 
 
 P. 40, 6. transported to a new land. In this paragraph and the 
 Tiext observe how the change in environment and the break with 
 his old life affect Silas. 
 
 P. 41, 17. as the little child knows nothing. Notice how many 
 of the paragraphs in this chapter are peculiarly touching at the 
 close. How is this appeal to the feelings made ? 
 
 P. 41, 20. And what could be more unlike. Study the first sen- 
 tences of paragraphs as links between what precedes and what 
 follows. 
 
 P. 42, 5. the feeling of primitive men. Have you perhaps read 
 Tylor's Primitive Culture? or John Fiske's Myths and Myth 
 Makers ? or the Iliad and the Odyssey ? 
 
 P. 42, 16. His first movement. In this paragraph and the next, 
 observe in how many ways habitual actions and feelings of Silas 
 now work toward his transformation. 
 
 P. 43, 3 and 17. there was nothing that called out his love' and 
 he loved no man. If we put ourselves in his place and ask, " What 
 then?" what will the answer be? 
 
 P. 44, 6. About this time. What traits of Silas come in play in 
 this Sally Gates incident ? How is it that his kindliness and his hon- 
 esty work him ill ? What is there in his environment to prevent these 
 traits from working good in this instance ? Is any one to blame I 
 
 P. 44, 25. a matter of general discourse. In what follows, whose 
 diction and whose tones of voice do we hear? 
 
COMMENTS AND QUESTIONS 281 
 
 P. 46, 9. Gradually the guineas. In this paragraph, again, we 
 are to trace the influence of habit. Can we trace here also any- 
 thing that comes from the loneliness of an affectionate nature ? 
 
 P. 46, 32. everything else but his immediate sensations. What 
 saves Silas from imbecility ? Is his love of gold wholly unfortu- 
 nate? 
 
 P. 48, 16. Yet even in this stage. Why should the author em- 
 phasize, as in this paragraph, the persistent affectionateness of 
 Marner ? 
 
 P. 49, 4. This is the history. Study this paragraph as a sum- 
 mary. Try to discover how the author compresses so much in so 
 few lines ; and also how she contrives to let us not simply know, 
 but feel Marner's life. 
 
 P. 50, 12. But about the Christmas. W^hat have the first two 
 chapters served to do i What does this last paragraph make us 
 look forward to ? 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 This chapter introduces the subordinate plot, or underplot. 
 What makes us feel from the first that the Cass story is subordi- 
 nate, and is to contribute to the story of Marner ? Note the vari- 
 ous ways by which this chapter singles out Godfrey as the central 
 personage of this second plot. Observe how, in presenting these 
 new characters, the author shows them in their relations not only 
 to one another, but to the community ; and how she makes us feel 
 that the social conditions surrounding them, and the ideas that 
 are taken for granted in the community they were born in, have 
 had much to do in shaping their lives. Are we likely to be better 
 than our world expects us to be and holds us responsible for being! 
 Note how soon the author comes to the point in letting us into 
 Godfrey's secret, making use first of village gossip to arouse our 
 curiosity as well, perhaps, as some concern for Godfrey, and then 
 of Dunsey's taunts, before she herself tells the story in briefest 
 possible outline. What is the situation that puts Godfrey into 
 Dunstan's power? 
 
 P. 51, 1. The greatest man in Baveloe. Has Squire Cass been 
 mentioned before ? 
 
 P. 51, 6. Mr. Osgood's family. And where have we heard of the 
 Osgoods before ? The effect of these incidental introductions and 
 gossipy references ? 
 
282 SILAS MARNER 
 
 P. 51, 10. whereas Squire Cass. Have you read enough of George 
 Eliot to fee) at once, here and repeatedly in her references to social 
 conditicnb ana iaeals, her characteristic blending of sympathy, 
 large tolerance, and gentle irony ? What calls it out 'i 
 
 P. 51, 11. complained of the game. Have you read enough Eng- 
 lish fiction and English history to give significance to this ? 
 
 P. 53, 4. and this helDed to account. As in case of Silas, we get 
 our first impressions j>_ Godfrey and Dunstan and Nancy from the 
 villagers. Is their gossip unkind? What is really at bottom of 
 such gossip? Are our later impressions of the Ca.sses and the 
 Lammeters materially different from this first one i How is it in 
 case of Silas ? Why ? 
 
 P. 54, 21. in that fifteenth year. Why should this point in God- 
 frey's life get its date from Silas's ? 
 
 P. 54, 27. life destitute of any hallowing charm. Is our judgment 
 of the Squire's sons tempered by sympathy? 
 
 P. 55, 6-7. retreated under the chair. Why ? Where else in this 
 book are animals introduced to throw light on the characters of 
 persons ? 
 
 P. 55, 9-10. my elders and betters. Dunstan's chief reason for 
 hating Godfrey is what ? How has the village gossip prepared us 
 for the part of tormentor Dunstan plays throughout this scene? 
 
 P. 56, 6. Molly Farren. How much of Molly's character that is 
 important to the story is given here ? 
 
 P. 56, 21. a handsome brother. Dunstan's second reason for 
 hating Godfrey ? 
 
 P. 57, 11. sweet Miss Nancy coming. Is Dunsey fair to Godfrey 
 here? How would this speech serve on the whole to describe God- 
 frey's behavior at the New- Year's ball (Ch. XI.) ? 
 
 P. 57, 14. Hold your tongue. What makes Godfrey angry ? 
 
 P. 57, 33. She's been threatening. The first preparation for Chap- 
 ter XII. 
 
 P. 59, 8-9. no future for himself. If Godfrey were the son of a 
 rich American farmer and behaved as he does, would he have less 
 or more excuse ? Do social ideals have anything to do with his 
 helplessness ? 
 
 P. 61, 33. very prosaic figures. What is George Eliot's feeling 
 toward them? The source of it? How does she make us feel! 
 This general picture is preparation for what particular one? 
 
 P. 62, 27. condition of Godfrey Cass. Why does the author make 
 
COMMENTS AND QUESTIONS 283 
 
 the story of Godfrey and Molly so very brief f Is either undue 
 leniency or harshness of judgment to be felt in this analysis of 
 Godfrey's character? Is the author mainly bent on judging him, 
 or on understanding him and revealing him ? Does she succeed 
 in making us understand him? And what is Nancy Lammeter 
 becoming to us ? 
 
 P. 65, o. Batherley. If we are to appreciate the care with 
 which the author arranges every detail to make Eppie's coming to 
 Silas's cottage seem na,tural, we must not overlook this. It is the 
 first of the hints by which she gives us a sense of familiarity with 
 Molly's route. 
 
 P. 65, 8-9. the yoke a man creates. George Eliot was working 
 on Romola when the idea of Silas Marner came to her, and kept 
 thrusting itself, as she said, between her and the book she was 
 meditating. Those who have read Romola will find a curious in- 
 terest in the likeness between Tito Melema and Godfrey Cass, 
 Tito is a far more brilliant and fascinating character, and is por- 
 trayed with far greater elaboration ; but in certain fundamental 
 characteristics he is one with Godfrey. How are we to account for 
 the difference in their later development and final fortunes'? Did 
 their creator believe herself too lenient with Godfrey, and so bring 
 a sterner retribution upon Tito ? Can both be true to human life I 
 Is one more capable of loving than the other! Has one more of 
 the moral sense ? 
 
 P. 65, 22. the expected caress. What light does Snuff's expecta- 
 tion throw on Godfrey's disposition ? 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 This chapter makes the first real link between Godfrey Cass*s 
 story and Silas Marner's. The admirable study of Dunstan's char- 
 acter is necessary to make his theft of the gold credible. And all 
 the detail as to locality and routes is necessary to create that shap- 
 ing of circumstances which provides opportunity for the exercise 
 of Dunstan's latent criminal instincts. Note also that the hunt is 
 near Batherley, and that Dunstan's route is by the Gtone-pit, 
 both going and coming. Who is to come by the same route later? 
 
 P. 69, 13-14. absence of witnesses. From the time of the sale of 
 Wildfire, does any one take note of Dunstan? Does any one see 
 him after the accident ? Note the care with which his disappear- 
 
284 SILAS MARNER 
 
 ance is provided for, and also the pains with which circumstances 
 are made to provide an explanation of his disappearance without 
 connecting it with the robbery. 
 
 P. 70, 18. a mist was gathering. Observe how the weather be- 
 comes an actor in what follows ; and throughout the rest of the 
 chapter, note how the author multiplies details that ought to sug- 
 gest to us what happens to Dunstan when he leaves the cottage,' 
 reckless with fear, his hands burdened with the bags and God- 
 frey's whip. Why was the Stone-pit showii us early in the chapter 
 with the red muddy water high up its sides? Why is so much 
 made of Godfrey's whip ? 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 We had fifteen years of Silas's life summed up in a single chap- 
 ter, and now four or five chapters are devoted to the single inci- 
 dent of the robbery. What justifies such apparent disproportion f 
 What is the real relation of the robbery to Silas's life ? What is 
 it that it does for him ? How does it change his relation to the 
 neighborhood ? 
 
 P. 76-77. Is the care with which the author works out the situ- 
 ation that gave opportunity for the robbery characteristic ? And 
 the incidental introduction of Priscilla Lamraeterf 
 
 P. 81, 8. Jem Bodney. What does the incidental introduction 
 of Jem earlier in the story make unnecessary here 1 
 
 P. 81, 21. he must go and proclaim his loss. Has Silas ever be- 
 fore turned for help to his neighbors, or made any effort to inter- 
 est them in his life? 
 
 P. 82, 1. the powers and dignities of Baveloe. How does this 
 paragraph prepare us for the next chapter ? 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 This chapter apparently interrupts the course of the story. 
 Does it really interrupt it ? At the end of the fifth chapter Silas 
 is brought to the door of the Rainbow. We are eager to enter 
 with him and learn what is to be done about the robbery. But 
 here we are held for many pages listening to the trivial gossip and 
 disputes and clumsy jests of village Dogberrys. Is any "neces- 
 sary question of the play " served by this, or is it an inartistic con- 
 cession to our desire tov amusement, our en joyinent of the author's 
 
COMMENTS AND QUESTIONS 285 
 
 humor ? We may feel our way to an answer if we notice what 
 terms we are on with the village before we have finished the chap- 
 ter. Could anything give us a greater sense of intimacy and 
 familiar fellowship with the villagers and their life? We see 
 their narrowness and dullness, their relish for plain speaking, 
 their complacent ignorance, their inaptitude for entering into any 
 experience at all remote from their own, and yet their neighborli 
 ness and good will. Could we be better prepared to understand 
 the futile excitement about the robbery ? and the change of feel- 
 ing toward Silas f and how little real help to the awakening of 
 Silas's life can come from the village ! For further understand- 
 ing of the author's artistic motive here, see her letter to R. H. Hut- 
 ton concerning Romola, quoted in the Introduction, page 14. 
 
 P. 83, 1. The conversation. What makes this scene at once so 
 diverting and yet half pathetic, too *? Is it amusing to the men 
 who take part in it % When they laugh, and we too are amused, is 
 it at the same thing? If the chapter were read to such a group, 
 would they see the humor ? Is there contempt in our smiles ? hos- 
 tility ? sympathy ? What do we feel in George Eliot herself here ? 
 What experience had she that could possibly help her in creating 
 such a scene ? Dowden has an interesting analysis of George Eliot's 
 humor with reference to this chapter. He says : " George Eliot's 
 humor allies itself with her intellect, on one hand, and with her 
 sympathies and moral perceptions on the other. . . . The humor 
 of George Eliot usually belongs to her entire conception of a char- 
 acter, and can not be separated from it. Her humorous effects are 
 secured by letting her mind drop sympathetically into a level of 
 lower intelligence or duller moral perception, and by the conscious 
 presence at the same time of the higher self. The humorous im- 
 pression exists only in the qualified organs of perception which 
 remain at the higher, the normal point of view. What had been 
 merely an undulation of matter, when it touches the prepared sur- 
 face of the retina, breaks into light. By the fire of the Rainbow 
 Inn, the butcher and the farrier, the parish clerk and the deputy 
 clerk, puff their pipes with an air of severity, ' staring at one an- 
 other as if a bet were depending on the first man who winked,' 
 while the humbler beer-drinkers *keep their eyelids down, and rub 
 their hands across their mouths, as if the draughts of beer were a 
 funereal duty attended with embarrassing sadness.' The slow 
 talk about the red Durham is conducted with a sense of grave 
 
286 SILAS MARNER 
 
 responsibility on both sides. It is we^ who are looking on unol> 
 served, who experience a rippling over of our moral nature with 
 manifold laughter ; it is to our lips the smile rises — a smile which 
 is expressive not of any acute access of risibility, but of a volumi- 
 nous enjoyment, a mass of mingled feeling, partly tender, partly 
 pathetic, partly humorous." * 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 The connection with the preceding chapter is very close Would 
 it have been as well to include this scene in Chapter VI? 
 
 P. 97, 1. Yet the next moment. Note the skill with which the 
 author has prepared the scene for Silas's entering. 
 
 P. 99, 38. This strangely novel situation. In what does its nov- 
 elty consist? What change toward Silas begins here? What 
 change in him ? 
 
 P. 101, 10. Memory was not so utterly torpid. Memory of what? 
 Why should Mr. Macey's words appeal peculiarly to Silas ? And 
 what trait do they appeal to ? 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 This chapter carries on both Silas's story and Godfrey's, but 
 xne former mainly through the latter. The first part is, indeed, 
 taken up with the discussion of the robbery and the thief ; we are 
 shown the village for the first time really preoccupied in a friendly 
 way with Silas's affairs. The strong admixture of vanity, self-im- 
 portance, and futility, with the desire to help Silas, is amusingly 
 human, and does not take away the significance of their effort. 
 But even this neighborliness is not so important even to Silas as 
 are the steps in Godfrey's development. A little later Godfrey 
 denies his wife and child ; suffers his wife to be buried as an un- 
 claimed pauper, and his child to be adopted by the poor ignorant 
 weaver. Yet Godfrey is not a hard-hearted man. What are the 
 steps by which he unconsciously prepares himself for this cruel 
 choice? Some of them he has already taken — what are they? 
 And some of them are narrated in this chapter and the following 
 — what are they ? 
 
 * George Eliot, by Edward Dowden. The Contemporary Beview, Au- 
 gust, 1872. LittelVs Living Age, vol. 115. 
 
COMMENTS AND QUESTIONS 287 
 
 P. 107, 28. which boded little honesty. Is there enough preju- 
 dice among us to help us understand this illogical reasoning? 
 
 P. 110, 25-26. now that the dance at Mrs. Osgood's was past. Is 
 there much*' human nature" in Godfrey! What outside of the 
 book helps us to understand the way he behaves and feels ? 
 
 P. 114, 6. she might come. Why is the pronoun enough here to 
 identify the person meant! 
 
 P. 114, 7. And then he tried. Human nature again. 
 
 P. 115, 9. But when he awoke. Has any one else ever had such 
 an experience 1 Why is it that we so often fail to keep the good 
 resolution of the night before? How does our strength to do 
 ^ disagreeable thing when it is at a distance compare with our 
 strength to do it when the disagreeable thing is immediately at 
 hand ? Are there other reasons why the morning breaks the reso- 
 lutions of the night ? 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The preceding chapter has led the way to Godfrey's interview 
 with his father in this. Just what is the situation that now com- 
 pels Godfrey to make some sort of explanation and confession to 
 his father? How far is it of Godfrey's making? How far of 
 Dunstan's? How far of the Squire's own? What is Godfrey's 
 frame of mind as he waits for his father? How much of the truth 
 does he mean to tell ? Does he mean beforehand to lie outright 
 or simply to keep back the truth? Which does he actually do? 
 Why? What coniidence exists between father and son here? 
 Which is the more responsible for the relation between them, the 
 father or the son ? If the Squire were a better and a more sym- 
 pathetic man, would Godfrey's action be just what it is? Do we 
 excuse Godfrey's conduct here? Can we understand it? Can we 
 sympathize with him at all, and yet hold him responsible and con- 
 demn him? What is Godfrey's determining weakness? What 
 does his failure to confess the truth when an opportunity is given 
 him here, prepare him to do when the time comes for owning or 
 disowning wife and child ? 
 
 P. 117, 21. it was a fiction. Is English human nature, then, 
 altogether different from American ? 
 
 P. 120, 1-2. Yon never knew me do a dishonest trick, sir. Is 
 Godfrey necessarily hypocritical here? Does he fully see his own 
 conduct ? 
 
288 SILAS MARNER 
 
 P. 120, 31. The sudden alarm. What had prepared him for the 
 next step ? And what is his fundamental weakness — what we may 
 call his structural weakness ? Why does he not confess when his 
 father gives him this opening for confession ? 
 
 P. 122, 5-6. Lammeter's daughter. Was Godfrey prepared to 
 have this matter come up? Who is responsible for the situation 
 as to Nancy that makes Godfrey so uncomfortable here ? 
 
 P. 124, 16. Favorable Chance is the god. How do we know that 
 what the author says in this paragraph is true ? 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 We are still held to the robbery and its effects, with just a 
 glimpse of Godfrey. Why does no one suspect Dunstan ? Is any- 
 thing accomplished by all this stir about the robbery and this in- 
 terest in Silas? How is our feeling toward anyone affected by 
 our making even a slight effort to help him ? In what way is this 
 effect seen in Raveloe among the well-to-do ? Among the poor? 
 What justifies so detailed an account of Mr. Macey's visit and 
 Dolly Winthrop's? What is the essential difference between Mr. 
 Macey's attitude toward Silas and Dolly's ? Does he not mean to 
 be as kind as Dolly does ? Can we even here discover what it is 
 that in the end makes her so helpful to Silas and Eppie ? What 
 makes her take Aaron with her? What is the state into which 
 Silas has fallen as a result of the loss of his gold ? What is the 
 danger now ? What is the one change in Silas that bears some 
 promise of good ? Why can not he understand Dolly's talk about 
 the church and the services there, and the form in which she finds 
 such comfort ? What is the effect upon us of the contrast drawn 
 between the Christmas of our other Raveloe acquaintances and 
 Silas's? Does Godfrey's state of mind promise much good? Rea- 
 son for answer ? 
 
 P. 129, 3. He filled up the blank with grief. Has he lost the 
 power of loving ? What if he had ? 
 
 P. 129, 19. spoken of as a " poor mushed creatur." How is this a 
 change for the better ? 
 
 P. 131, 9. you might ha' made up for it. Is Mr. Macey alone in 
 this commercial view of religion ? 
 
 P. 135, 3. Aaron, an apple-cheeked youngster. What makes every 
 reference to Aaron delightful ? How does he compare with thfc 
 little Lord B'auntlerov type ? 
 
COMMENTS AND QUESTIONS 289 
 
 P. 135, 22-23. consciousness of dependence. Is this a weakness! 
 
 P. 142, 19-20. The fountains of human love. Which is more likely 
 to unlock them? What is stronger than he, or what is weaker I 
 Why? 
 
 P. 144, 17. the great dance on New Year's Eve. What makes us 
 look forward to New Year's Eve as critical for Godfrey and for 
 Silas? 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The purpose of this chapter is the portrayal of Nancy's char- 
 acter. Is this of critical interest for its own sake, or because of 
 her relation to Godfrey and through him to Silas ? We are moving 
 toward the climax and turning point of Silas's life — the adoption 
 of Eppie. Why is this equally the turning point of Godfrey's ? 
 What act of Godfrey's makes Silas's act possible? What has 
 Nancy to do with Godfrey's act ? Does she even know of it, or of 
 any occasion for it ? In what way is she, nevertheless, involved in 
 it ? What do we discover in Nancy to make Godfrey's love of her 
 and a certain awe of her explicable ? Just what is their present 
 relation? Has Godfrey any right to behave as he does? What 
 would an honorable man do in Godfrey's case — if we can imagine 
 one in it ? What would Nancy do if she knew the truth ? What 
 is the artistic reason for the introduction of such characters as the 
 Miss Gunns, Mrs. Osgood, and Priscilla? We see them all in rela- 
 tion to whom ? What do we learn of the latter through compari- 
 son and contrast ? What traits in Nancy are brought out by the 
 question of the sisters' dressing alike ? How do these traits be- 
 come of importance years later in the matter of adopting Eppie ? 
 How far can we set down Godfrey's acts throughout this chapter 
 to the good in him, and how far to the bad? How do the exter- 
 nal circumstances of the party influence him — the facts, for in- 
 stance, that he is host ; that his father, his uncle, and the rector 
 take it for granted that he will single out Nancy ? In what direc- 
 tion is he moving as the evening advances ? How does this affect 
 his decision when the critical instant comes ? 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Up to this point there has been no hint that Godfrey has a 
 child as well as a wife. If we had known of the child would our 
 feeling and judgment have been just the samel What effect 
 
290 SILAS MARNER 
 
 upon our pity for Godfrey and our condemnation of him is pro- 
 duced by this unexpected revelation ? What in the time and cir- 
 cumstances under which it is made intensifies the effect of the 
 revelation f What feeling have we had hitherto for Molly f Is 
 this in any way modified by our present view of her ? Does the 
 purpose she serves in the story require that we dwell long upon 
 her life and her sufferings from her own point of view? What is 
 the purpose she serves ? And how do her character and station 
 further that purpose f How has the author prepared us for Molly's 
 coming to Raveloe ? For her passing by Silas's cottage ? For her 
 death? Artistic purpose of such preparation? Have we been 
 prepared also for the situation at the cottage when Eppie follows 
 the gleam of light ? Why does not Silas at once think that some 
 one must have been with the child? What memories does she 
 rouse ? What feelings does she stir ? What is the effect upon Silas 
 of her helplessness and trust and clinging? What feelings does 
 Eppie call out in us ? Why ? What is the secret of the charm in 
 George Eliot's pictures of babyhood and childhood ? 
 
 P. 173, 10-11. how should those white- winged delicate messengers. 
 It is often said that women are hard on women who offend the 
 moral law. Is the author hard on Molly? In what spirit does 
 she treat her ? 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 We come now to the climax of Silas's story. The adoption of 
 Eppie is the turning point. Some hard questions inevitably come 
 up here from the connection between Silas and Godfrey. The 
 weaknesses and sins of Molly and Godfrey bring Eppie to Silas, 
 and open the door to a new life for him. Does the author mean, 
 then, that those sins and weaknesses were a good ? Is she dealing 
 with a fictitious and ideal world, or with the actual world? Is it 
 easy here to disentangle the lines of good and evrl ? Are the evil 
 a^ts the cause of good ? Do they create a situation out of which 
 good naturally or necessarily follows? Is Silas merely a passive 
 recipient of good ? Or is it a good in Silas that here becomes ac- 
 tive, and out of the evil situation that others have created, makes 
 a greater good possible for himself and Eppie ? Again, Godfrey 
 absolutely shirks his duty here — is a coward and a liar — and he 
 wins Nancy. Are his cowardice and falsehood rewarded with 
 good ? Does he grow a worse or a better man from this time I 
 
COMMENTS AND QUESTIONS 291 
 
 Does he really love Nancy ? Does his love belong to the good in 
 him or to the bad ? Does the author play fast and loose with the 
 truth in her treatment of Godfrey's sin and its consequences! 
 Does she let his acts go without their natural consequences ? Of 
 course, these questions can not be answered from this chapter 
 alone, but must be carried with us to the end. 
 
 P. 182, 26. lie had not seen the child for months. Has Godfrey 
 been with his child as a father should be ? How does this neglect 
 affect his feeling for it and his action ? What signs of Godfrey's 
 feeling a father's love for Eppie, or of the possibility of his feeling 
 it, are to be found in this chapter ? 
 
 P. 184, 6. What chUd is it 1 Who asks this question, and of 
 whom I Do circumstances here exert any pressure on Godfrey to 
 make him false ? But who is mainly responsible for the circum- 
 stances? Are we surprised at Godfrey's lie? What has prepared 
 him for this choice? Is it really sudden ? Do we pardon him I 
 Should our desire that Silas may keep Eppie influence our judg- 
 ment of Godfrey ? 
 
 P. 184, 19. I can't part with it. Why does not this surprise usf 
 
 P. 186, 29. No, not quite unconscious. Is there still a chance for 
 Godfrey to be honest? 
 
 P. 188, 7. at the end of sixteen years. An anticipation of what 
 scene ? The effect of such anticipation ? 
 
 P. 188, 30. You'll take the child to the parish. Would Godfrey 
 have owned Eppie if that had been the only way to save her from 
 the parish ? 
 
 P. 190, 22. And when events turn out. Whose half-unconscious 
 reasoning is summed up in this paragraph ? How does the author 
 look at it ? 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 What change begins in Silas's life with the coming of Eppie f 
 How does this chapter enable us to appreciate the change, and to 
 feel no surprise at the picture of Silas and Eppie in Part lit 
 What is the natural human feeling toward babyhood and child- 
 hood? What makes this feeling very strong in case of Eppie? 
 How does the care of Eppie change Silas's attitude toward the 
 community ? And how does his taking Eppie change the com- 
 munity's attitude toward Silas ? What are the reasons for these 
 changes * What is the secret of Dolly's helpfulness ? Why does 
 
292 SILAS MARNER 
 
 a new and deeper pity for Godfrey rise in us as we watch Eppie's 
 unfolding life? What is he cutting himself off from? Is the 
 story of Silas and Eppie carried far enough in this chapter for us 
 to realize that Silas is coming to himself again, or, rather, coming 
 to a richer life than he had known before ? Why do we not need 
 to follow them through the intervening years to understand them 
 in Part II ? 
 
 P. 198, 14. And whatever's right for it i' this country. How does 
 this desire serve to change Silas's relations to the world about 
 him? 
 
 P. 208, 11. The disposition to hoard. If Eppie had come to Silas 
 before the gold was taken, what would he have done ? 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 A glimpse of Godfrey's state of mind, of his purposes and his 
 dreams. Why does Godfrey seem to others and to himself to be 
 reformed ? Are his chances of becoming a good man, on the 
 whole, greater than if Molly had lived? Why "^ is he so little 
 uneasy about Eppie ? Has he capacity for feeling a father's lovei 
 Why is it not wholly inconsistent that he should dream with 305 
 of a home with Nancy with their children on the hearth, while he 
 leaves Eppie to a stranger? What is the author's judgment on 
 Godfrey here ? What is such " father's duty " as Godfrey recog- 
 nizes worth? Does the author's tone in this chapter make us 
 expect Godfrey's dreams to be fully realized? Is there such a 
 thing as being a hypocrite in one's own presence ? 
 
 PAET II 
 
 Is the division of the book into two parts demanded by the 
 author's handling of the story ? We are to see here the issue of 
 forces that were set at work where ? 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 The first chapter of this book begins with a paragraph that is 
 touched with a sense of loneliness and mystery, and gives us the 
 haunting picture of the dark figure of the weaver on the upland, 
 
COMMENTS AND QUESTIONS 293 
 
 outlined against the winder sunset. Note the contrast with that 
 made by tnis present chapter and its picture of Silas and Eppie* 
 The first paragraph here gives us what feeling, and makes us 
 expect what if What reassurance does the chapter give us about 
 Godfrey and Nancy before it turns to Silas? Why do we taka 
 such comfort in strolling back to the cottage with Silas and Eppi& 
 and Aaron, and listening to their talk ? What makes the cottage 
 seem so different now as we approach it ? What artistic purpose 
 is served by the cat and kitten, and dog, and even the limping 
 donkey? Coming after the scenes of desolation and just before 
 Godfrey's effort co claim Eppie, what end does this scene of the 
 happiness and perfect love of Silas and Eppie serve ? And how 
 does the love of Aaron and Eppie affect the situation when God- 
 frey claims his child ? 
 
 P. 215, 21. for Mr. Cass's been so good to us. What does this tell 
 us of Godfrey that it can not tell Silas ? 
 
 P. 215, 33. else mother '11 be in trouble. What assurance about 
 Aaron does this give us f 
 
 P. 219, 11. Silas bad taken to smoking. How is Silas's smoking 
 made to introduce the retrospective view of the gradual merging 
 of his life with the community life ? 
 
 P. 219, 33. a consciousness of unity between bis past and present 
 Some commentators object to the author's emphasis upon the im« 
 portance of such a consciousness to Silas, on the ground that, to 
 so simple a nature as Silas's, it is not a need. But is not George 
 Eliot right ? Her wording of the need is, of course, quite foreign 
 to Silas ; but is not a sense of permanent personal identity, a sense 
 that " I am I," the last thing that anybody — the simplest natured 
 or the most complex, the happiest or the most miserable — the last 
 thing that anybody is willing to give up ? And in tracing the 
 slow and painful growth of Silas from his dazed and lost state into 
 self-consciousness is she not tracing his recovery from a state that 
 was next to annihilation back to life? 
 
 P. 224, 5. there's dealings with us. Is Silas's faith in God re- 
 stored through human love and the restoration of his faith in 
 man ? ils his present groping trust worth as much as that earlier ■ 
 untried faith ? 
 
 P. 224, 26-27. Tbe tender and peculiar love. Does the author ex- 
 plain Eppie's refinement and charm by her being of gentle birth f 
 How, then ? 
 
294 SILAS MARNER 
 
 P. 225, 24. who her mother was. These thoughts about her 
 mother prepare her for what feeling toward her father when he is 
 revealed to her? 
 
 P. 227, 8. how the water's gone down. A preparation for what 
 that is coining ? 
 
 P. 227, 16. It was Mr. Godfrey Cass. The discovery of Dunstan's 
 body, then, which leads to Godfrey's confession and the catastro- 
 phe, or culmination, of both stories, comes about through whose 
 instrumentality ? 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A picture of Godfrey and Nancy's life together. What is the 
 one shadow upon it? How has Godfrey tried to remove that? 
 What in Nancy has prevented his succeeding? What in himself? 
 On the whole, is their marriage happy? Are they themselves bet- 
 ter or worse than they would have been without it? What devel- 
 opment can we perceive in each of them, and what is it due to ? 
 In the structure of the chapter, notice how the family party at 
 dinner in the oak parlor, recalling by contrast the dreary break- 
 fast scene in Chapter III, is made indicative of the change intro- 
 duced by Nancy's entering the family. Note, too, how the first 
 paragraph suggests the childlessness that is really the theme of 
 the chapter. ^^ Observe how the conversation of Nancy and Pris- 
 cilla is made a natural preface to Nancy's musings ; and again how 
 effective a preparation is thus made for the revelation of Godfrey's 
 secret in the next chapter. 
 
 P. 237, 26-27. it is much worse for a man. Is it really so ? Was 
 it really harder for Godfrey than for Nancy ? 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Why is it more effective to give Godfrey's confession a chapter 
 by itself than it would have been to add it to the preceding chap- 
 ter? What has kept Godfrey from confessing all these years? 
 What finally brings him to it ? Are Godfrey and Nancy in this 
 scene both consistent with their characters as seen hitherto? 
 Which of the two has the larger nature— the greater capacity for 
 loving and for right doing ? How is our feeling for them affected 
 by this scene ? Does our sympathy with them go so far as to 
 make us wish them success in their visit to Silas and Eppie ? 
 
COMMENTS AND QUESTIONS 295 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 The culmination of Silas's story and of Godfrey's. The artistic 
 skill with which this story is constructed is in nothing more note- 
 worthy than in the relation of the subordinate plot to the princi- 
 pal plot. Godfrey's story is distinctly subordinate to Silas's, yet 
 is absolutely essential to it. We found the climax of each in the 
 act of Silas in taking for his own the helpless, clinging little life 
 that Godfrey, the father, at the same instant disowned. We now 
 find a similar contact of the two stories in their culmination. The 
 moment that marks for us Silas's complete restoration to human 
 life through unselfish love that would even renounce its own sole 
 joy for the good of the loved one, marks also to Godfrey the irrepa- 
 rable nature of his own act. It is sometimes said that George 
 Eliot lets Godfrey off too easily. Does she? It is said that his 
 deed is not visited upon him in a sufficiently stern retribution. Is 
 it not? Is she untrue to life in presenting mitigating circum- 
 stances attending his sin ? Does she violate truth in suffering the 
 consequences of his sin to remain as unknown to the world as the 
 sin had been ? And in doing these things does she fail to let his 
 act bring its own natural consequence — fail to make us feel that 
 that consequence is a natural and inevitable retribution ? 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 How does this scene serve to emphasize Godfrey's recognition 
 of the retribution that has come upon him ? Does it do anything 
 more for us? What feeling about Nancy and Godfrey does it 
 leave in us by its picture of their mutual trust and steadfast affec- 
 tion ? What promise does it give for the future ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Poetic justice and visible return of the deed upon the doer 
 would require that the matter of the theft of the church money in 
 Lantern Yard should be cleared up, Silas restored to the respect 
 of his old friends, and William Dane punished. Would that be 
 more in accordance with the truth of life than to leave it still a 
 mystery, as the author does?'. Would it be really more satisfactory 
 to us ? Which ending: would ^ive us a deeper sense of the fullness 
 
 )' 
 
296 SILAS MARKER 
 
 and the sufficingness of the life that love and fellowship have 
 brought to Silas "? And which would have the haunting fascina- 
 tion of life itself and its unsolved mysteries ? 
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 Compare this final picture of Silas's peaceful, happy life in 
 Raveloe with the picture of his first fifteen years there. Note how 
 completely he has become a part of the life about him, even while 
 his exceptional experience gives him in /bur eyes and the eyes of 
 the villagers a certain distinction. Who speaks our feeling of 
 content and satisfaction with this rounding out of Silas's life! 
 The sadness that we perhaps still feel, and the pity, are reserved 
 for whom ? 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 The following are some of the questions on Silas Marner set 
 at the college-entrance examinations of '96 and '97, when Silas 
 Marner was on ' the required list ' of college-entrance texts, — to 
 which list it has again been restored. And inasmuch as the method 
 of secondary school study of literature approved at various col- 
 leges may to some extent be inferred from the character of the 
 entrance examinations set by these colleges, in addition to the 
 questions on Silas Marner there is given also some complete lists 
 of college-entrance examination questions in English. The usage 
 of each college has been followed respecting the use of capital 
 letters, etc. 
 
 Write a paragraph or two on . . . The Tragedy of " Silas Mar- 
 ker."' [New York University, June '96.] 
 
 Write a short essay on . . . Silas Marner. [Williams, June '96.] 
 
 Write a paragraph or two on . . . (c) Story of the Theft of 
 Marner's Gold, {d) The Character of Godfrey Cass. [Brown, 
 June '96.] 
 
 The Weaver before and after the Ministration of Eppie. 
 [Tufts, June '96.] 
 
 The stealing of Marner's gold and his discovery of Eppie. 
 [Cornell, June '96.] 
 
 The theft of Marner's gold and its restoration. [Cornell, 
 Sept. '96.] 
 
 Describe the character of Silas Marner, as shown (a) while he 
 lived at Lantern Yard, (5) when he arrived at Raveloe, (c) when 
 . his gold was stolen, {d) when Mrs. Cass offered to adopt Eppie. 
 Dwell specially on those characteristics which pertain to the fun- 
 damental thought of the work, i.e. Marner's loss of faith, his 
 deterioration in character, and the means of his redemption. [Uni- 
 versity of the State of New York, Jan. '97.] 
 
 297 
 
298 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Write on one of the following topics from Silas Marner : (a) 
 the inhabitants of Raveloe, (&) Marner's loss of his gold and hiy 
 discovery of Eppie, (c) the draining of the stone-pits, {d) Eppie'« 
 wedding. [University of the State of New York, March '97.] 
 
 (b) Discuss the character of Nancy Lammeter. (c) Discuss the 
 character of Marner. [Browm, June '97.] 
 
 Write one or two paragraphs on ... 3. The Character of God- 
 frey Cass. 4. The Transformation of Silas Marner. [Amherst, 
 June '97.] 
 
 Death of Dunstan Cass and discovery of his remains. [Cornell, 
 June '97.] 
 
 Write a short essay on, *The Turning-point in the Life of 
 Silas Marner.' [Swarthmore, '97.] 
 
 Write, with due attention to the form of your work, short 
 essays upon ... 9. The Disappearance of Dunstan Cass. 10. 
 Silas Marner's Visit to his early Home. [Johns Hopkins,. 
 June '97.] 
 
 Write one or two paragraphs on . . . {k) How Silas Marner 
 became a Miser; {I) The Stone Pit. [Tufts, June '97.] 
 
 Explain the change wrought in Silas by the foster child. 
 [Union, June '97.] 
 
 Show how Eppie transformed the character of Silas Marner.. 
 [Wesleyan, June '97.] 
 
 Tell Eppie's story as she would have told it to Aaron. [Vassar^ 
 June '97.] 
 
 Write a paragraph or two on . . . The Flight of Silas Marner. 
 [Williams, June '97.] 
 
 Write not more than four hundred words on . . . The Author 
 of Silas Marner. [Yale, June '97.] 
 
 Write, with due attention to the form of your work, short 
 essays upon ... 9. Silas Marner and William Dane. 10. How 
 the Loss of Silas Marner's Money was made good to him. [Johns- 
 Hopkins, Sept. '97.] 
 
 Why does George Eliot in Silas Marner give detailed descrip- 
 tions of the scenes in the Rainbow, of the dance at Squire Cass's,. 
 of the visit to Lantern Yard ? [Vassar, Sept. '97.] 
 
 Show whether Silas would have loved and cared for Eppie if he-- 
 had not lost his gold. [Vassar, Sept. '97.] 
 
 Write several paragraphs on . . . 
 
 VII. Silas Marner in Raveloe before his finding of Eppie. 
 
APPENDIX 299 
 
 VIII. What is the retribution that Godfrey Cass suffers for his 
 misdeeds ? 
 
 IX. The villagers of Raveloe. [Chicago, Dec. '97.] 
 
 Give notes on the terms in one of the following [four] para- 
 graphs : 
 
 a Eppie, Raveloe, Nancy, the stone-pits, Godfrey's confession. 
 [Minnesota High School Board, '99.] 
 
 AMHERST COLLEGE 
 
 ENTRANCE EXAMINATION 
 
 English 
 June 23, 1899 
 
 No ca7ididate will be accepted in English whose work is notably 
 deficient in point of spelling, punctuation, idiom or division into. 
 
 I. 
 
 Write a short composition on each of three topics taken from 
 the list below. 
 
 1. The story of Palamon and Arcite. 
 
 2. The tournament in " Palamon and Arcite.'* 
 
 3. A description of the temple of Mars. 
 
 4. The meaning of " The Ancient Mariner." 
 
 5. The calm in " The Ancient Mariner." 
 
 6. Some characteristics of Coleridge's verse. 
 
 7. Maule's well. 
 
 8. The preludes in " Sir Launfal." 
 
 9. A brief sketch of the life of Dryden. 
 10. A brief sketch of the life of Coleridge. 
 
 II. 
 Carlyle's "Essay on Burns" 
 
 1. State the main facts in the life of Burns. 
 
 2. State what you know of the life of Carlyle, and name his 
 most important works. 
 
 3. What are, according to Carlyle, the chief excellencies of 
 Burns as a poet! 
 
300 SILAS MARNER 
 
 4. What does Carlyle consider to be " the most finished, com- 
 plete, and truly inspired pieces of Burns," and why ? 
 
 5. Explain the cause of Burns's failure. 
 
 6. Compare Byron and Burns. 
 
 7. Explain fully the following passage: "For was not this 
 grim Celt, this shaggy Northland Cacus, that ' lived a life of sturt 
 and strife, and died by treacherie,' was not he too one of the Nim- 
 rods and Napoleons of the earth, in the arena of his own remote 
 misty glens, for want of a clearer and wider one ? " 
 
 COLUMBIA COLLEGE 
 
 ENTRANCE EXAMINATION IN ENGLISH 
 June, 1899 
 
 Note. — Time allowed, two and a half hours. Candidates offer- 
 ing English as a preliminary subject will take I only. Candidates 
 taking both parts of the paper are recommended not to spend more 
 than an hour and a quarter on I. Under II any two groups of 
 questions, except A and E, may be omitted. Candidates should 
 write with care and should read over their answers before handing 
 them in. 
 
 I. — Reading. 
 
 Write two essays, of several paragraphs each, on subjects 
 selected from the following groups. The subjects must not be 
 chosen from the same group. 
 
 1. Pope's Iliad: (a) Andromache; (b) The Funeral of Hec- 
 tor. 
 
 2. Dryden's Falamon and Arcite : (a) The Tournament; (b) 
 How Dryden Changed Chaucer's Poetry. 
 
 3. The Vicar of Wakefield: {a) Moses at the Fair; (b) The 
 , Vicar's Faith in Mankind. 
 
 4. The Flight of a Tartar Tribe : (a) The Hardships of the 
 Desert ; {b) The End of the Journey. 
 
 5. The Last of the Mohicans : (a) The Night in the Cave ; 
 (b) Cooper's Descriptions of Nature. 
 
 6. The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers : (a) Sir Roger and the 
 People on his Estate ; (b) The Spectator and the Other Members 
 of the Club. 
 
APPENDIX 301 
 
 II. — Study. 
 A. — Old Man. Threescore and ten I can remember well : 
 Within the volume of which time I have seen 
 Hours dreadful and things strange ; but this sore night 
 Hath trifled former knowings. 
 
 Ross. Ah, good father, 
 
 Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man's act. 
 Threaten his bloody stage : by the clock 'tis day, 
 And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp. 
 Is't night's predominance, or the day's shame, 
 That darkness does the face of earth entomb, 
 When living light should kiss it f 
 
 Old Man. 'Tis unnatural. 
 
 Even like the deed that's don^. On Tuesday last, 
 A falcon, towering in her pride of place. 
 Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. 
 
 1. What night is referred to in the expression this sore night f 
 
 2. *J^^5 unnatural^ Even like the deed that's done: What deed! 
 
 3. A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was hy a mousing owl 
 hawk'd at and JcilVd. Of what character, in general, are the ref- 
 erences in Macbeth to the phenomena of nature ? 4. Quote, if pos- 
 sible, other passages similar to this in tone and import. 5. What 
 is the dramatic significance of these passages ? 6. What, in your 
 own language, is the meaning of the expressions. Within the vol- 
 ume of which time, Hath trifled former knowings, and And yet 
 dark night strangles the travelling lamp f 
 
 B. — They heard and were abash'd, and up they sprung 
 Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch. 
 On duty sleeping found by whom they dread, 
 • Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake. 
 Nor did they not perceive the evil plight 
 In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel ; 
 Yet to their general's voice they soon obey'd. 
 Innumerable. As when the potent rod 
 Of Amram's son, in Egypt's evil day, 
 Wav'd round the coast, up call'd a pitchy cloud 
 Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind, 
 That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung 
 
302 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Like night, and darken'd all the land of Nile : 
 So numberless were those bad angels seen 
 Hovering on wing under the cope of hell, 
 'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires. 
 
 1. What is the scene referred to in the lines quoted above t 
 2. What is the grammatical construction of the clause as when, 
 men wont to watch^ On duty sleeping found by whom they dread, 
 Bouse and bestir themselves ere well awake f What, in your own 
 words, is the meaning of these lines? 3. Comment on the nega- 
 tives in lines 5 and 6. 4. Account for the word to in line 7. 5.. 
 What is the meaning of the words wont^ pitchy^ warping^ cope 9 
 
 C. — 1. In what metre are 1 and II written ? 2. Which of the 
 two passages conforms, on the whole, more strictly to the regular 
 metre ? 3. Scan, in the speech of Ross in I, the first three com- 
 plete lines. 
 
 D. — 1. What, in Carlyle's opinion, are the chief merits of the 
 poetry of Burns? 2. How did Burns bring back to English litera- 
 ture a spirit of independence f 3. How far does Carlyle consider 
 the world responsible for Burns's failure and his early death % 
 
 E. — As the growing population in the Colonies is evidently one 
 cause of their resistance, it was last session mentioned in 
 both Houses, by men of weight, and received not without 
 applause, that^ in order to check this evil, it would be proper 
 for the crown to maJce no further grants of land. But to this 
 scheme there are two objections. The first, that there is al- 
 ready so much unsettled land in private hands as to afford 
 room for an immense future population, although the crown 
 not only withheld its grants, but annihilated its soil. 
 
 1. One cause of their resistance : What other causes are enu- 
 merated by Burke? 2. What remedies did he propose ? 3. What 
 is the grammatical function of the phrases and clauses italicized 
 in the passage ? 4. Parse the words weight, received, objecti^nSy 
 afford, annihilated. 
 
APPENDIX 303 
 
 COENELL UNIVEESITY 
 
 ENTRANCE EXAMINATION 
 
 September 17, 1897. 
 
 General Directions. . 
 a. The number of each answer should correspond to the nuny* 
 bering helow. 
 
 h. Leave a vacant line between every two answers, 
 
 c. Indent each paragraph at least one inch, 
 
 d. Do not break words at line-ends, 
 
 A — List. 
 [Time, one hour. Write about 200 words in all ; avoid using 
 the historical present. Answer any three of the questions num- 
 bered 1-6, But do not answer both 1 and 2, both S and 4.] 
 
 1. The character of Silas Marner before and after the coming 
 of Eppie. 
 
 2. The character of Godfrey Cass. 
 
 3. The breaking up of the Acadian settlement. 
 
 4. Evangeline's quest of Gabriel. 
 
 5. Buckthorne as a strolling player. 
 
 6. The love-making of Orlando and Rosalind. 
 
 B — List. 
 [Time, two hours. Answer 7, 8, 9, and either 10 or ii.] 
 
 7. Sketch (in two paragraphs, about 150 words in all) the John- 
 son Club and the relation between Johnson and Boswell. [Do not 
 use the historical present.] 
 
 8. Sketch (in three paragraphs, about 200 words in all) the 
 character of Marmion, his crimes, his death. [Do not use the his- 
 torical present.] 
 
 9. State and discuss (in two paragraphs, about 200 words in 
 all) Burke's " objections to the use of force," and his " six capital 
 sources "of the "fierce spirit of liberty" in America. [Use th^ 
 historical present.] 
 
 10. The character of Bassanio ; about 75 words. [Do not use 
 the historical present.] 
 
 11. The character of Portia; about 75 words. [Do not u%e the 
 historical present,] 
 
304 SILAS MARNER 
 
 UNIVEESITY OF PENNSYLVANIA. ^ 
 
 ENTRANCE EXAMINATION, JUNE, 1899 
 
 English. 
 
 Time : Two hours. For those taking A or B only : One hour. 
 
 Note. — " No candidate will be accepted in English whose work 
 is notably defective in spelling, punctuation, idiom or division intc 
 paragraphs." — Extract from the University Catalogue, 
 
 A. 
 
 1. Analyze the following sentence, and parse in full all words 
 printed in italics : 
 
 In this light, the meanest philosopher, though all his posses- 
 sionis are his lamp or his cell, is more truly valuable than he whose 
 name echoes to the shout of the million, and who stands in all the 
 glare of admiration. 
 
 2. Write a composition of not less than three hundred words 
 on any one of the following subjects taken from the required 
 reading : 
 
 The Story of Hector. 
 The Adventures of Uncas. 
 Sir Launfal and the Leper. 
 The Ancient Mariner. 
 
 Candidates taking A only may substitute one of the following 
 subjects : 
 
 The Uses of Electricity. 
 The Battle of Lexington. 
 York and Lancaster. 
 
 B. 
 
 I. 
 
 1. Comment briefly upon the following topics drawn from th« 
 required reading : 
 
 a. Emilia. 
 
 h. The Character of Sir Roger de Coverley. 
 
 c. Gains and Losses Resulting from the Flight of the Tartars 
 
 d, Clifford Pyncheon. 
 
 2. Name one or more of Dryden's contemporaries. What are 
 the Sir Roger de Coverley Papers f Tell what you can of Haw- 
 thorne's life. 
 
APPENDIX 806 
 
 II. 
 
 1. In what acts of Macbeth do the witches appear f What is 
 their prophecy with regard to Birnam Wood ? In what scene of 
 what act does this prophecy meet with fulfillment i 
 
 2. Give a brief outline of the first book of Paradise Lost, 
 What is the metre of the poem 1 Scan the following line : 
 
 A leper once he lost, and gained a king. 
 
 3. What opinion does Carlyle express of the songs of Burns f 
 
 4. What explanation does Burke give of the love of liberty 
 among the Americans f 
 
 PEmCETO:^r UNIVEESITY 
 
 ACADEMIC FRESHMAN ENTRANCE EXAMINATIONS 
 
 English. 
 
 Friday, June 16, 1899. 
 
 1.30—6 p. M. 
 
 The examination will be based upon the books prescribed by 
 
 the uniform entrance requirements in English. Questions as to 
 
 the subject matter, structure, and style of these books will be 
 
 asked. Candidates must be prepared in all of the books required 
 
 for the year of entrance. For 1899 the books prescribed are : . . o 
 
 ^-Princeton Catalogue, 
 
 A. 
 
 Have you read all the books required for study and reading f 
 If not, name those you have omitted. 
 
 1. What are the most interesting features of the story of Pala- 
 mon and Arcite ? 
 
 2. Who were Chryses, Hecuba, Briseis, Andromache, PelidesI 
 
 3. Describe Sir Roger de Coverley's household. 
 
 4. What is the cause of the continued popularity of The Vicar 
 of Wakefield 9 
 
 5. What happened at the Lake of Tengis ? 
 
 6. Describe one of Hawkeye's famous shots with his rifle. 
 
 7. Of what use are the preludes in The Vision of Sir Launfal f 
 
 8. What are the admirable traits in Holgrave's character! 
 
306 SILAS MARNER 
 
 Of these eight questions, candidates who are taking their final 
 English may choose five. 
 
 Candidates taking in 1899 a preliminary examination upon the 
 books assigned for reading (not for study) in 1900 will be expected 
 to answer all the above questions, and also the two following : 
 
 9. Contrast the personal appearance of Rowena with Rebecca 
 (Scott's Ivanhoe). 
 
 10. Why did the experiment of the Ladies' College fail f (Ten- 
 jyson's Princess.) 
 
 B. 
 
 1. a. Give a brief outline of the third act of Macbeth, 
 h. If it be so. 
 
 For Banquo^s issue have I filed my mind ; 
 For them the gracious Duncan have I murdered ; 
 Put rancours in the vessel of my peace 
 6.) — Only for them, and mine eternal jewel 
 
 Given to the common enemy of man. 
 Under what circumstances does Macbeth speak these words f 
 Explain the italicised words and phrases. To what does " t7," lin© 
 1, refer? Scan line 5, marking feet and accent. 
 
 2. a. What were the successive incidents of Satan's journey 
 when he left the infernal regions ? 
 
 h. What are the chief characteristics of the other leaders 
 among the fallen angels? 
 
 3. a. Account for Burke's sympathy with America. 
 
 h. Give a brief outline of his entire argument for con- 
 ciliation. 
 
 4. a. Summarize the closing paragraphs of Carlyle's Essay on 
 Burns, 
 
 b. Why was Carlyle naturally fitted to sympathize with 
 Burns ? 
 
 VASSAK COLLEGE 
 
 ENTRANCE EXAMINATION, JUNE, 1899 
 English 
 Each candidate is expected to spend about half the examina- 
 tion period in discussing any one of the following questions, and 
 the remainder of the time in answering four others clearly but 
 
APPENDIX 307 
 
 briefly — if necessary by a single sentence. Not more than three 
 of all the questions answered may be taken from either section. 
 Judgment on the paper will be based largely on accuracy and cor- 
 rectness of expression. 
 
 I. 
 
 1. Describe the character of Macbeth: {a) just before the play 
 begins ; (b) in Act III. ; (c) in Act V. 
 
 2. Why is Paradise Lost called an epic ? How does it differ 
 from the Homeric epics ? 
 
 3. Give, in a paragraph, the argument of Burke's Speech on 
 Conciliation with America. 
 
 4. What is Carlyle's conception of the true biography ? How 
 far does Shakespeare's treatment of Macbeth conform to this 
 ideal? 
 
 II. 
 
 1. What was gained by making the Ancient Mariner address 
 a wedding guest ? 
 
 2. Compare and contrast the themes of The Vision of Sir 
 Launfal and The Ancient Mariner, 
 
 3. How did Hawthorne's temperament influence his choice and 
 treatment of subject in The House of the Seven Gables ? 
 
 4. Write a description contrasting Judge Pyncheon and Sir 
 Roger de Coverley. 
 
 5. As a medium for character-study, what are the advantages 
 and disadvantages incident to the autobiographical form of The 
 Vicar of Wakefield ? 
 
 6. What modifications in the character of Achilles would be 
 necessary to make him a modern hero? 
 
 7. In The Flight of a Tartar Tribe, how does De Quincey's use 
 of natural scenery help to impress upon us the tremendous nature 
 «f the events described ? 
 
 YALE COLLEGE 
 
 EXAMINATION PAPERS, 1898-'99 
 English 
 
 The purpose of this examination is to test (1) the candidate's 
 knowledge and appreciation of certain specified works, and (2) his 
 
308 SILAS MARKER 
 
 ability to write correctly. As bearing on the latter point, he is 
 advised to go over his paper carefully, before the end of the time 
 allowed, correcting any inaccuracies, not neglecting capitals and 
 punctuation. 
 
 A— Preliminary Paper 
 [Time allowed, 50 minutes.] 
 
 1. Give in narrative form a short account of your preparation 
 in English. State (1) the school at which you were prepared, 
 (2) the time spent upon English studies, (3) the number of essays 
 written, (4) the text-books used, (5) the books read in connection 
 with the English courses. 
 
 2. Write not more than three hundred words on each of four 
 topics selected by yourself from the following list : — 
 
 The Adventures of Uncas. 
 
 The Parting of Heotor and Andromache. 
 
 The Tournament at Athens. 
 
 The Funeral Rites of Arcite. 
 
 The Scene at the Lake of Tengis. 
 
 The Causes of the Sufferings endured by the Tartars in theii 
 
 Flight. 
 A Sketch of De Quincey's Life. 
 The Experiences of the Ancient Mariner between the Death 
 
 of his Companion and the Dialogue of the Two Voices. 
 The Adventures of George Primrose. 
 The Amusements of Satan's Followers in Hell. 
 Burns at Edinburgh. 
 Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar. 
 
 B — Final Paper 
 [Time allowed, 60 minutes.] 
 
 1. Give in narrative form a short account of your preparation 
 in English. . . . 
 
 2. Quote some complete song from The Princess. 
 
 3. At the word, they raised 
 A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
 
 With fair Corinna's triumph ; here she stood, 
 Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek. 
 The woman-conqueror; woman-conquered there 
 The bearded Victor of ten thousand hymns, 
 
APPENDIX 309 
 
 And all the men mourned at his side ; but we 
 Set forth to climb ; then, climbing, Cyril kept 
 With Psyche^ with Melissa Florian, I 
 With mi?ie affianced. 
 Comment on the italicized expressions. Relate what you know 
 of each of these persons up to the time here indicated. 
 
 4. Name some of Burke's friends. How had he prepared him- 
 self for his business as a Parliamentary speaker? What are the 
 first, second, and third alternatives he proposes for meeting the 
 disaffection of the Americans f What are his four objections to 
 the use of force 1 
 
 5. Tell in detail how Lady Macbeth overcomes Macbeth's re- 
 fusal to murder Duncan. 
 
 6. If 't be so. 
 For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind ; 
 
 For them the gracious Duncan have I murdered; 
 Put rancors in the vessel of my peace 
 Only for them, and mine eternal jewel 
 Given to the common enemy of man. 
 Comment on the italicized expressions. 
 
 For additional lists of college-entrance Bxamination questions 
 in English see some of the other texts in the *• Twentieth Cen- 
 tury " series. 
 
 (32) 
 
 THE END 
 
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