Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (140 page)

CHAPTER VIII

When Godfrey Cass returned from Mrs. Osgood’s party at midnight, he was not much surprised to learn that Dunsey had not come home. Perhaps he had not sold Wildfire, and was waiting for another chance-- perhaps, on that foggy afternoon, he had preferred housing himself at the Red Lion at Batherley for the night, if the run had kept him in that neighbourhood; for he was not likely to feel much concern about leaving his brother in suspense.
 
Godfrey’s mind was too full of Nancy Lammeter’s looks and behaviour, too full of the exasperation against himself and his lot, which the sight of her always produced in him, for him to give much thought to Wildfire, or to the probabilities of Dunstan’s conduct.

The next morning the whole village was excited by the story of the robbery, and Godfrey, like every one else, was occupied in gathering and discussing news about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits.
 
The rain had washed away all possibility of distinguishing foot-marks, but a close investigation of the spot had disclosed, in the direction opposite to the village, a tinder-box, with a flint and steel, half sunk in the mud.
 
It was not Silas’s tinder-box, for the only one he had ever had was still standing on his shelf; and the inference generally accepted was, that the tinder-box in the ditch was somehow connected with the robbery.
 
A small minority shook their heads, and intimated their opinion that it was not a robbery to have much light thrown on it by tinder-boxes, that Master Marner’s tale had a queer look with it, and that such things had been known as a man’s doing himself a mischief, and then setting the justice to look for the doer.
 
But when questioned closely as to their grounds for this opinion, and what Master Marner had to gain by such false pretences, they only shook their heads as before, and observed that there was no knowing what some folks counted gain; moreover, that everybody had a right to their own opinions, grounds or no grounds, and that the weaver, as everybody knew, was partly crazy.
 
Mr. Macey, though he joined in the defence of Marner against all suspicions of deceit, also pooh-poohed the tinder-box; indeed, repudiated it as a rather impious suggestion, tending to imply that everything must be done by human hands, and that there was no power which could make away with the guineas without moving the bricks. Nevertheless, he turned round rather sharply on Mr. Tookey, when the zealous deputy, feeling that this was a view of the case peculiarly suited to a parish-clerk, carried it still farther, and doubted whether it was right to inquire into a robbery at all when the circumstances were so mysterious.

“As if,” concluded Mr. Tookey--”as if there was nothing but what could be made out by justices and constables.”

“Now, don’t you be for overshooting the mark, Tookey,” said Mr. Macey, nodding his head aside admonishingly.
 
“That’s what you’re allays at; if I throw a stone and hit, you think there’s summat better than hitting, and you try to throw a stone beyond. What I said was against the tinder-box: I said nothing against justices and constables, for they’re o’ King George’s making, and it ‘ud be ill-becoming a man in a parish office to fly out again’ King George.”

While these discussions were going on amongst the group outside the Rainbow, a higher consultation was being carried on within, under the presidency of Mr. Crackenthorp, the rector, assisted by Squire Cass and other substantial parishioners.
 
It had just occurred to Mr. Snell, the landlord--he being, as he observed, a man accustomed to put two and two together--to connect with the tinder-box, which, as deputy-constable, he himself had had the honourable distinction of finding, certain recollections of a pedlar who had called to drink at the house about a month before, and had actually stated that he carried a tinder-box about with him to light his pipe.
 
Here, surely, was a clue to be followed out.
 
And as memory, when duly impregnated with ascertained facts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile, Mr. Snell gradually recovered a vivid impression of the effect produced on him by the pedlar’s countenance and conversation.
 
He had a “look with his eye” which fell unpleasantly on Mr. Snell’s sensitive organism.
 
To be sure, he didn’t say anything particular--no, except that about the tinder-box--but it isn’t what a man says, it’s the way he says it. Moreover, he had a swarthy foreignness of complexion which boded little honesty.

“Did he wear ear-rings?”
 
Mr. Crackenthorp wished to know, having some acquaintance with foreign customs.

“Well--stay--let me see,” said Mr. Snell, like a docile clairvoyante, who would really not make a mistake if she could help it.
 
After stretching the corners of his mouth and contracting his eyes, as if he were trying to see the ear-rings, he appeared to give up the effort, and said, “Well, he’d got ear-rings in his box to sell, so it’s nat’ral to suppose he might wear ‘em.
 
But he called at every house, a’most, in the village; there’s somebody else, mayhap, saw ‘em in his ears, though I can’t take upon me rightly to say.”

Mr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that somebody else would remember the pedlar’s ear-rings.
 
For on the spread of inquiry among the villagers it was stated with gathering emphasis, that the parson had wanted to know whether the pedlar wore ear-rings in his ears, and an impression was created that a great deal depended on the eliciting of this fact.
 
Of course, every one who heard the question, not having any distinct image of the pedlar as
without
ear-rings, immediately had an image of him
with
ear-rings, larger or smaller, as the case might be; and the image was presently taken for a vivid recollection, so that the glazier’s wife, a well-intentioned woman, not given to lying, and whose house was among the cleanest in the village, was ready to declare, as sure as ever she meant to take the sacrament the very next Christmas that was ever coming, that she had seen big ear-rings, in the shape of the young moon, in the pedlar’s two ears; while Jinny Oates, the cobbler’s daughter, being a more imaginative person, stated not only that she had seen them too, but that they had made her blood creep, as it did at that very moment while there she stood.

Also, by way of throwing further light on this clue of the tinder-box, a collection was made of all the articles purchased from the pedlar at various houses, and carried to the Rainbow to be exhibited there.
 
In fact, there was a general feeling in the village, that for the clearing-up of this robbery there must be a great deal done at the Rainbow, and that no man need offer his wife an excuse for going there while it was the scene of severe public duties.

Some disappointment was felt, and perhaps a little indignation also, when it became known that Silas Marner, on being questioned by the Squire and the parson, had retained no other recollection of the pedlar than that he had called at his door, but had not entered his house, having turned away at once when Silas, holding the door ajar, had said that he wanted nothing.
 
This had been Silas’s testimony, though he clutched strongly at the idea of the pedlar’s being the culprit, if only because it gave him a definite image of a whereabout for his gold after it had been taken away from its hiding-place: he could see it now in the pedlar’s box.
 
But it was observed with some irritation in the village, that anybody but a “blind creatur” like Marner would have seen the man prowling about, for how came he to leave his tinder-box in the ditch close by, if he hadn’t been lingering there?
 
Doubtless, he had made his observations when he saw Marner at the door.
 
Anybody might know-- and only look at him--that the weaver was a half-crazy miser.
 
It was a wonder the pedlar hadn’t murdered him; men of that sort, with rings in their ears, had been known for murderers often and often; there had been one tried at the ‘sizes, not so long ago but what there were people living who remembered it.

Godfrey Cass, indeed, entering the Rainbow during one of Mr. Snell’s frequently repeated recitals of his testimony, had treated it lightly, stating that he himself had bought a pen-knife of the pedlar, and thought him a merry grinning fellow enough; it was all nonsense, he said, about the man’s evil looks.
 
But this was spoken of in the village as the random talk of youth, “as if it was only Mr. Snell who had seen something odd about the pedlar!”
 
On the contrary, there were at least half-a-dozen who were ready to go before Justice Malam, and give in much more striking testimony than any the landlord could furnish.
 
It was to be hoped Mr. Godfrey would not go to Tarley and throw cold water on what Mr. Snell said there, and so prevent the justice from drawing up a warrant.
 
He was suspected of intending this, when, after mid-day, he was seen setting off on horseback in the direction of Tarley.

But by this time Godfrey’s interest in the robbery had faded before his growing anxiety about Dunstan and Wildfire, and he was going, not to Tarley, but to Batherley, unable to rest in uncertainty about them any longer.
 
The possibility that Dunstan had played him the ugly trick of riding away with Wildfire, to return at the end of a month, when he had gambled away or otherwise squandered the price of the horse, was a fear that urged itself upon him more, even, than the thought of an accidental injury; and now that the dance at Mrs. Osgood’s was past, he was irritated with himself that he had trusted his horse to Dunstan.
 
Instead of trying to still his fears, he encouraged them, with that superstitious impression which clings to us all, that if we expect evil very strongly it is the less likely to come; and when he heard a horse approaching at a trot, and saw a hat rising above a hedge beyond an angle of the lane, he felt as if his conjuration had succeeded.
 
But no sooner did the horse come within sight, than his heart sank again.
 
It was not Wildfire; and in a few moments more he discerned that the rider was not Dunstan, but Bryce, who pulled up to speak, with a face that implied something disagreeable.

“Well, Mr. Godfrey, that’s a lucky brother of yours, that Master Dunsey, isn’t he?”

“What do you mean?”
 
said Godfrey, hastily.

“Why, hasn’t he been home yet?”
 
said Bryce.

“Home?
 
no.
 
What has happened?
 
Be quick.
 
What has he done with my horse?”

“Ah, I thought it was yours, though he pretended you had parted with it to him.”

“Has he thrown him down and broken his knees?”
 
said Godfrey, flushed with exasperation.

“Worse than that,” said Bryce.
 
“You see, I’d made a bargain with him to buy the horse for a hundred and twenty--a swinging price, but I always liked the horse.
 
And what does he do but go and stake him--fly at a hedge with stakes in it, atop of a bank with a ditch before it.
 
The horse had been dead a pretty good while when he was found.
 
So he hasn’t been home since, has he?”

“Home?
 
no,” said Godfrey, “and he’d better keep away.
 
Confound me for a fool!
 
I might have known this would be the end of it.”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” said Bryce, “after I’d bargained for the horse, it did come into my head that he might be riding and selling the horse without your knowledge, for I didn’t believe it was his own.
 
I knew Master Dunsey was up to his tricks sometimes. But where can he be gone?
 
He’s never been seen at Batherley.
 
He couldn’t have been hurt, for he must have walked off.”

“Hurt?”
 
said Godfrey, bitterly.
 
“He’ll never be hurt--he’s made to hurt other people.”

“And so you
did
give him leave to sell the horse, eh?”
 
said Bryce.

“Yes; I wanted to part with the horse--he was always a little too hard in the mouth for me,” said Godfrey; his pride making him wince under the idea that Bryce guessed the sale to be a matter of necessity.
 
“I was going to see after him--I thought some mischief had happened.
 
I’ll go back now,” he added, turning the horse’s head, and wishing he could get rid of Bryce; for he felt that the long-dreaded crisis in his life was close upon him. “You’re coming on to Raveloe, aren’t you?”

“Well, no, not now,” said Bryce.
 
“I
was
coming round there, for I had to go to Flitton, and I thought I might as well take you in my way, and just let you know all I knew myself about the horse. I suppose Master Dunsey didn’t like to show himself till the ill news had blown over a bit.
 
He’s perhaps gone to pay a visit at the Three Crowns, by Whitbridge--I know he’s fond of the house.”