Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (142 page)

“Not come to live in this house?
 
Don’t tell me.
 
You ask her, that’s all,” said the Squire, with a short, scornful laugh.

“I’d rather let the thing be, at present, sir,” said Godfrey.
 
“I hope you won’t try to hurry it on by saying anything.”

“I shall do what I choose,” said the Squire, “and I shall let you know I’m master; else you may turn out and find an estate to drop into somewhere else.
 
Go out and tell Winthrop not to go to Cox’s, but wait for me.
 
And tell ‘em to get my horse saddled.
 
And stop: look out and get that hack o’ Dunsey’s sold, and hand me the money, will you?
 
He’ll keep no more hacks at my expense.
 
And if you know where he’s sneaking--I daresay you do--you may tell him to spare himself the journey o’ coming back home.
 
Let him turn ostler, and keep himself.
 
He shan’t hang on me any more.”

“I don’t know where he is, sir; and if I did, it isn’t my place to tell him to keep away,” said Godfrey, moving towards the door.

“Confound it, sir, don’t stay arguing, but go and order my horse,” said the Squire, taking up a pipe.

Godfrey left the room, hardly knowing whether he were more relieved by the sense that the interview was ended without having made any change in his position, or more uneasy that he had entangled himself still further in prevarication and deceit.
 
What had passed about his proposing to Nancy had raised a new alarm, lest by some after-dinner words of his father’s to Mr. Lammeter he should be thrown into the embarrassment of being obliged absolutely to decline her when she seemed to be within his reach.
 
He fled to his usual refuge, that of hoping for some unforeseen turn of fortune, some favourable chance which would save him from unpleasant consequences-- perhaps even justify his insincerity by manifesting its prudence. And in this point of trusting to some throw of fortune’s dice, Godfrey can hardly be called specially old-fashioned.
 
Favourable Chance, I fancy, is the god of all men who follow their own devices instead of obeying a law they believe in.
 
Let even a polished man of these days get into a position he is ashamed to avow, and his mind will be bent on all the possible issues that may deliver him from the calculable results of that position.
 
Let him live outside his income, or shirk the resolute honest work that brings wages, and he will presently find himself dreaming of a possible benefactor, a possible simpleton who may be cajoled into using his interest, a possible state of mind in some possible person not yet forthcoming. Let him neglect the responsibilities of his office, and he will inevitably anchor himself on the chance that the thing left undone may turn out not to be of the supposed importance.
 
Let him betray his friend’s confidence, and he will adore that same cunning complexity called Chance, which gives him the hope that his friend will never know.
 
Let him forsake a decent craft that he may pursue the gentilities of a profession to which nature never called him, and his religion will infallibly be the worship of blessed Chance, which he will believe in as the mighty creator of success.
 
The evil principle deprecated in that religion is the orderly sequence by which the seed brings forth a crop after its kind.

CHAPTER X

Justice Malam was naturally regarded in Tarley and Raveloe as a man of capacious mind, seeing that he could draw much wider conclusions without evidence than could be expected of his neighbours who were not on the Commission of the Peace.
 
Such a man was not likely to neglect the clue of the tinder-box, and an inquiry was set on foot concerning a pedlar, name unknown, with curly black hair and a foreign complexion, carrying a box of cutlery and jewellery, and wearing large rings in his ears.
 
But either because inquiry was too slow-footed to overtake him, or because the description applied to so many pedlars that inquiry did not know how to choose among them, weeks passed away, and there was no other result concerning the robbery than a gradual cessation of the excitement it had caused in Raveloe.
 
Dunstan Cass’s absence was hardly a subject of remark: he had once before had a quarrel with his father, and had gone off, nobody knew whither, to return at the end of six weeks, take up his old quarters unforbidden, and swagger as usual.
 
His own family, who equally expected this issue, with the sole difference that the Squire was determined this time to forbid him the old quarters, never mentioned his absence; and when his uncle Kimble or Mr. Osgood noticed it, the story of his having killed Wildfire, and committed some offence against his father, was enough to prevent surprise.
 
To connect the fact of Dunsey’s disappearance with that of the robbery occurring on the same day, lay quite away from the track of every one’s thought--even Godfrey’s, who had better reason than any one else to know what his brother was capable of.
 
He remembered no mention of the weaver between them since the time, twelve years ago, when it was their boyish sport to deride him; and, besides, his imagination constantly created an
alibi
for Dunstan: he saw him continually in some congenial haunt, to which he had walked off on leaving Wildfire--saw him sponging on chance acquaintances, and meditating a return home to the old amusement of tormenting his elder brother.
 
Even if any brain in Raveloe had put the said two facts together, I doubt whether a combination so injurious to the prescriptive respectability of a family with a mural monument and venerable tankards, would not have been suppressed as of unsound tendency.
 
But Christmas puddings, brawn, and abundance of spirituous liquors, throwing the mental originality into the channel of nightmare, are great preservatives against a dangerous spontaneity of waking thought.

When the robbery was talked of at the Rainbow and elsewhere, in good company, the balance continued to waver between the rational explanation founded on the tinder-box, and the theory of an impenetrable mystery that mocked investigation.
 
The advocates of the tinder-box-and-pedlar view considered the other side a muddle-headed and credulous set, who, because they themselves were wall-eyed, supposed everybody else to have the same blank outlook; and the adherents of the inexplicable more than hinted that their antagonists were animals inclined to crow before they had found any corn--mere skimming-dishes in point of depth--whose clear-sightedness consisted in supposing there was nothing behind a barn-door because they couldn’t see through it; so that, though their controversy did not serve to elicit the fact concerning the robbery, it elicited some true opinions of collateral importance.

But while poor Silas’s loss served thus to brush the slow current of Raveloe conversation, Silas himself was feeling the withering desolation of that bereavement about which his neighbours were arguing at their ease.
 
To any one who had observed him before he lost his gold, it might have seemed that so withered and shrunken a life as his could hardly be susceptible of a bruise, could hardly endure any subtraction but such as would put an end to it altogether.
 
But in reality it had been an eager life, filled with immediate purpose which fenced him in from the wide, cheerless unknown.
 
It had been a clinging life; and though the object round which its fibres had clung was a dead disrupted thing, it satisfied the need for clinging.
 
But now the fence was broken down--the support was snatched away.
 
Marner’s thoughts could no longer move in their old round, and were baffled by a blank like that which meets a plodding ant when the earth has broken away on its homeward path.
 
The loom was there, and the weaving, and the growing pattern in the cloth; but the bright treasure in the hole under his feet was gone; the prospect of handling and counting it was gone: the evening had no phantasm of delight to still the poor soul’s craving.
 
The thought of the money he would get by his actual work could bring no joy, for its meagre image was only a fresh reminder of his loss; and hope was too heavily crushed by the sudden blow for his imagination to dwell on the growth of a new hoard from that small beginning.

He filled up the blank with grief.
 
As he sat weaving, he every now and then moaned low, like one in pain: it was the sign that his thoughts had come round again to the sudden chasm--to the empty evening-time.
 
And all the evening, as he sat in his loneliness by his dull fire, he leaned his elbows on his knees, and clasped his head with his hands, and moaned very low--not as one who seeks to be heard.

And yet he was not utterly forsaken in his trouble.
 
The repulsion Marner had always created in his neighbours was partly dissipated by the new light in which this misfortune had shown him.
 
Instead of a man who had more cunning than honest folks could come by, and, what was worse, had not the inclination to use that cunning in a neighbourly way, it was now apparent that Silas had not cunning enough to keep his own.
 
He was generally spoken of as a “poor mushed creatur”; and that avoidance of his neighbours, which had before been referred to his ill-will and to a probable addiction to worse company, was now considered mere craziness.

This change to a kindlier feeling was shown in various ways.
 
The odour of Christmas cooking being on the wind, it was the season when superfluous pork and black puddings are suggestive of charity in well-to-do families; and Silas’s misfortune had brought him uppermost in the memory of housekeepers like Mrs. Osgood. Mr. Crackenthorp, too, while he admonished Silas that his money had probably been taken from him because he thought too much of it and never came to church, enforced the doctrine by a present of pigs’ pettitoes, well calculated to dissipate unfounded prejudices against the clerical character.
 
Neighbours who had nothing but verbal consolation to give showed a disposition not only to greet Silas and discuss his misfortune at some length when they encountered him in the village, but also to take the trouble of calling at his cottage and getting him to repeat all the details on the very spot; and then they would try to cheer him by saying, “Well, Master Marner, you’re no worse off nor other poor folks, after all; and if you was to be crippled, the parish ‘ud give you a ‘lowance.”

I suppose one reason why we are seldom able to comfort our neighbours with our words is that our goodwill gets adulterated, in spite of ourselves, before it can pass our lips.
 
We can send black puddings and pettitoes without giving them a flavour of our own egoism; but language is a stream that is almost sure to smack of a mingled soil.
 
There was a fair proportion of kindness in Raveloe; but it was often of a beery and bungling sort, and took the shape least allied to the complimentary and hypocritical.

Mr. Macey, for example, coming one evening expressly to let Silas know that recent events had given him the advantage of standing more favourably in the opinion of a man whose judgment was not formed lightly, opened the conversation by saying, as soon as he had seated himself and adjusted his thumbs--

“Come, Master Marner, why, you’ve no call to sit a-moaning.
 
You’re a deal better off to ha’ lost your money, nor to ha’ kep it by foul means.
 
I used to think, when you first come into these parts, as you were no better nor you should be; you were younger a deal than what you are now; but you were allays a staring, white-faced creatur, partly like a bald-faced calf, as I may say.
 
But there’s no knowing: it isn’t every queer-looksed thing as Old Harry’s had the making of--I mean, speaking o’ toads and such; for they’re often harmless, like, and useful against varmin.
 
And it’s pretty much the same wi’ you, as fur as I can see.
 
Though as to the yarbs and stuff to cure the breathing, if you brought that sort o’ knowledge from distant parts, you might ha’ been a bit freer of it. And if the knowledge wasn’t well come by, why, you might ha’ made up for it by coming to church reg’lar; for, as for the children as the Wise Woman charmed, I’ve been at the christening of ‘em again and again, and they took the water just as well.
 
And that’s reasonable; for if Old Harry’s a mind to do a bit o’ kindness for a holiday, like, who’s got anything against it?
 
That’s my thinking; and I’ve been clerk o’ this parish forty year, and I know, when the parson and me does the cussing of a Ash Wednesday, there’s no cussing o’ folks as have a mind to be cured without a doctor, let Kimble say what he will.
 
And so, Master Marner, as I was saying--for there’s windings i’ things as they may carry you to the fur end o’ the prayer-book afore you get back to ‘em--my advice is, as you keep up your sperrits; for as for thinking you’re a deep un, and ha’ got more inside you nor ‘ull bear daylight, I’m not o’ that opinion at all, and so I tell the neighbours.
 
For, says I, you talk o’ Master Marner making out a tale--why, it’s nonsense, that is: it ‘ud take a ‘cute man to make a tale like that; and, says I, he looked as scared as a rabbit.”

During this discursive address Silas had continued motionless in his previous attitude, leaning his elbows on his knees, and pressing his hands against his head.
 
Mr. Macey, not doubting that he had been listened to, paused, in the expectation of some appreciatory reply, but Marner remained silent.
 
He had a sense that the old man meant to be good-natured and neighbourly; but the kindness fell on him as sunshine falls on the wretched--he had no heart to taste it, and felt that it was very far off him.

“Come, Master Marner, have you got nothing to say to that?”
 
said Mr. Macey at last, with a slight accent of impatience.

“Oh,” said Marner, slowly, shaking his head between his hands, “I thank you--thank you--kindly.”

“Aye, aye, to be sure: I thought you would,” said Mr. Macey; “and my advice is--have you got a Sunday suit?”

“No,” said Marner.

“I doubted it was so,” said Mr. Macey.
 
“Now, let me advise you to get a Sunday suit: there’s Tookey, he’s a poor creatur, but he’s got my tailoring business, and some o’ my money in it, and he shall make a suit at a low price, and give you trust, and then you can come to church, and be a bit neighbourly.
 
Why, you’ve never heared me say “Amen” since you come into these parts, and I recommend you to lose no time, for it’ll be poor work when Tookey has it all to himself, for I mayn’t be equil to stand i’ the desk at all, come another winter.”
 
Here Mr. Macey paused, perhaps expecting some sign of emotion in his hearer; but not observing any, he went on. “And as for the money for the suit o’ clothes, why, you get a matter of a pound a-week at your weaving, Master Marner, and you’re a young man, eh, for all you look so mushed.
 
Why, you couldn’t ha’ been five-and-twenty when you come into these parts, eh?”

Silas started a little at the change to a questioning tone, and answered mildly, “I don’t know; I can’t rightly say--it’s a long while since.”

After receiving such an answer as this, it is not surprising that Mr. Macey observed, later on in the evening at the Rainbow, that Marner’s head was “all of a muddle”, and that it was to be doubted if he ever knew when Sunday came round, which showed him a worse heathen than many a dog.

Another of Silas’s comforters, besides Mr. Macey, came to him with a mind highly charged on the same topic.
 
This was Mrs. Winthrop, the wheelwright’s wife.
 
The inhabitants of Raveloe were not severely regular in their church-going, and perhaps there was hardly a person in the parish who would not have held that to go to church every Sunday in the calendar would have shown a greedy desire to stand well with Heaven, and get an undue advantage over their neighbours-- a wish to be better than the “common run”, that would have implied a reflection on those who had had godfathers and godmothers as well as themselves, and had an equal right to the burying-service.
 
At the same time, it was understood to be requisite for all who were not household servants, or young men, to take the sacrament at one of the great festivals: Squire Cass himself took it on Christmas-day; while those who were held to be “good livers” went to church with greater, though still with moderate, frequency.