Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (149 page)

“You’ll take the child to the parish to-morrow?”
 
asked Godfrey, speaking as indifferently as he could.

“Who says so?”
 
said Marner, sharply.
 
“Will they make me take her?”

“Why, you wouldn’t like to keep her, should you--an old bachelor like you?”

“Till anybody shows they’ve a right to take her away from me,” said Marner.
 
“The mother’s dead, and I reckon it’s got no father: it’s a lone thing--and I’m a lone thing.
 
My money’s gone, I don’t know where--and this is come from I don’t know where.
 
I know nothing--I’m partly mazed.”

“Poor little thing!”
 
said Godfrey.
 
“Let me give something towards finding it clothes.”

He had put his hand in his pocket and found half-a-guinea, and, thrusting it into Silas’s hand, he hurried out of the cottage to overtake Mr. Kimble.

“Ah, I see it’s not the same woman I saw,” he said, as he came up. “It’s a pretty little child: the old fellow seems to want to keep it; that’s strange for a miser like him.
 
But I gave him a trifle to help him out: the parish isn’t likely to quarrel with him for the right to keep the child.”

“No; but I’ve seen the time when I might have quarrelled with him for it myself.
 
It’s too late now, though.
 
If the child ran into the fire, your aunt’s too fat to overtake it: she could only sit and grunt like an alarmed sow.
 
But what a fool you are, Godfrey, to come out in your dancing shoes and stockings in this way--and you one of the beaux of the evening, and at your own house!
 
What do you mean by such freaks, young fellow?
 
Has Miss Nancy been cruel, and do you want to spite her by spoiling your pumps?”

“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 the other Miss Gunn,” said Godfrey, glad of the subterfuge his uncle had suggested to him.

The prevarication and white lies which a mind that keeps itself ambitiously pure is as uneasy under as a great artist under the false touches that no eye detects but his own, are worn as lightly as mere trimmings when once the actions have become a lie.

Godfrey reappeared in the White Parlour with dry feet, and, since the truth must be told, with a sense of relief and gladness that was too strong for painful thoughts to struggle with.
 
For could he not venture now, whenever opportunity offered, to say the tenderest things to Nancy Lammeter--to promise her and himself that he would always be just what she would desire to see him?
 
There was no danger that his dead wife would be 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 unturned pages, away from every one’s interest but his own.
 
Dunsey might betray him if he came back; but Dunsey might be won to silence.

And when events turn out so much better for a man than he has had reason to dread, is it not a proof that his conduct has been less foolish and blameworthy than it might otherwise have appeared?
 
When we are treated well, we naturally begin to think that we are not altogether unmeritorious, and that it is only just we should treat ourselves well, and not mar our own good fortune.
 
Where, after all, would be the use of his confessing the past to Nancy Lammeter, and throwing away his happiness?--nay, hers?
 
for he felt some confidence that she loved him.
 
As for the child, he would see that it was cared for: he would never forsake it; he would do everything but own it.
 
Perhaps it would be just as happy in life without being owned by its father, seeing that nobody could tell how things would turn out, and that--is there any other reason wanted?--well, then, that the father would be much happier without owning the child.

CHAPTER XIV

There was a pauper’s burial that week in Raveloe, and up Kench Yard at Batherley it was known that the dark-haired woman with the fair child, who had lately come to lodge there, was gone away again. That was all the express note taken that Molly had disappeared from the eyes of men.
 
But the unwept death which, to the general lot, seemed as trivial as the summer-shed leaf, was charged with the force of destiny to certain human lives that we know of, shaping their joys and sorrows even to the end.

Silas Marner’s determination to keep the “tramp’s child” was matter of hardly less surprise and iterated talk in the village than the robbery of his money.
 
That softening of feeling towards him which dated from his misfortune, that merging of suspicion and dislike in a rather contemptuous pity for him as lone and crazy, was now accompanied with a more active sympathy, especially amongst the women.
 
Notable mothers, who knew what it was to keep children “whole and sweet”; lazy mothers, who knew what it was to be interrupted in folding their arms and scratching their elbows by the mischievous propensities of children just firm on their legs, were equally interested in conjecturing how a lone man would manage with a two-year-old child on his hands, and were equally ready with their suggestions: the notable chiefly telling him what he had better do, and the lazy ones being emphatic in telling him what he would never be able to do.

Among the notable mothers, Dolly Winthrop was the one whose neighbourly offices were the most acceptable to Marner, for they were rendered without any show of bustling instruction.
 
Silas had shown her the half-guinea given to him by Godfrey, and had asked her what he should do about getting some clothes for the child.

“Eh, Master Marner,” said Dolly, “there’s no call to buy, no more nor a pair o’ shoes; for I’ve got the little petticoats as Aaron wore five years ago, and it’s ill spending the money on them baby-clothes, for the child ‘ull grow like grass i’ May, bless it-- that it will.”

And the same day Dolly brought her bundle, and displayed to Marner, one by one, the tiny garments in their due order of succession, most of them patched and darned, but clean and neat as fresh-sprung herbs.
 
This was the introduction to a great ceremony with soap and water, from which Baby came out in new beauty, and sat on Dolly’s knee, handling her toes and chuckling and patting her palms together with an air of having made several discoveries about herself, which she communicated by alternate sounds of “gug-gug-gug”, and “mammy”.
 
The “mammy” was not a cry of need or uneasiness: Baby had been used to utter it without expecting either tender sound or touch to follow.

“Anybody ‘ud think the angils in heaven couldn’t be prettier,” said Dolly, rubbing the golden curls and kissing them.
 
“And to think of its being covered wi’ them dirty rags--and the poor mother--froze to death; but there’s Them as took care of it, and brought it to your door, Master Marner.
 
The door was open, and it walked in over the snow, like as if it had been a little starved robin.
 
Didn’t you say the door was open?”

“Yes,” said Silas, meditatively.
 
“Yes--the door was open.
 
The money’s gone I don’t know where, and this is come from I don’t know where.”

He had not mentioned to any one his unconsciousness of the child’s entrance, shrinking from questions which might lead to the fact he himself suspected--namely, that he had been in one of his trances.

“Ah,” said Dolly, with soothing gravity, “it’s like the night and the morning, and the sleeping and the waking, and the rain and the harvest--one goes and the other comes, and we know nothing how nor where.
 
We may strive and scrat and fend, but it’s little we can do arter all--the big things come and go wi’ no striving o’ our’n-- they do, that they do; and I think you’re in the right on it to keep the little un, Master Marner, seeing as it’s been sent to you, though there’s folks as thinks different.
 
You’ll happen be a bit moithered with it while it’s so little; but I’ll come, and welcome, and see to it for you: I’ve a bit o’ time to spare most days, for when one gets up betimes i’ the morning, the clock seems to stan’ still tow’rt ten, afore it’s time to go about the victual.
 
So, as I say, I’ll come and see to the child for you, and welcome.”

“Thank you... kindly,” said Silas, hesitating a little.
 
“I’ll be glad if you’ll tell me things.
 
But,” he added, uneasily, leaning forward to look at Baby with some jealousy, as she was resting her head backward against Dolly’s arm, and eyeing him contentedly from a distance--”But I want to do things for it myself, else it may get fond o’ somebody else, and not fond o’ me.
 
I’ve been used to fending for myself in the house--I can learn, I can learn.”

“Eh, to be sure,” said Dolly, gently.
 
“I’ve seen men as are wonderful handy wi’ children.
 
The men are awk’ard and contrairy mostly, God help ‘em--but when the drink’s out of ‘em, they aren’t unsensible, though they’re bad for leeching and bandaging--so fiery and unpatient.
 
You see this goes first, next the skin,” proceeded Dolly, taking up the little shirt, and putting it on.

“Yes,” said Marner, docilely, bringing his eyes very close, that they might be initiated in the mysteries; whereupon Baby seized his head with both her small arms, and put her lips against his face with purring noises.

“See there,” said Dolly, with a woman’s tender tact, “she’s fondest o’ you.
 
She wants to go o’ your lap, I’ll be bound.
 
Go, then: take her, Master Marner; you can put the things on, and then you can say as you’ve done for her from the first of her coming to you.”

Marner took her on his lap, trembling with an emotion mysterious to himself, at something unknown dawning on his life.
 
Thought and feeling were so confused within him, that if he had tried to give them utterance, he could only have said that the child was come instead of the gold--that the gold had turned into the child.
 
He took the garments from Dolly, and put them on under her teaching; interrupted, of course, by Baby’s gymnastics.

“There, then!
 
why, you take to it quite easy, Master Marner,” said Dolly; “but what shall you do when you’re forced to sit in your loom?
 
For she’ll get busier and mischievouser every day--she will, bless her.
 
It’s lucky as you’ve got that high hearth i’stead of a grate, for that keeps the fire more out of her reach: but if you’ve got anything as can be spilt or broke, or as is fit to cut her fingers off, she’ll be at it--and it is but right you should know.”

Silas meditated a little while in some perplexity.
 
“I’ll tie her to the leg o’ the loom,” he said at last--”tie her with a good long strip o’ something.”

“Well, mayhap that’ll do, as it’s a little gell, for they’re easier persuaded to sit i’ one place nor the lads.
 
I know what the lads are; for I’ve had four--four I’ve had, God knows--and if you was to take and tie ‘em up, they’d make a fighting and a crying as if you was ringing the pigs.
 
But I’ll bring you my little chair, and some bits o’ red rag and things for her to play wi’; an’ she’ll sit and chatter to ‘em as if they was alive.
 
Eh, if it wasn’t a sin to the lads to wish ‘em made different, bless ‘em, I should ha’ been glad for one of ‘em to be a little gell; and to think as I could ha’ taught her to scour, and mend, and the knitting, and everything. But I can teach ‘em this little un, Master Marner, when she gets old enough.”

“But she’ll be
my
little un,” said Marner, rather hastily. “She’ll be nobody else’s.”

“No, to be sure; you’ll have a right to her, if you’re a father to her, and bring her up according.
 
But,” added Dolly, coming to a point which she had determined beforehand to touch upon, “you must bring her up like christened folks’s children, and take her to church, and let her learn her catechise, as my little Aaron can say off--the “I believe”, and everything, and “hurt nobody by word or deed”,--as well as if he was the clerk.
 
That’s what you must do, Master Marner, if you’d do the right thing by the orphin child.”

Marner’s pale face flushed suddenly under a new anxiety.
 
His mind was too busy trying to give some definite bearing to Dolly’s words for him to think of answering her.

“And it’s my belief,” she went on, “as the poor little creatur has never been christened, and it’s nothing but right as the parson should be spoke to; and if you was noways unwilling, I’d talk to Mr. Macey about it this very day.
 
For if the child ever went anyways wrong, and you hadn’t done your part by it, Master Marner-- ‘noculation, and everything to save it from harm--it ‘ud be a thorn i’ your bed for ever o’ this side the grave; and I can’t think as it ‘ud be easy lying down for anybody when they’d got to another world, if they hadn’t done their part by the helpless children as come wi’out their own asking.”

Dolly herself was disposed to be silent for some time now, for she had spoken from the depths of her own simple belief, and was much concerned to know whether her words would produce the desired effect on Silas.
 
He was puzzled and anxious, for Dolly’s word “christened” conveyed no distinct meaning to him.
 
He had only heard of baptism, and had only seen the baptism of grown-up men and women.

“What is it as you mean by “christened”?”
 
he said at last, timidly.
 
“Won’t folks be good to her without it?”

“Dear, dear!
 
Master Marner,” said Dolly, with gentle distress and compassion.
 
“Had you never no father nor mother as taught you to say your prayers, and as there’s good words and good things to keep us from harm?”

“Yes,” said Silas, in a low voice; “I know a deal about that-- used to, used to.
 
But your ways are different: my country was a good way off.”
 
He paused a few moments, and then added, more decidedly, “But I want to do everything as can be done for the child.
 
And whatever’s right for it i’ this country, and you think ‘ull do it good, I’ll act according, if you’ll tell me.”

“Well, then, Master Marner,” said Dolly, inwardly rejoiced, “I’ll ask Mr. Macey to speak to the parson about it; and you must fix on a name for it, because it must have a name giv’ it when it’s christened.”

“My mother’s name was Hephzibah,” said Silas, “and my little sister was named after her.”

“Eh, that’s a hard name,” said Dolly.
 
“I partly think it isn’t a christened name.”

“It’s a Bible name,” said Silas, old ideas recurring.

“Then I’ve no call to speak again’ it,” said Dolly, rather startled by Silas’s knowledge on this head; “but you see I’m no scholard, and I’m slow at catching the words.
 
My husband says I’m allays like as if I was putting the haft for the handle--that’s what he says--for he’s very sharp, God help him.
 
But it was awk’ard calling your little sister by such a hard name, when you’d got nothing big to say, like--wasn’t it, Master Marner?”

“We called her Eppie,” said Silas.

“Well, if it was noways wrong to shorten the name, it ‘ud be a deal handier.
 
And so I’ll go now, Master Marner, and I’ll speak about the christening afore dark; and I wish you the best o’ luck, and it’s my belief as it’ll come to you, if you do what’s right by the orphin child;--and there’s the ‘noculation to be seen to; and as to washing its bits o’ things, you need look to nobody but me, for I can do ‘em wi’ one hand when I’ve got my suds about.
 
Eh, the blessed angil!
 
You’ll let me bring my Aaron one o’ these days, and he’ll show her his little cart as his father’s made for him, and the black-and-white pup as he’s got a-rearing.”

Baby
was
christened, the rector deciding that a double baptism was the lesser risk to incur; and on this occasion Silas, making himself as clean and tidy as he could, appeared for the first time within the church, and shared in the observances held sacred by his neighbours.
 
He was quite unable, by means of anything he heard or saw, to identify the Raveloe religion with his old faith; if he could at any time in his previous life have done so, it must have been by the aid of a strong feeling ready to vibrate with sympathy, rather than by a comparison of phrases and ideas: and now for long years that feeling had been dormant.
 
He had no distinct idea about the baptism and the church-going, except that Dolly had said it was for the good of the child; and in this way, as the weeks grew to months, the child created fresh and fresh links between his life and the lives from which he had hitherto shrunk continually into narrower isolation.
 
Unlike the gold which needed nothing, and must be worshipped in close-locked solitude--which was hidden away from the daylight, was deaf to the song of birds, and started to no human tones--Eppie was a creature of endless claims and ever-growing desires, seeking and loving sunshine, and living sounds, and living movements; making trial of everything, with trust in new joy, and stirring the human kindness in all eyes that looked on her.
 
The gold had kept his thoughts in an ever-repeated circle, leading to nothing beyond itself; but Eppie was an object compacted of changes and hopes that forced his thoughts onward, and carried them far away from their old eager pacing towards the same blank limit--carried them away to the new things that would come with the coming years, when Eppie would have learned to understand how her father Silas cared for her; and made him look for images of that time in the ties and charities that bound together the families of his neighbours. The gold had asked that he should sit weaving longer and longer, deafened and blinded more and more to all things except the monotony of his loom and the repetition of his web; but Eppie called him away from his weaving, and made him think all its pauses a holiday, 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 because
she
had joy.