tKEASURb KOOM George Washington Flowers Memorial Collection DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY ESTABLISHED BY THE FAMILY OF COLONEL FLOWERS C^H '7' 1 ia.\>B '!^ SILAS MARNER, J THE WJ^AVER OF RAVEI.OE. ft\ C 1 ' ^ j; A t \\ "ADxVM BEDE," •TliE MILL U.\ Till: i-LU6S," AND "SCENE OF CLERICAL LIFE." I? IV (MI3S EVANS, OF LONDON.) MOBILE: S. IT. OOETZEL. rFBLTRIIEn 1863. Farrow & Dennett, rrinters, Jlobile. liii- 81LAS MARNEE, THE WEAVER OF itAAH^JOV., nv THE AUTHOR OF "ADAM BEDE," "THE- MILL ON 'TOE FLOSS," AND , "SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.'" MOBILE: S. U, GOBTZRL, PUBLISHER. PART I. 3*?3050 SILAS MARNER: THE WEAVER OF RAVELOE. CHAPTER I. In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the farmhouses — and even great ladies, clothed in silk anPl thread-lace, had their toy spinning- wheels of polished oak — there might be seen, in dis- tricts far away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the 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 appealed on the upland, dark against the early winter sunset; for what dog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag ? — and these pale men rarely stirred abroad with- out that mysterious burden. The shepherd himself, though he had good reason to believe tl^at the bag held nothing but flaxen thread, or else the long rollis of strong linen spun from that thread, was not quite sure that this trade of weaving, indispensable though it was, could be carried on entirely without the help of the Evil One. In that far-oflf time superstition cliing easily round every person or thing that was at all unwonted, or even intermittent and occasional merely, like the visits of the pedlar or the knife-grind- er. ■ No one knew where wandering men had their 373050 6 SILAS MARKER. homes or tlieir origiu ; and liow was a man to be px- plained unless you at least knew somebody who knew his father and mother 1 To the peasants of old times, the world outside their own direct experience was a region of vagueness and mystery : to their un- travelled thought a state of wandering was a concep- tion 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 be viewed with a remnant of distrust, which would have prevented any surprise if a long course of inoffensive conduct on his part had ended in the commission of a crime ; especially if he had any reputation for know- ledge, or showed any skill in handicraft. All clever- ness, whether in the rapid use of that difficult instru- ment the tongue, or in some other art unfamihar to villagers, was in itself suspicious : honest folks, born and bred in a visible manner, were mostly not over- wise or clever-<-at least, not beyond such' a matter as J knowing the signs of the weather ; and the process by which rapidity and dexterity of any kind were acquir- ed was so wholly hidden, that they partook of the na- ture of conjuring. In. this way it came to pass that those scattered linen-weavers — emigrants from the town into the country — were to the last regarded as aliens by their rustic neighbors, and usually contract- ed the eccentric habits which belong to a state of loneliness. In the early years of this century, such a linen- weaver, named Silas Mamer, worked at his vocation in a stone cottage that stood among the nutty hedge- SILAS MABNEB. 7 rows near the village of Raveloe, and not far from the edge of a deserted stone-pit. The questionable sound of Silas's loom, so unlike the natural cheerful trotting of the winnowing machine, or the simpler rhythm of the flail, had a half-fearful fascination for the Raveloe boys, who would often leave off their nutting or birds'-nesting to peep in at the window of the stone cottage, Counterbalancing a certain awe at the mys- terious action of the loom, by a pleasant sense of scornful superiority, drawn from the mockery of its alternating noises, along with the bent, tread-mill atti- tude of the weaver. But sometimes it happened that Marner, pausing to adjust an irregularity in. his thread, became aware 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 that those large brown protuberant eyes in Silas Marner's pale face really saw nothing very distinctly that was not close to them, and not rather that their dreadful stare could dart cramp, or rickets, or a wry mouth at any boy who happened to be in the rear 1 They had, 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 doc- tor. Such strange lingering echoes 6f the old de- mon-worship might perhaps even now be caught by the diligent listener among the grey-haired peasantry; 8 SILAS MAKNEK. for the nide mind with difficulty associates the idea of power and benignit3^ A shadowy conception of pow- er that by much persuasion can be induced to refrain 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 whom a life of hard toil has never been illuminated by any enthusiastic religious folth. To them pain and mishap present a far wider range of possibilities than gladness and enjoyment : their imag- ination is almost barren of the images that feed de- sire and hope, but is all overgrown by recollections that are a perpetual pasture to fear. " Is there any- thing you can fancy that you would like to eat V I once said to an old labouring man, who was in his last illness, and who liad refused all the food his wife had offered him. "No," he answered, "I've never been used to nothing but common victual, and I can't eat that." Experience bad bred no fancies in him that could raise the phantasm of appetite. And Raveloe was a village where many of the old echoes Ungered, undrowned by new voices. Not that it was one of those barren parishes lying on the out- skirts of civilization — inhabited by meagre sheep and thinly-scattered shepherds : on the contrary, it lay in the rich central plain of what we are pleased to call Merry England, and held farms which, speaking from a spiritual point of view, paid highly desirable tithes. But it was ne'^tled iir a snug well-wooded hollow, quite an hour's journey on horseback from any turn- pike, where it was never reached by the vibrations of SILAS MAK'XER 9 the coach-horn, or of pubh'c ophiion. I'c was an im- portant-lookhig 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 weather-cooks, standing close upon the road, ^nd lifting more imposing fronts than the rectory, whicn peeped from among the tr»es on the other side of the churchyard ; — a village which showed at once the summits of its social life, and told the practised 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 fashion, and keep a jolly Christmas, Whitsun, and Easter tide. * , It was fifteen ^ears since Silas Marner had fitst come to Raveloe ;^]ie was then simply a pallid young man, with prominent, short-sighted brown eyes, whose appeAranc<^ wofuld 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 peculi^'iiies which corresponded with the exceptional nature of his occupation, and his advent* from an unknown regio^;called "North'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 wheel- wright's : he sought no man or woman, save for the purposes of his calling, or in order to supply himself with necessaries ; and it was soon clear to the Raveloe 10 SILAS MARNER. 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 personality was not without another ground than his pale face and un- exampled eyes ; for Jem Rodney, 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 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 shook him, and his limbs were stiff, and his hands clutched the bag as if they'd been m&de 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, in the winking of aa eye, and said *^ood- night," and walked oif. All this Jem swore he had seen more by token, that it was the very dhy he had been mole- catching on Squire Cass's land, dowp by the old saw- pit. Some said Marner must have' been in a " fit," a word which seemed to explain things otherwise in- credible ; but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk of tlie parish, shook his head, and askea if any body was ever known to so 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 take away the use of a man's limbs and throw him on the parish, if he'd got no children to look to. No, 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 you can say "Gee !" But there SILAS MAKNEll. 11 might be such 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 over- wise, for they went to school in this shell-less state to those wWj could teach them more than their neigh- bours could learn with their five senses and the par- son. And where did Master Marner get his know- ledge of herbs from — and charms, too, if he liked to give them away ? Jem Rodney's story was no mere than what might have been expected by anybody who •had seen how Marner had cured Sally Oates. 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 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 more to the fact that, the old, linen-weaver in the neighbouring parish of Tatley being dead, his handicraft made him a highly wtlcome settler to the richer housewives of the district, and even to the more provident cottagers, who had their little stock of yarn at the year's end ; and their sense of his usefulness would have counteracted any repugnance or suspicion which was not confirmed by a deficiency in the quali- ty or the tale of the cloth he wove for them. And the years had rolled on without producing any change in the impressfions of the neighbours concerning Mar- 12 SILAS MAT^NER. ner, except the change from novelty to habit. At the end of fifteen years «the Ravcloe men said just the same things about Silas Marner as at the beginning: they did not say them quite so often, but they be- lieved them much more strongly when theyj|did say them. There was •nly one important addition 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 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 Raveloe, had been filled with the movement, the men- tal activity, and the close fellowship, which, in that day as in this, marked the life of an artisan early in- corporated in a narrow rchgious sect, where the poor- est 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 com- munity. Marner wa* highly thought of in that Httlc hidden world, known to itself as the church assem- bling in Lantern Yard ; he was believed to be a young man of exemplary life and ardent faith ; and a pecu- liar interest had been centred in him ever since he had fallen, at b prayer-meeting, into a mysterious rig- idity and suspension of consciousness, which, lasting for an hour or more, had been mistaken for death. — To have sought a medical explanation for this phe- SILAS MARNER. I3 nonieiion would have been held, by Silas himself, as well as by his minister and fellow- members, a wilful self-exclusion from the spiritual significance that might he therein. Silas was evidently a brother se- lected for a pecular discipline, anc^ though the effort I- to mterpret this discipline was discouraged by the ab- sence, on his part, of any spiritual vision during his outwards-trance, yet it was believed by himself and others that its effect was seen in an accession of hght and fervour. 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 have believed in such a creation ; but Silas was both sane and honest, though, as with many honest and fervid men, cultiH-e had not defined any channels for his sense of mystery, and so it spread itself over the proper pathway of inquiry and knowledge He had inhented from 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-butof late years he had doubts about the awfulness of applying this knowledge, believing that herbs could have no efficacy without prayer, and that prayer might suffice without herbs ,- so that the inher- ited delight he had in wandering in the fields in search of foxglove and dandelion and coltsfoot, began to wear to him the character of a temptation. Among the members of his church there was one young man, a little older than himself, with whom he had long hved in such close friendship that it was the custom of their Lantern Yard brethen to call them 14 SlLAfcJ MARNER. David and Jonatlian. The real name of the friend was William Dane, and he, too, \yas regarded as a shin- ing instance of youthful piety, though somewhat given to ovjer-severity towards weaker brethren, and to be so dazzled by his own light as to hold himself wiser than his teachers. But whatever blemishes others mighty discern in William, to his friend's mind he was fault- less ; for Marner had one of those impressiole self- doubting natures which, at an inexperienced age, ad- mire imperativeness and lean on contradiction. The expression of 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 inwaid triumph that lurk- ed in the narrow slanting 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 ar- rive at anything higher than hope mingled with fear, and listened with longing wonder when. William de- clared that he had possessed unshaken assurance ever since, in the period of his conversion, he had dreamed that he saw the words " calling and election .«ure " 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 the twiligrht. It had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas that the friendship had suffered no chill even from his forma- SILAS MARNEK. 15 tion of another attachment of a closer kind. For some months he had been engaged to a young servant- woman, waiting only for a little increase to their mu- tual savings in order to thoir marriage; and it was a great delight to him that Sarah did not object to Wil- ^ Ham's occasional presence in their Sunday interviews. It was at this point of their history that Silas's catalep- tic fit occurred during prayer-meeting; and amidst the A^arious queries and expressions of interest ad- dressed to^him by his fellow-members, William's sug- gestion alone jarred witli the general sympathy to- wards a brother thus singled out for special dealings. He observed that, to him, this trance looked more like a visitation of Satan than a proof of divine favour, 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 friend's doubts con- cerning him ; and to this was soon added some anxi- ety at the perception that Sarah's manner towards him began to exhibit a strange fluctuation between an ef- fort at ah increased manifestation of regard and in- voluntary signs, of shrinking and dislike. He asked her if she wished to break off their engagement; but she denied this: their engagement was known to the church, and had been recognised in the prayer-meet- ings; it could not be broken off without strict investi- gation, and Sarah could render no reason that would be sanctioned by the feeling of the community. At this time the senior deacon was taken dangerously ill, and, being a childless widower, he was tended night 16 6ILAS MARKER. and clay by sonie of the younger brethren or sisters. Silas frequently look his turn in the night-watching with William, the one relieving the other at two in the morning. The old man, contrary to expectation, seemed to 1m; on the way to recovery, when one night Silas, sitting up by his bedside, observed that his \m\x~ ally audible breathing had ceased. The candle was burning low, and he had to lift it to see the patient's face distinctly. Examinntion 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 already four in the morning. How wfts it that William liad not coine? In much anxiety he went to seek for help, and soon there were several friends assembled in the house, the minister among them, wliile Silas went away to his work, wishing he could have met William to know the reason of his non-appearance. But at six o'clock, as he was thinking of going to seek his frie'nd, 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 of the summons the only reply was, "You will hear." Nothing 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 pocket-knife, 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 anywhere out of his, own pocket — but he was trembling at this strange SILAS MARNEK. fjjf 17 iLiicrrogatiou. lie was then exhorted not to hide his sin, but to confess and repent. The knife had been found in tlie bureau by the departed deacon's bedside — found in the place where the little bag of church money had lain, whicli 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 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, but the jnin- ister said, " The proof is heavy against you, brother Marner. The money was taken in the night last past, and no man was with our departed brother but you, for WilHam Dane declares to us that he was hindered by sudden sickness from going to take his place as 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 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- hind the chest of drawers in Silas's chamber! On this William exhorted his friend to confess, and not to hide IS . ^^ SILAS MARNER. his sin any longer. Silas turned a look of keen ;e- proacli on him, and said, "William, for nine years- that we have gone in and ont torcether, have you ever known mc to tell a lie? But God will clear me." "Brother," said William, "how do I khow what you may have done in the secret chambers of your heart; to give Satan an advantage over you ?"' Silas was still looking at Ins friend. Suddenly a deep flush came over his face and he .was about to speak impetuously, when he seemed checked again l)y some inward shock, that sent the flush back and made him tremble. But at last he spoke feebly, looking at William. '^I remember now — the knife w'as'nt in my pocket.'* William said, "I know nothing of what you mean." The other persons present, however, began to inquire where Sila,s meant to say that the knife was, bnt he would give no furtlier explanation: he only said, "I am sore stricken; I can say nothing. God will 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 Church: prosecution was held by them to b(3 forbid- den to Christians, even if it had been a case in which there was no scandal to the community. But they were bound to take other measures for fmding out the truth, and they resolved on praying and drawing lots. This resolution can be a ground of surprise only to those who are unacquainted with that obscure relig- ious life which has gone on in the alleys of our tov/ris. SILAS MARXER. 19 Silas knelt with Iiis brethren, relying on liis own inno- cence being certified by immediate divine interference, but feelino; that there vf&s sorrow and mourning be- hind for him even then — that his trust- in man had l)een cruelly bruised. The lots declared that Silas Marncr loas guilty. He was solemnly suspended from church-membership, and called upon to render up the stolen money: only on confession, as the sign of re- pentance, could he be received once more within the fold of the church. ?vlarner listened in silence. At last, when every one rose to depart, he went towards William Dane and said, in a voice shaken by agita- tion — "The last time I remember using my knife, was when I took it out to cut a strap for you. I don't re- member putting it in my pocket again. You stole the money, and you have woven a plot to lay tlie 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 inno- cent." 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 — that shaken trust in God and man, which is little short of madness to a loving nature. In the bitterness of his wounded spirit, hc^ said to himself, " SJie will cast me off too." And he reflected that, if she did not believe the testimony against him, her whole faith 20 SILAS MARNEK. must be upset, as his was. To people accustomed to reason about the forms in which their rehgious feeling has incorporated itself, it is difficult to enter into that simple, uataught state of mind in which the forn; and the feeling have never been severed by an act of re- flection. 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 drav/ino: lots; but to him this would have been an ef- fort of independent thought such as he had nevsr known; and he must have made the effort at a mo- ment when all his energies were turned into the an- guish 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 that spring from false ideas for which no man is culpable. 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 second day he took refugd from benumbing un- belief 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 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 afterwards it was known to the brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had departed from the town. SILAS MAKNEK. 21 CHAPTER II. Even people whose lives have been made various by learning, sometimes find it liard to keep a iUst hold on their habitual views of life, on their faitli in the In- visible — luiy, on the sense that their past joys and sorrows are a real experience, when they are sudden- ly transported to a new Jand, where the beings around them know nothing of their history, and share none of their ideas — where their mother earth shows an- other lap, and human life has other forms than those on which 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 be- cause it is linked with no memories. But even their experience may hardly enable them thoroughly to im- agine what was the effect on a simple weaver like Silas Marner, when he left his own country and people and came to settle in Raveloe. Nothing could be more unlike his native town, set within sight of the wide- spread hill-sides, than this low, wooded re-^ion, 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 bramlilcs and rank tuft 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 of his neighbours. SiLAy M^VliNEK. CHAPTER UI. The greatest man in Raveloo was S(|idre Cass, who lived in tlie large red house, with the handsome flight of stone steps in front and the high stables behind it, yearly opposite the church. He was only one among several landed parishioners, but he alone was honoured with the title of squire ; for though Mr. Osgood's fam- ily was. also understood to be of timeless origin — the Raveloe, imagination having never ventured back to that' fearful blank when there were no Osgood's — still, he merely ^owued the farm he occupied; whereas Squire 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 favour of Providence towards the land- ed interest, and the fall of prices had not yet come to carry 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. speaking now in rfelation to Raveloe and the par- ishes that resembled if; for our old-fashioned country life had majay different aspects, as all life must have when it is spread over a various surface, and breath- ed on variously by multitudinous currents," from ■ the winds of heaven to the thoughts of men, which are for ever moving and crossing each other, -with incalcula- ^4 SILAS MARNEli. blc results. Raveloe lay low among the bushy trees and the rutted lanes, aloof from the .currents of indus- trial, energy and Puritan earnestness: the rich ate and drank freely, and accepted gout and apoplexy as things that ran mysteriously in respectable ili^nilies,. and the poor thought that the' rich were entirely in the right of it to lead a joljy life; besides, their feast- ings caused a multiplication of orts, which were tbe heir-looms of the poor. Betty Jay scented the boil- ing of Squire Cass's hams, but her longing was nrrest- ed by the unctuous liquor in \vhich they were boiled j and when the seasons brought round the great merry- niakings, they were regarded, on all' hands as- a fine thing for the poor. ' For the Raveloe feasts were like . the rounds of beef and the barrels of ale — they were on a large scale, and lasted a good while, especially in the winter-time. When ladies had packed up their best gowns and top-knots in bandboxes,'^and had in- curred the risk of fording streams on pillions witli the precious burden in rainy or snowy weather, when there was no knowing liow 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 con- trived in the dark seasons, when there was little work to be done and the hours were long, that several neigh- bours should keep open house in succession. When 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 Or- chards, and they found hams and chines uncut, pork- pies with the scent of the fire in them, spun butter in dl its freshness — ever}'thingi|>iff fact, tbat appetites at lcisur6 could desire, Iq perhaps greater perfection, though not in greater abuntLince, than . at Squire Cass's. ^ , ■ ' For the Squire's wife had died long ago, and the lied House was without that presence of the wife and mother which is the fountain ot wholesome love and fear in parlour and IvitcheJi ; and this helped to ac- count not only for there being more profusion than finished excellence in the holiday provisions, but also for tile frequency ^'ith which the proud Squire conde- scended to preside in the parlor of the Rainbow rath- er than under the shadow of his ovi^n dark wainscot; perhaps, also, for the fact that his sons had turned out rather ill. Raveloe was not a place where moral cen- sure was severe, but it was. thought a weakness in the Squire that he had kept all his sons at home in idle- ness; and though some license, was to be allowed to young toen whose flithcrs could afford it, people shook their heads at the courses of the second son, Dunstan, coipmonly called Dunsey Cass, whose taste for swop- ping imd betting might turn out to be a sowing of something worse than wild oats. To be, sure, the neighbours said, it was no matter what became of Dun- sey — a spiteful jeering fellow, who seemed to enjoy his drink the more when other people went dry — al- ways provided that his doings did not bring trouble on a family like Squire Cass's, with a monument in the church, s^ud tankards older than King George. But it would be a thousand pities if Mr. Grbdfrey, the eldest, a fine, open-faced, good-natured young man, \ 36 SIL>*^ MARI^^l' who was to come into^th« land some day, should take to going along the saifte road as his brother, as he had seemed to do of late. If lie went 'on in that way, lie would lose Miss Nancy Lammeter; for it was well known that she had looked very shyly on him ever, since last Whitsuntide twelvemonth, when there was so much talk about his being away from home days and days together. There was something wrong, more than common— that was quite cleaf ; ibr Mr. Godfrey didn't look half so fresh-coloured and open as he used to do. At one time everybody was saying what a handsome couple he and Miss Nancy Lamme- ter 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 b'rought up in that way that they never suffered a pinch of salt to be wasted, and yet everybody in their household had of the best ac- cording to his place. Such a daughter-in-law would be a saving to the old Squire, if she never brought a penny to her fortune, for it was to be feared, that not-, withstanding his incomings, there were more holes in his pocket than the 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 fire, in the dark wainscoted parlour, one late Novem- , ber afternoon, in that. fifteenth year of Silas Marner's life^t Raveloe. The fading grey light fell dimly on the walls decorated with guns, whips, and foxes' brushes, on coats and hats flung on the chairs, on SIL^^ MARNER. 37 iaiikaids sondiiig forth a scent of flat ale, and on a lialf-choked fire, with pipes propped up in the chim- ney-corners : signs of a domestic hfe destitute of any hallowing charm, with which the look of gloomy vex- ation on Godfrey's blond face was in sad accordance. He seemed to be waiting 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-looking young man entered, with the flushed face and the gratuitously elated bearing which mark the first stage of intoxication. It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him Godfrey's face parted with some of its gloom to take on the more acti^ve expression of hatred. The handsome brown spaniel that lay on the hearth' re- treated under the chair in the chimney-corner. • "Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me 1 " said Dunsey, in a mocking tone. " You're my elders and betters you know ; I was obliged to come when you sent for me." "Why, this is what I want — and just shake your- self sober and listen, will you?" said Godfrey, savage- ly. He had" himself been drinking more than was good for him, trying to turn his gloom into .uncalcu- lating anger. "I 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. Ho said, just now, before he went out, he should send word to Cox to distrain, if Fowjer didrji't come and 38 .SILAS MAIiljrER. pay up his 'arrears this Week. The Squire's short o' cash, and iii no humor to stand ia*iy. nonsense ; and you' know what he threatened, if ever he found you making away with lilii money again. ' So, see and get the money, and pretty quickly, will you V ■ " Oh !" said Dunsey, sneeringly, coming .nearer to his brother and looking in his face. "Suppose, now, yon get the money yourself, and save me. the trcjuble, eh ? Since you was so kind as to haiid it over to Ine, • you'll not refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me ; it was 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." > "0 no, you won't," said Dunsey,' turning away on his heel, however. " Because I'm such a good-natur- ed brother, you know. I might get you turned out^f house and home, and -cut off with a shilling any day. I might tell the Squire how his handsome son w^as married to that nicer young woman, Molly Farren, and was very unhappy because he couldn't 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 good-natured. You'll take any trouble for me. You'll get the himdred pounds for me — I know you will." " How can I get the money ?" said Godfrey, quiver- ing. "I haven't a shilling tobless myself with. And it's a lie that you'd slip into iny place ; you'd get your- self turned out too, that's all. For if you begin tell- ' f;iLAS MARNER.. oii iug laics,' I'll follow. Bob's my father's favourite— yoii know that very well. Kc'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 bo very pleasant to me to go in your company- — you're sudi a handsome brother, and we've always beeii so fond of quarrelling 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 manage to get tha't little sum o' money, and I'll bid you good-by, though I'm sorry to part." . Dunstan was mox'ing off, but Grodfrey 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." " Borrow of old Kimble." "I tell you; he won't lend me any more, and I shan't ask him." "Well then, sell Wildfire." " 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." " I daresay, and get back home at eight o'clock, splashed up to the chin. I'm going to Mrs. Osgood's birthday dance." " Ohq !" said Dunsey, turning his head on one side, and. trying to speak in a smal) mincing treble. "And there's sweet Miss Nancy coming ; and we shall dance 40 SILAS MARNER. with l^r, and promise never in ^e naiiglity n<^-'^m, and be taken into favour, and — "Hold your tongue, about Miss Nancy, j^ou fool,'" . said Godfrey, turning red, " else J'll throttle you." "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 chaifce. ■ I'd advise yoit to creep up her sleeve again : it 'ud be saving time if Molly should happen to tak,e 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-naiured brother, who'll keep your secret well, because you'll ' be so very obliging to him." ', 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 might urge a man a bit too far^ and make one leap as eiisy.as another. I don't know^ but what it is so 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 threatening 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've got nothing to pacify her with, and she'll do as she threatens some 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 hesita- SILAS MARNER. Al ting Godfrey might be driven into decision. But he . said, with an air of unconcern, "As you i^lease; but I'll have a dniugiji ui r.n: lu :.' 7Vnd ringing the. bell, he threw himself across twr» chairs, and began to rap the window-seat with the handle of his whip. Godfrey stood, still with his back to the lire, uneas- ily moving liis fingers among the contents of his side- pockets, and lookjng at the lloor. That big muscular- frame of his held plenty of animal courage, but.helped him to no decision when the dangers to be 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 Dunstan and anticipate all possible betrayals, than the miseries he must bring on himself by such a step seemed more unendurable to him than -the pres- ent evil. The results of confession were not contin-* gent, they were certain; whereas betrayal was 'not certain. From the near vision of thai certainty he fell back on suspense and vacillation with a sense of repose. The disinherited son of a small squire, equal- ly disinclined to dig and to beg, was almost as helpless as an uprooted tree, which, by the favour 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 terras;' but, since %he must iiTevocably lose ker as well as the ■ 42 . SILAS MARNEE. • inheritance,^ arid must break every tie but the one that degl-aded him and left hiiii without motive ■ for trj-in^^ tp recover his better self, he could imagine no future for himself on the other side- of confession but thatf. of "'listing for a soldier"— the most desperate 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 sip- ping the wine he loved, though with the s^Yord hang- ing over him and terror in his heart, than rush uway into the cold darkness' where there was no pleasure left. The utmost concession to Dunstan about the horse began to seem easy, compared with the fulfil- mient of his own threat. But his pride would not let him recommence the conversation otherwise than by continuing the quarrel Dunstan 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 selhng Wildfire in that cool way— the last thing I've got to call my own, and the 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, bad bargain." "Ay, ay," said Dunstan, very placably, "you do me justice, I see. You know I'm a jewel for 'ti(ftng ^ people into bargains. For which reason I'advise you *to let 7iie sell Wildfire. I'd ride him to the hunt to- morrow for you, . with pleasure. ' I should'nt look so ■ iJ.AS ..IRNER. 43 handsome as- you in the safldlo> but it's the (lorse they'll bid for,and not the rider" • ' ; "Yes, I daresay — trust my horse to you!" • "As you please," said !Duiistan, rapping the win- dow-seat again with an air ol" great unconcern. "It'-s" yaw have got to pay Fowler's money; it's nx)nc of liiy business. You received the money from him when you went to Bramcpte, and you told the Srjuire it wasn't paid. I'd nothing- to do with that; you chose' to be so obliging as give it me, that was all. If you don't want to pay the^ money, let it alone; its .all one tome. But I was willing to accommodate, you by undertaking to sell the horse, seeing it's nut conven- ient to 3^ou to go so far to-morrow." Godfrey was silent for some moment's. He woiild have liked to spring on Dunstan, wrencli the whip from his hand, and ilog him to within an inch of his life; and no bodily fear could have deterred him; Ijut he was mastered by another so.rt of fear, which as feid by feelings stronger even than his resentment. \Vhen he spoke again, ft was in a half-conciliatory tone. "Well, you mean no nonsense about the horse, eh? You'll sell him all fair, and hand over the money? If you don't, you know, everything '11 go to smash, for I've got nothing else to trust to.^ ; And you'll have less pleasurp in pulling, the house over my head, when your own skull's to be broken too." "Ay; ay," said Dunstan, rising, "all right. I thought you'd come round. I'm the fellow to bring old Bryce up to the scratch. , I'll get you aliundred and twenty for him, if I get you a penny." ■44 Sir.AS MARNEK. "Ivut it'll perhaps rain cats and dogs to-morrow, as it did j^esterday, and then you c^n't go," said Godfrey, liiir41y knowing whether he wished for that obstacle or not .. _ . "Not zV," said Dunstan. *' Im always lucky in my weather. It might rain if you wanted to go yourself. You never hold ti:umps, you know — I always do. You've got the beauty, you see, and I've got the luck, 'so you must keep nie by you for your crooked six- pence ; you'll ?ie-Yer get along without me." "Confound you, hold your tongue," said Godfrey, impetuously. "And take care to keep sobor to-mor- row, else -you'll get pitched on* your head coming home, and Wildfire might be the worse for it." *■ "Make your tender heart easy," said Dunstan, opening the.4oor. "You never knew me see double when J'd got a bargain to make; it 'ud spoil the fun. Besides, whenever I fall, I'm warranted to fall on my lejjs." . 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, drink- ing, card-playing, or the rarer and less oblivious pleas- ure of seeing Miss Nancy Lammeter. The subtle and varied pains springing from the higher sej^sibihty that accompanies higher culture, are perhaps less pitiable than that dreary absence of impersonal enjoyment and consolation which leaves ruder minds to the perpetual urgent companionship of their own griefs and discon- tents. The Uvea of those rural forefather?, whom we SILAS MARKER. 45 are apt; 'to think very prosaic figures — men wlioseonly. work was to ride round their land, getting heavier aild heavier in their saddles, and who -passed the rest of tlieir days in the halt-listless .gratification of senses dulled by monotony — had a certain pathos in them nevertheless. Calamities came to ihem too, and their .early errors carried ha^d cojisequences : perhaps the love of some sweet maiden, the image of purity, or- der, and calm, had opened their eyes to the vision of a life in which the days would not seem too long, even vv'ithout riotidg; but the maiden was lost, and the vision i)assed 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 thdt they might be independent of variety, and say over again with eager emphasis the things they had said al- ready any time tliat twelve-month 1 Assuredly, ajiidng- these flushed and dull-eyed men there were some whom — thanks to their native human kindness — even riot could never drive into brutality ; men who, when their cheeks were fresh, had felt the keen point of sorrow or remorse, had been pierced by the reeds they lean- ed on, or had lightly put tlieir limbs in fetters from which no struggle could loose them; and under these sad circumstances, common to us 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 Grodfrey Cass iv, this six-and-twentieth year of his life. A moveineiit of compunction, helped by those small indefinablq,49- 4:0 ^ ;j.L.>..^ .,x...;a..u, iuieaces .\vhicli every ])ers0nal relaiion e:icrls uu c. i>it- ant nature, bad urged l}iu,i into a secretmarriage, which was a bhght on his lifo.^ It \vas an ugly story of low passion, delusion, and, waking from delusion, which needs not to be dragged from the privacy of Godfrey's bitter memory. He had long known "that the delusion was partly ^no to a trap laid for hin^. by Dunstan, who saw in his brother's- degra,ding marriage the means of gratifying at. once his jealous hate and his cupidity. And if Godfrey could have felt himself simply a vic- tim, the iron bit that destiny had put into his .mouth would have chafed him less intolej-ably; If the curses he mutteted^half aloud when he %vas alone had had no other object than Dunstan's diabolical cunning, he might have shrunk .less from the consequences of avowal. But he had something else to ciirse— his own vicious folly, which now seemed as mad and un- accountable to him as almost all' our follies and vices do when their promptings have long passed away. For four years he had thought of Nancy Lamnieter, and wooed her with tacit patient worship, as the wo- man 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, v^hen she was alwjays near, to shake off those fooHsh habits that, were no pleasures, but only a feverish way of annulling vacancy. Godfrey's was an essentially domestic nature, bred up iji a home where the hearth had no smiles, and whei>e the daily habits were not chastised bj'^the presence of household order; his easy disposition made, him fall in unresist- SILA-S. MARNER. -i-i m^j^ly vritli the family ^courses, but the need ot some tender permanent aiiection, the longing for, somo in-- lluc^icc thut would •nuke the