Silas Marner, George Eliot [books suggested by bill gates .txt] 📗
- Author: George Eliot
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“I was wrong,” he said—“yes, yes—I ought to have thought.
There’s nothing to witness against you, Jem. Only you’d been into my house oftener than anybody else, and so you came into my head.
I don’t accuse you—I won’t accuse anybody—only,” he added, lifting up his hands to his head, and turning away with bewildered misery, “I try—I try to think where my guineas can be.”
“Aye, aye, they’re gone where it’s hot enough to melt ‘em, I doubt,” said Mr. Macey.
“Tchuh!” said the farrier. And then he asked, with a cross-examining air, “How much money might there be in the bags, Master Marner?”
“Two hundred and seventy-two pounds, twelve and sixpence, last night when I counted it,” said Silas, seating himself again, with a groan.
“Pooh! why, they’d be none so heavy to carry. Some tramp’s been in, that’s all; and as for the no footmarks, and the bricks and the sand being all right—why, your eyes are pretty much like a insect’s, Master Marner; they’re obliged to look so close, you can’t see much at a time. It’s my opinion as, if I’d been you, or you’d been me—for it comes to the same thing—you wouldn’t have thought you’d found everything as you left it. But what I vote is, as two of the sensiblest o’ the company should go with you to Master Kench, the constable’s—he’s ill i’ bed, I know that much—and get him to appoint one of us his deppity; for that’s the law, and I don’t think anybody ‘ull take upon him to contradick me there. It isn’t much of a walk to Kench’s; and then, if it’s me as is deppity, I’ll go back with you, Master Marner, and examine your premises; and if anybody’s got any fault to find with that, I’ll thank him to stand up and say it out like a man.”
By this pregnant speech the farrier had re-established his self-complacency, and waited with confidence to hear himself named as one of the superlatively sensible men.
“Let us see how the night is, though,” said the landlord, who also considered himself personally concerned in this proposition. “Why, it rains heavy still,” he said, returning from the door.
“Well, I’m not the man to be afraid o’ the rain,” said the farrier. “For it’ll look bad when Justice Malam hears as respectable men like us had a information laid before ‘em and took no steps.”
The landlord agreed with this view, and after taking the sense of the company, and duly rehearsing a small ceremony known in high ecclesiastical life as the nolo episcopari, he consented to take on himself the chill dignity of going to Kench’s. But to the farrier’s strong disgust, Mr. Macey now started an objection to his proposing himself as a deputy-constable; for that oracular old gentleman, claiming to know the law, stated, as a fact delivered to him by his father, that no doctor could be a constable.
“And you’re a doctor, I reckon, though you’re only a cow-doctor—
for a fly’s a fly, though it may be a hoss-fly,” concluded Mr. Macey, wondering a little at his own “‘cuteness”.
There was a hot debate upon this, the farrier being of course indisposed to renounce the quality of doctor, but contending that a doctor could be a constable if he liked—the law meant, he needn’t be one if he didn’t like. Mr. Macey thought this was nonsense, since the law was not likely to be fonder of doctors than of other folks. Moreover, if it was in the nature of doctors more than of other men not to like being constables, how came Mr. Dowlas to be so eager to act in that capacity?
“I don’t want to act the constable,” said the farrier, driven into a corner by this merciless reasoning; “and there’s no man can say it of me, if he’d tell the truth. But if there’s to be any jealousy and en_vy_ing about going to Kench’s in the rain, let them go as like it—you won’t get me to go, I can tell you.”
By the landlord’s intervention, however, the dispute was accommodated. Mr. Dowlas consented to go as a second person disinclined to act officially; and so poor Silas, furnished with some old coverings, turned out with his two companions into the rain again, thinking of the long night-hours before him, not as those do who long to rest, but as those who expect to “watch for the morning”.
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 footmarks, 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
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