Silas Marner, George Eliot [ebook reader for pc txt] 📗

himself; the more opportunities remained for him to snatch the strange gratification of seeing Nancy, and gathering some faint indications of her lingering regard. Towards this gratification he was impelled, fitfully, every now and then, after having passed weeks in which he had avoided her as the far-off bright-winged prize that only made him spring forward and find his chain all the more galling. One of those fits of yearning was on him now, and it would have been strong enough to have persuaded him to trust Wildfire to Dunstan rather than disappoint the yearning, even if he had not had another reason for his disinclination towards the morrow’s hunt. That other reason was the fact that the morning’s meet was near Batherley, the market-town where the unhappy woman lived, whose image became more odious to him every day; and to his thought the whole vicinage was haunted by her. The yoke a man creates for himself by wrongdoing will breed hate in the kindliest nature; and the good-humoured, affectionate-hearted Godfrey Cass was fast becoming a bitter man, visited by cruel wishes, that seemed to enter, and depart, and enter again, like demons who had found in him a ready-garnished home.

What was he to do this evening to pass the time? He might as well go to the Rainbow, and hear the talk about the cockfighting: everybody was there, and what else was there to be done? Though, for his own part, he did not care a button for cockfighting. Snuff, the brown spaniel, who had placed herself in front of him, and had been watching him for some time, now jumped up in impatience for the expected caress. But Godfrey thrust her away without looking at her, and left the room, followed humbly by the unresenting Snuff⁠—perhaps because she saw no other career open to her.

IV

Dunstan Cass, setting off in the raw morning, at the judiciously quiet pace of a man who is obliged to ride to cover on his hunter, had to take his way along the lane which, at its farther extremity, passed by the piece of unenclosed ground called the Stone-pit, where stood the cottage, once a stonecutter’s shed, now for fifteen years inhabited by Silas Marner. The spot looked very dreary at this season, with the moist trodden clay about it, and the red, muddy water high up in the deserted quarry. That was Dunstan’s first thought as he approached it; the second was, that the old fool of a weaver, whose loom he heard rattling already, had a great deal of money hidden somewhere. How was it that he, Dunstan Cass, who had often heard talk of Marner’s miserliness, had never thought of suggesting to Godfrey that he should frighten or persuade the old fellow into lending the money on the excellent security of the young Squire’s prospects? The resource occurred to him now as so easy and agreeable, especially as Marner’s hoard was likely to be large enough to leave Godfrey a handsome surplus beyond his immediate needs, and enable him to accommodate his faithful brother, that he had almost turned the horse’s head towards home again. Godfrey would be ready enough to accept the suggestion: he would snatch eagerly at a plan that might save him from parting with Wildfire. But when Dunstan’s meditation reached this point, the inclination to go on grew strong and prevailed. He didn’t want to give Godfrey that pleasure: he preferred that Master Godfrey should be vexed. Moreover, Dunstan enjoyed the self-important consciousness of having a horse to sell, and the opportunity of driving a bargain, swaggering, and possibly taking somebody in. He might have all the satisfaction attendant on selling his brother’s horse, and not the less have the further satisfaction of setting Godfrey to borrow Marner’s money. So he rode on to cover.

Bryce and Keating were there, as Dunstan was quite sure they would be⁠—he was such a lucky fellow.

“Heyday!” said Bryce, who had long had his eye on Wildfire, “you’re on your brother’s horse today: how’s that?”

“Oh, I’ve swapped with him,” said Dunstan, whose delight in lying, grandly independent of utility, was not to be diminished by the likelihood that his hearer would not believe him⁠—“Wildfire’s mine now.”

“What! has he swapped with you for that big-boned hack of yours?” said Bryce, quite aware that he should get another lie in answer.

“Oh, there was a little account between us,” said Dunsey, carelessly, “and Wildfire made it even. I accommodated him by taking the horse, though it was against my will, for I’d got an itch for a mare o’ Jortin’s⁠—as rare a bit o’ blood as ever you threw your leg across. But I shall keep Wildfire, now I’ve got him, though I’d a bid of a hundred and fifty for him the other day, from a man over at Flitton⁠—he’s buying for Lord Cromleck⁠—a fellow with a cast in his eye, and a green waistcoat. But I mean to stick to Wildfire: I shan’t get a better at a fence in a hurry. The mare’s got more blood, but she’s a bit too weak in the hindquarters.”

Bryce of course divined that Dunstan wanted to sell the horse, and Dunstan knew that he divined it (horse-dealing is only one of many human transactions carried on in this ingenious manner); and they both considered that the bargain was in its first stage, when Bryce replied ironically⁠—

“I wonder at that now; I wonder you mean to keep him; for I never heard of a man who didn’t want to sell his horse getting a bid of half as much again as the horse was worth. You’ll be lucky if you get a hundred.”

Keating rode up now, and the transaction became more complicated. It ended in the purchase of the horse by Bryce for a hundred and twenty, to be paid on the delivery of Wildfire, safe and sound, at the Batherley stables. It did occur to Dunsey that it might be wise for