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

wouldn’t do to leave out the furze bush; and there’s nothing prettier, to my thinking, when it’s yallow with flowers. But it’s just come into my head what we’re to do for a fence⁠—mayhap Aaron can help us to a thought; but a fence we must have, else the donkeys and things ’ull come and trample everything down. And fencing’s hard to be got at, by what I can make out.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you, daddy,” said Eppie, clasping her hands suddenly, after a minute’s thought. “There’s lots o’ loose stones about, some of ’em not big, and we might lay ’em atop of one another, and make a wall. You and me could carry the smallest, and Aaron ’ud carry the rest⁠—I know he would.”

“Eh, my precious ’un,” said Silas, “there isn’t enough stones to go all round; and as for you carrying, why, wi’ your little arms you couldn’t carry a stone no bigger than a turnip. You’re dillicate made, my dear,” he added, with a tender intonation⁠—“that’s what Mrs. Winthrop says.”

“Oh, I’m stronger than you think, daddy,” said Eppie; “and if there wasn’t stones enough to go all round, why they’ll go part o’ the way, and then it’ll be easier to get sticks and things for the rest. See here, round the big pit, what a many stones!”

She skipped forward to the pit, meaning to lift one of the stones and exhibit her strength, but she started back in surprise.

“Oh, father, just come and look here,” she exclaimed⁠—“come and see how the water’s gone down since yesterday. Why, yesterday the pit was ever so full!”

“Well, to be sure,” said Silas, coming to her side. “Why, that’s the draining they’ve begun on, since harvest, i’ Mr. Osgood’s fields, I reckon. The foreman said to me the other day, when I passed by ’em, ‘Master Marner,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if we lay your bit o’ waste as dry as a bone.’ It was Mr. Godfrey Cass, he said, had gone into the draining: he’d been taking these fields o’ Mr. Osgood.”

“How odd it’ll seem to have the old pit dried up!” said Eppie, turning away, and stooping to lift rather a large stone. “See, daddy, I can carry this quite well,” she said, going along with much energy for a few steps, but presently letting it fall.

“Ah, you’re fine and strong, aren’t you?” said Silas, while Eppie shook her aching arms and laughed. “Come, come, let us go and sit down on the bank against the stile there, and have no more lifting. You might hurt yourself, child. You’d need have somebody to work for you⁠—and my arm isn’t over strong.”

Silas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it implied more than met the ear; and Eppie, when they sat down on the bank, nestled close to his side, and, taking hold caressingly of the arm that was not over strong, held it on her lap, while Silas puffed again dutifully at the pipe, which occupied his other arm. An ash in the hedgerow behind made a fretted screen from the sun, and threw happy playful shadows all about them.

“Father,” said Eppie, very gently, after they had been sitting in silence a little while, “if I was to be married, ought I to be married with my mother’s ring?”

Silas gave an almost imperceptible start, though the question fell in with the undercurrent of thought in his own mind, and then said, in a subdued tone, “Why, Eppie, have you been a-thinking on it?”

“Only this last week, father,” said Eppie, ingenuously, “since Aaron talked to me about it.”

“And what did he say?” said Silas, still in the same subdued way, as if he were anxious lest he should fall into the slightest tone that was not for Eppie’s good.

“He said he should like to be married, because he was a-going in four-and-twenty, and had got a deal of gardening work, now Mr. Mott’s given up; and he goes twice a-week regular to Mr. Cass’s, and once to Mr. Osgood’s, and they’re going to take him on at the Rectory.”

“And who is it as he’s wanting to marry?” said Silas, with rather a sad smile.

“Why, me, to be sure, daddy,” said Eppie, with dimpling laughter, kissing her father’s cheek; “as if he’d want to marry anybody else!”

“And you mean to have him, do you?” said Silas.

“Yes, some time,” said Eppie, “I don’t know when. Everybody’s married some time, Aaron says. But I told him that wasn’t true: for, I said, look at father⁠—he’s never been married.”

“No, child,” said Silas, “your father was a lone man till you was sent to him.”

“But you’ll never be lone again, father,” said Eppie, tenderly. “That was what Aaron said⁠—‘I could never think o’ taking you away from Master Marner, Eppie.’ And I said, ‘It ’ud be no use if you did, Aaron.’ And he wants us all to live together, so as you needn’t work a bit, father, only what’s for your own pleasure; and he’d be as good as a son to you⁠—that was what he said.”

“And should you like that, Eppie?” said Silas, looking at her.

“I shouldn’t mind it, father,” said Eppie, quite simply. “And I should like things to be so as you needn’t work much. But if it wasn’t for that, I’d sooner things didn’t change. I’m very happy: I like Aaron to be fond of me, and come and see us often, and behave pretty to you⁠—he always does behave pretty to you, doesn’t he, father?”

“Yes, child, nobody could behave better,” said Silas, emphatically. “He’s his mother’s lad.”

“But I don’t want any change,” said Eppie. “I should like to go on a long, long while, just as we are. Only Aaron does want a change; and he made me cry a bit⁠—only a bit⁠—because he said I didn’t care for him, for if I cared for him I should want us to be married, as he did.”

“Eh, my blessed child,” said Silas, laying down his pipe as if it were useless to pretend to smoke