Silas Marner by George Eliot (best short novels .txt) 📕

house, having turned away at once when Silas, holding the door ajar, had said that he wanted nothing. This had been Silas’s testimony, though he clutched strongly at the idea of the pedlar’s being the culprit, if only because it gave him a definite image of a whereabout for his gold after it had been taken away from its hiding-place: he could see it now in the pedlar’s box. But it was observed with some irritation in the village, that anybody but a “blind creatur” like Marner would have seen the man prowling about, for how came he to leave his tinder-box in the ditch close by, if he hadn’t been lingering there? Doubtless, he had made his observations when he saw Marner at the door. Anybody might know—

and only look at him—that the weaver was a half-crazy miser. It was a wonder the pedlar hadn’t murdered him; men of that sort, with rings in their ears, had been known for murderers often and often; there had been one tried at the ‘sizes, not so long ago but what there were people living who remembered it.

Godfrey Cass, indeed, entering the Rainbow during one of Mr. Snell’s frequently repeated recitals of his testimony, had treated it lightly, stating that he himself had bought a pen-knife of the pedlar, and thought him a merry grinning fellow enough; it was all nonsense, he said, about the man’s evil looks. But this was spoken of in the village as the random talk of youth, “as if it was only Mr. Snell who had seen something odd about the pedlar!” On the contrary, there were at least half-a-dozen who were ready to go before Justice Malam, and give in much more striking testimony than any the landlord could furnish. It was to be hoped Mr. Godfrey would not go to Tarley and throw cold water on what Mr. Snell said there, and so prevent the justice from drawing up a warrant. He was suspected of intending this, when, after mid-day, he was seen setting off on horseback in the direction of Tarley.

But by this time Godfrey’s interest in the robbery had faded before his growing anxiety about Dunstan and Wildfire, and he was going, not to Tarley, but to Batherley, unable to rest in uncertainty about them any longer. The possibility that Dunstan had played him the ugly trick of riding away with Wildfire, to return at the end of a month, when he had gambled away or otherwise squandered the price of the horse, was a fear that urged itself upon him more, even, than the thought of an accidental injury; and now that the dance at Mrs. Osgood’s was past, he was irritated with himself that he had trusted his horse to Dunstan. Instead of trying to still his fears, he encouraged them, with that superstitious impression which clings to us all, that if we expect evil very strongly it is the less likely to come; and when he heard a horse approaching at a trot, and saw a hat rising above a hedge beyond an angle of the lane, he felt as if his conjuration had succeeded. But no sooner did the horse come within sight, than his heart sank again. It was not Wildfire; and in a few moments more he discerned that the rider was not Dunstan, but Bryce, who pulled up to speak, with a face that implied something disagreeable.

“Well, Mr. Godfrey, that’s a lucky brother of yours, that Master Dunsey, isn’t he?”

“What do you mean?” said Godfrey, hastily.

“Why, hasn’t he been home yet?” said Bryce.

“Home? no. What has happened? Be quick. What has he done with my horse?”

“Ah, I thought it was yours, though he pretended you had parted with it to him.”

“Has he thrown him down and broken his knees?” said Godfrey, flushed with exasperation.

“Worse than that,” said Bryce. “You see, I’d made a bargain with him to buy the horse for a hundred and twenty—a swinging price, but I always liked the horse. And what does he do but go and stake him—fly at a hedge with stakes in it, atop of a bank with a ditch before it. The horse had been dead a pretty good while when he was found. So he hasn’t been home since, has he?”

“Home? no,” said Godfrey, “and he’d better keep away. Confound me for a fool! I might have known this would be the end of it.”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” said Bryce, “after I’d bargained for the horse, it did come into my head that he might be riding and selling the horse without your knowledge, for I didn’t believe it was his own. I knew Master Dunsey was up to his tricks sometimes.

But where can he be gone? He’s never been seen at Batherley. He couldn’t have been hurt, for he must have walked off.”

“Hurt?” said Godfrey, bitterly. “He’ll never be hurt—he’s made to hurt other people.”

“And so you did give him leave to sell the horse, eh?” said Bryce.

“Yes; I wanted to part with the horse—he was always a little too hard in the mouth for me,” said Godfrey; his pride making him wince under the idea that Bryce guessed the sale to be a matter of necessity. “I was going to see after him—I thought some mischief had happened. I’ll go back now,” he added, turning the horse’s head, and wishing he could get rid of Bryce; for he felt that the long-dreaded crisis in his life was close upon him.

“You’re coming on to Raveloe, aren’t you?”

“Well, no, not now,” said Bryce. “I was coming round there, for I had to go to Flitton, and I thought I might as well take you in my way, and just let you know all I knew myself about the horse.

I suppose Master Dunsey didn’t like to show himself till the ill news had blown over a bit. He’s perhaps gone to pay a visit at the Three Crowns, by Whitbridge—I know he’s fond of the house.”

“Perhaps he is,” said Godfrey, rather absently. Then rousing himself, he said, with an effort at carelessness, “We shall hear of him soon enough, I’ll be bound.”

“Well, here’s my turning,” said Bryce, not surprised to perceive that Godfrey was rather “down”; “so I’ll bid you good-day, and wish I may bring you better news another time.”

Godfrey rode along slowly, representing to himself the scene of confession to his father from which he felt that there was now no longer any escape. The revelation about the money must be made the very next morning; and if he withheld the rest, Dunstan would be sure to come back shortly, and, finding that he must bear the brunt of his father’s anger, would tell the whole story out of spite, even though he had nothing to gain by it. There was one step, perhaps, by which he might still win Dunstan’s silence and put off the evil day: he might tell his father that he had himself spent the money paid to him by Fowler; and as he had never been guilty of such an offence before, the affair would blow over after a little storming.

But Godfrey could not bend himself to this. He felt that in letting Dunstan have the money, he had already been guilty of a breach of trust hardly less culpable than that of spending the money directly for his own behoof; and yet there was a distinction between the two acts which made him feel that the one was so much more blackening than the other as to be intolerable to him.

“I don’t pretend to be a good fellow,” he said to himself; “but I’m not a scoundrel—at least, I’ll stop short somewhere. I’ll bear the consequences of what I have done sooner than make believe I’ve done what I never would have done. I’d never have spent the money for my own pleasure—I was tortured into it.”

Through the remainder of this day Godfrey, with only occasional fluctuations, kept his will bent in the direction of a complete avowal to his father, and he withheld the story of Wildfire’s loss till the next morning, that it might serve him as an introduction to heavier matter. The old Squire was accustomed to his son’s frequent absence from home, and thought neither Dunstan’s nor Wildfire’s non-appearance a matter calling for remark. Godfrey said to himself again and again, that if he let slip this one opportunity of confession, he might never have another; the revelation might be made even in a more odious way than by Dunstan’s malignity: she

might come as she had threatened to do. And then he tried to make the scene easier to himself by rehearsal: he made up his mind how he would pass from the admission of his weakness in letting Dunstan have the money to the fact that Dunstan had a hold on him which he had been unable to shake off, and how he would work up his father to expect something very bad before he told him the fact. The old Squire was an implacable man: he made resolutions in violent anger, and he was not to be moved from them after his anger had subsided—

as fiery volcanic matters cool and harden into rock. Like many violent and implacable men, he allowed evils to grow under favour of his own heedlessness, till they pressed upon him with exasperating force, and then he turned round with fierce severity and became unrelentingly hard. This was his system with his tenants: he allowed them to get into arrears, neglect their fences, reduce their stock, sell their straw, and otherwise go the wrong way,—and then, when he became short of money in consequence of this indulgence, he took the hardest measures and would listen to no appeal. Godfrey knew all this, and felt it with the greater force because he had constantly suffered annoyance from witnessing his father’s sudden fits of unrelentingness, for which his own habitual irresolution deprived him of all sympathy. (He was not critical on the faulty indulgence which preceded these fits; that seemed to him natural enough.) Still there was just the chance, Godfrey thought, that his father’s pride might see this marriage in a light that would induce him to hush it up, rather than turn his son out and make the family the talk of the country for ten miles round.

This was the view of the case that Godfrey managed to keep before him pretty closely till midnight, and he went to sleep thinking that he had done with inward debating. But when he awoke in the still morning darkness he found it impossible to reawaken his evening thoughts; it was as if they had been tired out and were not to be roused to further work. Instead of arguments for confession, he could now feel the presence of nothing but its evil consequences: the old dread of disgrace came back—the old shrinking from the thought of raising a hopeless barrier between himself and Nancy—

the old disposition to rely on chances which might be favourable to him, and save him from betrayal. Why, after all, should he cut off the hope of them by his own act? He had seen the matter in a wrong light yesterday. He had been in a rage with Dunstan, and had thought of nothing but a thorough break-up of their mutual understanding; but what it would be really wisest for him to do, was to try and soften his father’s anger against Dunsey, and keep things as nearly as possible in their old condition. If Dunsey did not come back for a few days (and Godfrey did not know but that the rascal had enough money in his pocket to enable him to keep away still longer), everything might blow over.