Chapter XVIII

by George Eliot

　　Some one opened the door at the other end of the room, and Nancyfelt that it was her husband. She turned from the window withgladness in her eyes, for the wife's chief dread was stilled."Dear, I'm so thankful you're come," she said, going towards him."I began to get --"She paused abruptly, for Godfrey was laying down his hat withtrembling hands, and turned towards her with a pale face and astrange unanswering glance, as if he saw her indeed, but saw her aspart of a scene invisible to herself. She laid her hand on his arm,not daring to speak again; but he left the touch unnoticed, andthrew himself into his chair.Jane was already at the door with the hissing urn. "Tell her tokeep away, will you?" said Godfrey; and when the door was closedagain he exerted himself to speak more distinctly."Sit down, Nancy--there," he said, pointing to a chair oppositehim. "I came back as soon as I could, to hinder anybody's tellingyou but me. I've had a great shock--but I care most about theshock it'll be to you.""It isn't father and Priscilla?" said Nancy, with quivering lips,clasping her hands together tightly on her lap."No, it's nobody living," said Godfrey, unequal to the considerateskill with which he would have wished to make his revelation."It's Dunstan--my brother Dunstan, that we lost sight of sixteenyears ago. We've found him--found his body--his skeleton."The deep dread Godfrey's look had created in Nancy made her feelthese words a relief. She sat in comparative calmness to hear whatelse he had to tell. He went on:"The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly--from the draining, Isuppose; and there he lies--has lain for sixteen years, wedgedbetween two great stones. There's his watch and seals, and there'smy gold-handled hunting-whip, with my name on: he took it away,without my knowing, the day he went hunting on Wildfire, the lasttime he was seen."Godfrey paused: it was not so easy to say what came next. "Do youthink he drowned himself?" said Nancy, almost wondering that herhusband should be so deeply shaken by what had happened all thoseyears ago to an unloved brother, of whom worse things had beenaugured."No, he fell in," said Godfrey, in a low but distinct voice, as ifhe felt some deep meaning in the fact. Presently he added:"Dunstan was the man that robbed Silas Marner."The blood rushed to Nancy's face and neck at this surprise andshame, for she had been bred up to regard even a distant kinshipwith crime as a dishonour."O Godfrey!" she said, with compassion in her tone, for she hadimmediately reflected that the dishonour must be felt still morekeenly by her husband."There was the money in the pit," he continued--"all theweaver's money. Everything's been gathered up, and they're takingthe skeleton to the Rainbow. But I came back to tell you: there wasno hindering it; you must know."He was silent, looking on the ground for two long minutes. Nancywould have said some words of comfort under this disgrace, but sherefrained, from an instinctive sense that there was something behind--that Godfrey had something else to tell her. Presently he liftedhis eyes to her face, and kept them fixed on her, as he said--"Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later. When GodAlmighty wills it, our secrets are found out. I've lived with asecret on my mind, but I'll keep it from you no longer. I wouldn'thave you know it by somebody else, and not by me--I wouldn't haveyou find it out after I'm dead. I'll tell you now. It's been "Iwill" and "I won't" with me all my life--I'll make sure of myselfnow."Nancy's utmost dread had returned. The eyes of the husband and wifemet with awe in them, as at a crisis which suspended affection."Nancy," said Godfrey, slowly, "when I married you, I hidsomething from you--something I ought to have told you. Thatwoman Marner found dead in the snow--Eppie's mother--thatwretched woman--was my wife: Eppie is my child."He paused, dreading the effect of his confession. But Nancy satquite still, only that her eyes dropped and ceased to meet his. Shewas pale and quiet as a meditative statue, clasping her hands on herlap."You'll never think the same of me again," said Godfrey, after alittle while, with some tremor in his voice.She was silent."I oughtn't to have left the child unowned: I oughtn't to have keptit from you. But I couldn't bear to give you up, Nancy. I was ledaway into marrying her--I suffered for it."Still Nancy was silent, looking down; and he almost expected thatshe would presently get up and say she would go to her father's.How could she have any mercy for faults that must seem so black toher, with her simple, severe notions?But at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and spoke. Therewas no indignation in her voice--only deep regret."Godfrey, if you had but told me this six years ago, we could havedone some of our duty by the child. Do you think I'd have refusedto take her in, if I'd known she was yours?"At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of an error that wasnot simply futile, but had defeated its own end. He had notmeasured this wife with whom he had lived so long. But she spokeagain, with more agitation."And--Oh, Godfrey--if we'd had her from the first, if you'dtaken to her as you ought, she'd have loved me for her mother--andyou'd have been happier with me: I could better have bore my littlebaby dying, and our life might have been more like what we used tothink it 'ud be."The tears fell, and Nancy ceased to speak."But you wouldn't have married me then, Nancy, if I'd told you,"said Godfrey, urged, in the bitterness of his self-reproach, toprove to himself that his conduct had not been utter folly. "Youmay think you would now, but you wouldn't then. With your pride andyour father's, you'd have hated having anything to do with me afterthe talk there'd have been.""I can't say what I should have done about that, Godfrey. I shouldnever have married anybody else. But I wasn't worth doing wrong for--nothing is in this world. Nothing is so good as it seemsbeforehand--not even our marrying wasn't, you see." There was afaint sad smile on Nancy's face as she said the last words."I'm a worse man than you thought I was, Nancy," said Godfrey,rather tremulously. "Can you forgive me ever?""The wrong to me is but little, Godfrey: you've made it up to me--you've been good to me for fifteen years. It's another you did thewrong to; and I doubt it can never be all made up for.""But we can take Eppie now," said Godfrey. "I won't mind theworld knowing at last. I'll be plain and open for the rest o' mylife.""It'll be different coming to us, now she's grown up," said Nancy,shaking her head sadly. "But it's your duty to acknowledge her andprovide for her; and I'll do my part by her, and pray to GodAlmighty to make her love me.""Then we'll go together to Silas Marner's this very night, as soonas everything's quiet at the Stone-pits."