Chapter IV

by George Eliot

　　Dunstan Cass, setting off in the raw morning, at the judiciouslyquiet 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, wherestood the cottage, once a stone-cutter's shed, now for fifteen yearsinhabited by Silas Marner. The spot looked very dreary at thisseason, with the moist trodden clay about it, and the red, muddywater high up in the deserted quarry. That was Dunstan's firstthought as he approached it; the second was, that the old fool of aweaver, whose loom he heard rattling already, had a great deal ofmoney hidden somewhere. How was it that he, Dunstan Cass, who hadoften heard talk of Marner's miserliness, had never thought ofsuggesting to Godfrey that he should frighten or persuade the oldfellow into lending the money on the excellent security of the youngSquire's prospects? The resource occurred to him now as so easy andagreeable, especially as Marner's hoard was likely to be largeenough to leave Godfrey a handsome surplus beyond his immediateneeds, and enable him to accommodate his faithful brother, that hehad almost turned the horse's head towards home again. Godfreywould be ready enough to accept the suggestion: he would snatcheagerly at a plan that might save him from parting with Wildfire.But when Dunstan's meditation reached this point, the inclination togo on grew strong and prevailed. He didn't want to give Godfreythat pleasure: he preferred that Master Godfrey should be vexed.Moreover, Dunstan enjoyed the self-important consciousness of havinga horse to sell, and the opportunity of driving a bargain,swaggering, and possibly taking somebody in. He might have all thesatisfaction attendant on selling his brother's horse, and not theless have the further satisfaction of setting Godfrey to borrowMarner's money. So he rode on to cover.Bryce and Keating were there, as Dunstan was quite sure they wouldbe--he was such a lucky fellow."Heyday!" said Bryce, who had long had his eye on Wildfire,"you're on your brother's horse to-day: how's that?""Oh, I've swopped with him," said Dunstan, whose delight in lying,grandly independent of utility, was not to be diminished by thelikelihood that his hearer would not believe him--"Wildfire'smine now.""What! has he swopped 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 bytaking the horse, though it was against my will, for I'd got an itchfor a mare o' Jortin's--as rare a bit o' blood as ever you threwyour 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, froma man over at Flitton--he's buying for Lord Cromleck--a fellowwith a cast in his eye, and a green waistcoat. But I mean to stickto Wildfire: I shan't get a better at a fence in a hurry. Themare's got more blood, but she's a bit too weak in thehind-quarters."Bryce of course divined that Dunstan wanted to sell the horse, andDunstan knew that he divined it (horse-dealing is only one of manyhuman transactions carried on in this ingenious manner); and theyboth considered that the bargain was in its first stage, when Brycereplied ironically--"I wonder at that now; I wonder you mean to keep him; for I neverheard of a man who didn't want to sell his horse getting a bid ofhalf as much again as the horse was worth. You'll be lucky if youget 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 andtwenty, to be paid on the delivery of Wildfire, safe and sound, atthe Batherley stables. It did occur to Dunsey that it might be wisefor him to give up the day's hunting, proceed at once to Batherley,and, having waited for Bryce's return, hire a horse to carry himhome with the money in his pocket. But the inclination for a run,encouraged by confidence in his luck, and by a draught of brandyfrom his pocket-pistol at the conclusion of the bargain, was noteasy to overcome, especially with a horse under him that would takethe fences to the admiration of the field. Dunstan, however, tookone fence too many, and got his horse pierced with a hedge-stake.His own ill-favoured person, which was quite unmarketable, escapedwithout injury; but poor Wildfire, unconscious of his price, turnedon his flank and painfully panted his last. It happened thatDunstan, a short time before, having had to get down to arrange hisstirrup, had muttered a good many curses at this interruption, whichhad thrown him in the rear of the hunt near the moment of glory, andunder this exasperation had taken the fences more blindly. He wouldsoon have been up with the hounds again, when the fatal accidenthappened; and hence he was between eager riders in advance, nottroubling themselves about what happened behind them, and far-offstragglers, who were as likely as not to pass quite aloof from theline of road in which Wildfire had fallen. Dunstan, whose nature itwas to care more for immediate annoyances than for remoteconsequences, no sooner recovered his legs, and saw that it was allover with Wildfire, than he felt a satisfaction at the absence ofwitnesses to a position which no swaggering could make enviable.Reinforcing himself, after his shake, with a little brandy and muchswearing, he walked as fast as he could to a coppice on his righthand, through which it occurred to him that he could make his way toBatherley without danger of encountering any member of the hunt.His first intention was to hire a horse there and ride homeforthwith, for to walk many miles without a gun in his hand, andalong an ordinary road, was as much out of the question to him as toother spirited young men of his kind. He did not much mind abouttaking the bad news to Godfrey, for he had to offer him at the sametime the resource of Marner's money; and if Godfrey kicked, as healways did, at the notion of making a fresh debt from which hehimself got the smallest share of advantage, why, he wouldn't kicklong: Dunstan felt sure he could worry Godfrey into anything. Theidea of Marner's money kept growing in vividness, now the want of ithad become immediate; the prospect of having to make his appearancewith the muddy boots of a pedestrian at Batherley, and to encounterthe grinning queries of stablemen, stood unpleasantly in the way ofhis impatience to be back at Raveloe and carry out his felicitousplan; and a casual visitation of his waistcoat-pocket, as he wasruminating, awakened his memory to the fact that the two or threesmall coins his forefinger encountered there were of too pale acolour to cover that small debt, without payment of which thestable-keeper had declared he would never do any more business withDunsey Cass. After all, according to the direction in which the runhad brought him, he was not so very much farther from home than hewas from Batherley; but Dunsey, not being remarkable for clearnessof head, was only led to this conclusion by the gradual perceptionthat there were other reasons for choosing the unprecedented courseof walking home. It was now nearly four o'clock, and a mist wasgathering: the sooner he got into the road the better. Heremembered having crossed the road and seen the finger-post only alittle while before Wildfire broke down; so, buttoning his coat,twisting the lash of his hunting-whip compactly round the handle,and rapping the tops of his boots with a self-possessed air, as ifto assure himself that he was not at all taken by surprise, he setoff with the sense that he was undertaking a remarkable feat ofbodily exertion, which somehow and at some time he should be able todress up and magnify to the admiration of a select circle at theRainbow. When a young gentleman like Dunsey is reduced to soexceptional a mode of locomotion as walking, a whip in his hand is adesirable corrective to a too bewildering dreamy sense ofunwontedness in his position; and Dunstan, as he went along throughthe gathering mist, was always rapping his whip somewhere. It wasGodfrey's whip, which he had chosen to take without leave because ithad a gold handle; of course no one could see, when Dunstan held it,that the name Godfrey Cass was cut in deep letters on that goldhandle--they could only see that it was a very handsome whip.Dunsey was not without fear that he might meet some acquaintance inwhose eyes he would cut a pitiable figure, for mist is no screenwhen people get close to each other; but when he at last foundhimself in the well-known Raveloe lanes without having met a soul,he silently remarked that that was part of his usual good luck. Butnow the mist, helped by the evening darkness, was more of a screenthan he desired, for it hid the ruts into which his feet were liableto slip--hid everything, so that he had to guide his steps bydragging his whip along the low bushes in advance of the hedgerow.He must soon, he thought, be getting near the opening at theStone-pits: he should find it out by the break in the hedgerow. Hefound it out, however, by another circumstance which he had notexpected--namely, by certain gleams of light, which he presentlyguessed to proceed from Silas Marner's cottage. That cottage andthe money hidden within it had been in his mind continually duringhis walk, and he had been imagining ways of cajoling and temptingthe weaver to part with the immediate possession of his money forthe sake of receiving interest. Dunstan felt as if there must be alittle frightening added to the cajolery, for his own arithmeticalconvictions were not clear enough to afford him any forcibledemonstration as to the advantages of interest; and as for security,he regarded it vaguely as a means of cheating a man by making himbelieve that he would be paid. Altogether, the operation on themiser's mind was a task that Godfrey would be sure to hand over tohis more daring and cunning brother: Dunstan had made up his mind tothat; and by the time he saw the light gleaming through the chinksof Marner's shutters, the idea of a dialogue with the weaver hadbecome so familiar to him, that it occurred to him as quite anatural thing to make the acquaintance forthwith. There might beseveral conveniences attending this course: the weaver had possiblygot a lantern, and Dunstan was tired of feeling his way. He wasstill nearly three-quarters of a mile from home, and the lane wasbecoming unpleasantly slippery, for the mist was passing into rain.He turned up the bank, not without some fear lest he might miss theright way, since he was not certain whether the light were in frontor on the side of the cottage. But he felt the ground before himcautiously with his whip-handle, and at last arrived safely at thedoor. He knocked loudly, rather enjoying the idea that the oldfellow would be frightened at the sudden noise. He heard nomovement in reply: all was silence in the cottage. Was the weavergone to bed, then? If so, why had he left a light? That was astrange forgetfulness in a miser. Dunstan knocked still moreloudly, and, without pausing for a reply, pushed his fingers throughthe latch-hole, intending to shake the door and pull thelatch-string up and down, not doubting that the door was fastened.But, to his surprise, at this double motion the door opened, and hefound himself in front of a bright fire which lit up every corner ofthe cottage--the bed, the loom, the three chairs, and the table--and showed him that Marner was not there.Nothing at that moment could be much more inviting to Dunsey thanthe bright fire on the brick hearth: he walked in and seated himselfby it at once. There was something in front of the fire, too, thatwould have been inviting to a hungry man, if it had been in adifferent stage of cooking. It was a small bit of pork suspendedfrom the kettle-hanger by a string passed through a large door-key,in a way known to primitive housekeepers unpossessed of jacks. Butthe pork had been hung at the farthest extremity of the hanger,apparently to prevent the roasting from proceeding too rapidlyduring the owner's absence. The old staring simpleton had hot meatfor his supper, then? thought Dunstan. People had always said helived on mouldy bread, on purpose to check his appetite. But wherecould he be at this time, and on such an evening, leaving his supperin this stage of preparation, and his door unfastened? Dunstan'sown recent difficulty in making his way suggested to him that theweaver had perhaps gone outside his cottage to fetch in fuel, or forsome such brief purpose, and had slipped into the Stone-pit. Thatwas an interesting idea to Dunstan, carrying consequences of entirenovelty. If the weaver was dead, who had a right to his money? Whowould know where his money was hidden? Who would know that anybodyhad come to take it away? He went no farther into the subtleties ofevidence: the pressing question, "Where is the money?" now tooksuch entire possession of him as to make him quite forget that theweaver's death was not a certainty. A dull mind, once arriving atan inference that flatters a desire, is rarely able to retain theimpression that the notion from which the inference started waspurely problematic. And Dunstan's mind was as dull as the mind of apossible felon usually is. There were only three hiding-placeswhere he had ever heard of cottagers' hoards being found: thethatch, the bed, and a hole in the floor. Marner's cottage had nothatch; and Dunstan's first act, after a train of thought made rapidby the stimulus of cupidity, was to go up to the bed; but while hedid so, his eyes travelled eagerly over the floor, where the bricks,distinct in the fire-light, were discernible under the sprinkling ofsand. But not everywhere; for there was one spot, and one only,which was quite covered with sand, and sand showing the marks offingers, which had apparently been careful to spread it over a givenspace. It was near the treddles of the loom. In an instant Dunstandarted to that spot, swept away the sand with his whip, and,inserting the thin end of the hook between the bricks, found thatthey were loose. In haste he lifted up two bricks, and saw what hehad no doubt was the object of his search; for what could there bebut money in those two leathern bags? And, from their weight, theymust be filled with guineas. Dunstan felt round the hole, to becertain that it held no more; then hastily replaced the bricks, andspread the sand over them. Hardly more than five minutes had passedsince he entered the cottage, but it seemed to Dunstan like a longwhile; and though he was without any distinct recognition of thepossibility that Marner might be alive, and might re-enter thecottage at any moment, he felt an undefinable dread laying hold onhim, as he rose to his feet with the bags in his hand. He wouldhasten out into the darkness, and then consider what he should dowith the bags. He closed the door behind him immediately, that hemight shut in the stream of light: a few steps would be enough tocarry him beyond betrayal by the gleams from the shutter-chinks andthe latch-hole. The rain and darkness had got thicker, and he wasglad of it; though it was awkward walking with both hands filled, sothat it was as much as he could do to grasp his whip along with oneof the bags. But when he had gone a yard or two, he might take histime. So he stepped forward into the darkness.