Chapter VIII

by George Eliot

　　When Godfrey Cass returned from Mrs. Osgood's party at midnight, hewas not much surprised to learn that Dunsey had not come home.Perhaps he had not sold Wildfire, and was waiting for another chance--perhaps, on that foggy afternoon, he had preferred housinghimself at the Red Lion at Batherley for the night, if the run hadkept him in that neighbourhood; for he was not likely to feel muchconcern about leaving his brother in suspense. Godfrey's mind wastoo full of Nancy Lammeter's looks and behaviour, too full of theexasperation against himself and his lot, which the sight of heralways produced in him, for him to give much thought to Wildfire, orto the probabilities of Dunstan's conduct.The next morning the whole village was excited by the story of therobbery, and Godfrey, like every one else, was occupied in gatheringand discussing news about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits. Therain had washed away all possibility of distinguishing foot-marks,but a close investigation of the spot had disclosed, in thedirection opposite to the village, a tinder-box, with a flint andsteel, half sunk in the mud. It was not Silas's tinder-box, for theonly one he had ever had was still standing on his shelf; and theinference generally accepted was, that the tinder-box in the ditchwas somehow connected with the robbery. A small minority shooktheir heads, and intimated their opinion that it was not a robberyto have much light thrown on it by tinder-boxes, that MasterMarner's tale had a queer look with it, and that such things hadbeen known as a man's doing himself a mischief, and then setting thejustice to look for the doer. But when questioned closely as totheir grounds for this opinion, and what Master Marner had to gainby such false pretences, they only shook their heads as before, andobserved that there was no knowing what some folks counted gain;moreover, that everybody had a right to their own opinions, groundsor no grounds, and that the weaver, as everybody knew, was partlycrazy. Mr. Macey, though he joined in the defence of Marner againstall suspicions of deceit, also pooh-poohed the tinder-box; indeed,repudiated it as a rather impious suggestion, tending to imply thateverything must be done by human hands, and that there was no powerwhich could make away with the guineas without moving the bricks.Nevertheless, he turned round rather sharply on Mr. Tookey, when thezealous deputy, feeling that this was a view of the case peculiarlysuited to a parish-clerk, carried it still farther, and doubtedwhether it was right to inquire into a robbery at all when thecircumstances were so mysterious."As if," concluded Mr. Tookey--"as if there was nothing butwhat could be made out by justices and constables.""Now, don't you be for overshooting the mark, Tookey," saidMr. Macey, nodding his head aside admonishingly. "That's whatyou're allays at; if I throw a stone and hit, you think there'ssummat better than hitting, and you try to throw a stone beyond.What I said was against the tinder-box: I said nothing againstjustices and constables, for they're o' King George's making, and it'ud be ill-becoming a man in a parish office to fly out again' KingGeorge."While these discussions were going on amongst the group outside theRainbow, a higher consultation was being carried on within, underthe presidency of Mr. Crackenthorp, the rector, assisted by SquireCass and other substantial parishioners. It had just occurred toMr. Snell, the landlord--he being, as he observed, a manaccustomed to put two and two together--to connect with thetinder-box, which, as deputy-constable, he himself had had thehonourable distinction of finding, certain recollections of a pedlarwho had called to drink at the house about a month before, and hadactually stated that he carried a tinder-box about with him to lighthis pipe. Here, surely, was a clue to be followed out. And asmemory, when duly impregnated with ascertained facts, is sometimessurprisingly fertile, Mr. Snell gradually recovered a vividimpression of the effect produced on him by the pedlar's countenanceand conversation. He had a "look with his eye" which fellunpleasantly on Mr. Snell's sensitive organism. To be sure, hedidn't say anything particular--no, except that about thetinder-box--but it isn't what a man says, it's the way he says it.Moreover, he had a swarthy foreignness of complexion which bodedlittle honesty."Did he wear ear-rings?" Mr. Crackenthorp wished to know, havingsome acquaintance with foreign customs."Well--stay--let me see," said Mr. Snell, like a docileclairvoyante, who would really not make a mistake if she could helpit. After stretching the corners of his mouth and contracting hiseyes, as if he were trying to see the ear-rings, he appeared to giveup the effort, and said, "Well, he'd got ear-rings in his box tosell, so it's nat'ral to suppose he might wear 'em. But he calledat every house, a'most, in the village; there's somebody else,mayhap, saw 'em in his ears, though I can't take upon me rightly tosay."Mr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that somebody else wouldremember the pedlar's ear-rings. For on the spread of inquiry amongthe villagers it was stated with gathering emphasis, that the parsonhad wanted to know whether the pedlar wore ear-rings in his ears,and an impression was created that a great deal depended on theeliciting of this fact. Of course, every one who heard thequestion, not having any distinct image of the pedlar as withoutear-rings, immediately had an image of him with ear-rings, largeror smaller, as the case might be; and the image was presently takenfor a vivid recollection, so that the glazier's wife, awell-intentioned woman, not given to lying, and whose house wasamong the cleanest in the village, was ready to declare, as sure asever she meant to take the sacrament the very next Christmas thatwas ever coming, that she had seen big ear-rings, in the shape ofthe young moon, in the pedlar's two ears; while Jinny Oates, thecobbler's daughter, being a more imaginative person, stated not onlythat she had seen them too, but that they had made her blood creep,as it did at that very moment while there she stood.Also, by way of throwing further light on this clue of thetinder-box, a collection was made of all the articles purchased fromthe pedlar at various houses, and carried to the Rainbow to beexhibited there. In fact, there was a general feeling in thevillage, that for the clearing-up of this robbery there must be agreat deal done at the Rainbow, and that no man need offer his wifean excuse for going there while it was the scene of severe publicduties.Some disappointment was felt, and perhaps a little indignation also,when it became known that Silas Marner, on being questioned by theSquire and the parson, had retained no other recollection of thepedlar than that he had called at his door, but had not entered hishouse, 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 theculprit, if only because it gave him a definite image of awhereabout for his gold after it had been taken away from itshiding-place: he could see it now in the pedlar's box. But it wasobserved with some irritation in the village, that anybody but a"blind creatur" like Marner would have seen the man prowlingabout, for how came he to leave his tinder-box in the ditch closeby, if he hadn't been lingering there? Doubtless, he had made hisobservations when he saw Marner at the door. Anybody might know--and only look at him--that the weaver was a half-crazy miser. Itwas a wonder the pedlar hadn't murdered him; men of that sort, withrings in their ears, had been known for murderers often and often;there had been one tried at the 'sizes, not so long ago but whatthere were people living who remembered it.Godfrey Cass, indeed, entering the Rainbow during one of Mr. Snell'sfrequently repeated recitals of his testimony, had treated itlightly, stating that he himself had bought a pen-knife of thepedlar, and thought him a merry grinning fellow enough; it was allnonsense, he said, about the man's evil looks. But this was spokenof in the village as the random talk of youth, "as if it was onlyMr. Snell who had seen something odd about the pedlar!" On thecontrary, there were at least half-a-dozen who were ready to gobefore Justice Malam, and give in much more striking testimony thanany the landlord could furnish. It was to be hoped Mr. Godfreywould not go to Tarley and throw cold water on what Mr. Snell saidthere, and so prevent the justice from drawing up a warrant. He wassuspected of intending this, when, after mid-day, he was seensetting off on horseback in the direction of Tarley.But by this time Godfrey's interest in the robbery had faded beforehis growing anxiety about Dunstan and Wildfire, and he was going,not to Tarley, but to Batherley, unable to rest in uncertainty aboutthem any longer. The possibility that Dunstan had played him theugly trick of riding away with Wildfire, to return at the end of amonth, when he had gambled away or otherwise squandered the price ofthe horse, was a fear that urged itself upon him more, even, thanthe thought of an accidental injury; and now that the dance atMrs. Osgood's was past, he was irritated with himself that he hadtrusted his horse to Dunstan. Instead of trying to still his fears,he encouraged them, with that superstitious impression which clingsto us all, that if we expect evil very strongly it is the lesslikely to come; and when he heard a horse approaching at a trot, andsaw a hat rising above a hedge beyond an angle of the lane, he feltas if his conjuration had succeeded. But no sooner did the horsecome within sight, than his heart sank again. It was not Wildfire;and in a few moments more he discerned that the rider was notDunstan, but Bryce, who pulled up to speak, with a face that impliedsomething disagreeable."Well, Mr. Godfrey, that's a lucky brother of yours, that MasterDunsey, 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 withmy horse?""Ah, I thought it was yours, though he pretended you had partedwith 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 withhim 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 stakehim--fly at a hedge with stakes in it, atop of a bank with a ditchbefore it. The horse had been dead a pretty good while when he wasfound. So he hasn't been home since, has he?""Home? no," said Godfrey, "and he'd better keep away. Confoundme 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 bargainedfor the horse, it did come into my head that he might be riding andselling the horse without your knowledge, for I didn't believe itwas 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. Hecouldn't have been hurt, for he must have walked off.""Hurt?" said Godfrey, bitterly. "He'll never be hurt--he'smade to hurt other people.""And so you did give him leave to sell the horse, eh?" saidBryce."Yes; I wanted to part with the horse--he was always a little toohard in the mouth for me," said Godfrey; his pride making him winceunder the idea that Bryce guessed the sale to be a matter ofnecessity. "I was going to see after him--I thought somemischief had happened. I'll go back now," he added, turning thehorse's head, and wishing he could get rid of Bryce; for he feltthat 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 youin 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 illnews had blown over a bit. He's perhaps gone to pay a visit at theThree Crowns, by Whitbridge--I know he's fond of the house.""Perhaps he is," said Godfrey, rather absently. Then rousinghimself, he said, with an effort at carelessness, "We shall hear ofhim soon enough, I'll be bound.""Well, here's my turning," said Bryce, not surprised to perceivethat Godfrey was rather "down"; "so I'll bid you good-day, andwish I may bring you better news another time."Godfrey rode along slowly, representing to himself the scene ofconfession to his father from which he felt that there was now nolonger any escape. The revelation about the money must be made thevery next morning; and if he withheld the rest, Dunstan would besure to come back shortly, and, finding that he must bear the bruntof his father's anger, would tell the whole story out of spite, eventhough 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 evilday: he might tell his father that he had himself spent the moneypaid to him by Fowler; and as he had never been guilty of such anoffence before, the affair would blow over after a little storming.But Godfrey could not bend himself to this. He felt that in lettingDunstan have the money, he had already been guilty of a breach oftrust hardly less culpable than that of spending the money directlyfor his own behoof; and yet there was a distinction between the twoacts which made him feel that the one was so much more blackeningthan the other as to be intolerable to him."I don't pretend to be a good fellow," he said to himself; "butI'm not a scoundrel--at least, I'll stop short somewhere. I'llbear the consequences of what I have done sooner than make believeI've done what I never would have done. I'd never have spent themoney for my own pleasure--I was tortured into it."Through the remainder of this day Godfrey, with only occasionalfluctuations, kept his will bent in the direction of a completeavowal to his father, and he withheld the story of Wildfire's losstill the next morning, that it might serve him as an introduction toheavier matter. The old Squire was accustomed to his son's frequentabsence from home, and thought neither Dunstan's nor Wildfire'snon-appearance a matter calling for remark. Godfrey said to himselfagain and again, that if he let slip this one opportunity ofconfession, he might never have another; the revelation might bemade even in a more odious way than by Dunstan's malignity: shemight come as she had threatened to do. And then he tried to makethe scene easier to himself by rehearsal: he made up his mind how hewould pass from the admission of his weakness in letting Dunstanhave the money to the fact that Dunstan had a hold on him which hehad been unable to shake off, and how he would work up his father toexpect something very bad before he told him the fact. The oldSquire 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 manyviolent and implacable men, he allowed evils to grow under favour ofhis own heedlessness, till they pressed upon him with exasperatingforce, and then he turned round with fierce severity and becameunrelentingly hard. This was his system with his tenants: heallowed them to get into arrears, neglect their fences, reduce theirstock, sell their straw, and otherwise go the wrong way,--andthen, when he became short of money in consequence of thisindulgence, he took the hardest measures and would listen to noappeal. Godfrey knew all this, and felt it with the greater forcebecause he had constantly suffered annoyance from witnessing hisfather's sudden fits of unrelentingness, for which his own habitualirresolution deprived him of all sympathy. (He was not critical onthe faulty indulgence which preceded these fits; that seemed tohim natural enough.) Still there was just the chance, Godfreythought, that his father's pride might see this marriage in a lightthat would induce him to hush it up, rather than turn his son outand make the family the talk of the country for ten miles round.This was the view of the case that Godfrey managed to keep beforehim pretty closely till midnight, and he went to sleep thinking thathe had done with inward debating. But when he awoke in the stillmorning darkness he found it impossible to reawaken his eveningthoughts; it was as if they had been tired out and were not to beroused to further work. Instead of arguments for confession, hecould now feel the presence of nothing but its evil consequences:the old dread of disgrace came back--the old shrinking from thethought of raising a hopeless barrier between himself and Nancy--the old disposition to rely on chances which might be favourable tohim, and save him from betrayal. Why, after all, should he cut offthe hope of them by his own act? He had seen the matter in a wronglight yesterday. He had been in a rage with Dunstan, and hadthought of nothing but a thorough break-up of their mutualunderstanding; but what it would be really wisest for him to do, wasto try and soften his father's anger against Dunsey, and keep thingsas nearly as possible in their old condition. If Dunsey did notcome back for a few days (and Godfrey did not know but that therascal had enough money in his pocket to enable him to keep awaystill longer), everything might blow over.