Chapter XIII

by George Eliot

　　It was after the early supper-time at the Red House, and theentertainment was in that stage when bashfulness itself had passedinto easy jollity, when gentlemen, conscious of unusualaccomplishments, could at length be prevailed on to dance ahornpipe, and when the Squire preferred talking loudly, scatteringsnuff, and patting his visitors' backs, to sitting longer at thewhist-table--a choice exasperating to uncle Kimble, who, beingalways volatile in sober business hours, became intense and bitterover cards and brandy, shuffled before his adversary's deal with aglare of suspicion, and turned up a mean trump-card with an air ofinexpressible disgust, as if in a world where such things couldhappen one might as well enter on a course of reckless profligacy.When the evening had advanced to this pitch of freedom andenjoyment, it was usual for the servants, the heavy duties of supperbeing well over, to get their share of amusement by coming to lookon at the dancing; so that the back regions of the house were leftin solitude.There were two doors by which the White Parlour was entered from thehall, and they were both standing open for the sake of air; but thelower one was crowded with the servants and villagers, and only theupper doorway was left free. Bob Cass was figuring in a hornpipe,and his father, very proud of this lithe son, whom he repeatedlydeclared to be just like himself in his young days in a tone thatimplied this to be the very highest stamp of juvenile merit, was thecentre of a group who had placed themselves opposite the performer,not far from the upper door. Godfrey was standing a little way off,not to admire his brother's dancing, but to keep sight of Nancy, whowas seated in the group, near her father. He stood aloof, becausehe wished to avoid suggesting himself as a subject for the Squire'sfatherly jokes in connection with matrimony and Miss NancyLammeter's beauty, which were likely to become more and moreexplicit. But he had the prospect of dancing with her again whenthe hornpipe was concluded, and in the meanwhile it was verypleasant to get long glances at her quite unobserved.But when Godfrey was lifting his eyes from one of those longglances, they encountered an object as startling to him at thatmoment as if it had been an apparition from the dead. It was anapparition from that hidden life which lies, like a dark by-street,behind the goodly ornamented facade that meets the sunlight and thegaze of respectable admirers. It was his own child, carried inSilas Marner's arms. That was his instantaneous impression,unaccompanied by doubt, though he had not seen the child for monthspast; and when the hope was rising that he might possibly bemistaken, Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Lammeter had already advanced toSilas, in astonishment at this strange advent. Godfrey joined themimmediately, unable to rest without hearing every word--trying tocontrol himself, but conscious that if any one noticed him, theymust see that he was white-lipped and trembling.But now all eyes at that end of the room were bent on Silas Marner;the Squire himself had risen, and asked angrily, "How's this?--what's this?--what do you do coming in here in this way?""I'm come for the doctor--I want the doctor," Silas had said, inthe first moment, to Mr. Crackenthorp."Why, what's the matter, Marner?" said the rector. "Thedoctor's here; but say quietly what you want him for.""It's a woman," said Silas, speaking low, and half-breathlessly,just as Godfrey came up. "She's dead, I think--dead in the snowat the Stone-pits--not far from my door."Godfrey felt a great throb: there was one terror in his mind at thatmoment: it was, that the woman might not be dead. That was anevil terror--an ugly inmate to have found a nestling-place inGodfrey's kindly disposition; but no disposition is a security fromevil wishes to a man whose happiness hangs on duplicity."Hush, hush!" said Mr. Crackenthorp. "Go out into the hallthere. I'll fetch the doctor to you. Found a woman in the snow--and thinks she's dead," he added, speaking low to the Squire."Better say as little about it as possible: it will shock theladies. Just tell them a poor woman is ill from cold and hunger.I'll go and fetch Kimble."By this time, however, the ladies had pressed forward, curious toknow what could have brought the solitary linen-weaver there undersuch strange circumstances, and interested in the pretty child, who,half alarmed and half attracted by the brightness and the numerouscompany, now frowned and hid her face, now lifted up her head againand looked round placably, until a touch or a coaxing word broughtback the frown, and made her bury her face with new determination."What child is it?" said several ladies at once, and, among therest, Nancy Lammeter, addressing Godfrey."I don't know--some poor woman's who has been found in the snow,I believe," was the answer Godfrey wrung from himself with aterrible effort. ("After all, am I certain?" he hastened toadd, silently, in anticipation of his own conscience.)"Why, you'd better leave the child here, then, Master Marner,"said good-natured Mrs. Kimble, hesitating, however, to take thosedingy clothes into contact with her own ornamented satin bodice."I'll tell one o' the girls to fetch it.""No--no--I can't part with it, I can't let it go," said Silas,abruptly. "It's come to me--I've a right to keep it."The proposition to take the child from him had come to Silas quiteunexpectedly, and his speech, uttered under a strong sudden impulse,was almost like a revelation to himself: a minute before, he had nodistinct intention about the child."Did you ever hear the like?" said Mrs. Kimble, in mild surprise,to her neighbour."Now, ladies, I must trouble you to stand aside," said Mr. Kimble,coming from the card-room, in some bitterness at the interruption,but drilled by the long habit of his profession into obedience tounpleasant calls, even when he was hardly sober."It's a nasty business turning out now, eh, Kimble?" said theSquire. "He might ha' gone for your young fellow--the 'prentice,there--what's his name?""Might? aye--what's the use of talking about might?" growleduncle Kimble, hastening out with Marner, and followed byMr. Crackenthorp and Godfrey. "Get me a pair of thick boots,Godfrey, will you? And stay, let somebody run to Winthrop's andfetch Dolly--she's the best woman to get. Ben was here himselfbefore supper; is he gone?""Yes, sir, I met him," said Marner; "but I couldn't stop to tellhim anything, only I said I was going for the doctor, and he saidthe doctor was at the Squire's. And I made haste and ran, and therewas nobody to be seen at the back o' the house, and so I went in towhere the company was."The child, no longer distracted by the bright light and the smilingwomen's faces, began to cry and call for "mammy", though alwaysclinging to Marner, who had apparently won her thorough confidence.Godfrey had come back with the boots, and felt the cry as if somefibre were drawn tight within him."I'll go," he said, hastily, eager for some movement; "I'll goand fetch the woman--Mrs. Winthrop.""Oh, pooh--send somebody else," said uncle Kimble, hurrying awaywith Marner."You'll let me know if I can be of any use, Kimble," saidMr. Crackenthorp. But the doctor was out of hearing.Godfrey, too, had disappeared: he was gone to snatch his hat andcoat, having just reflection enough to remember that he must notlook like a madman; but he rushed out of the house into the snowwithout heeding his thin shoes.In a few minutes he was on his rapid way to the Stone-pits by theside of Dolly, who, though feeling that she was entirely in herplace in encountering cold and snow on an errand of mercy, was muchconcerned at a young gentleman's getting his feet wet under a likeimpulse."You'd a deal better go back, sir," said Dolly, with respectfulcompassion. "You've no call to catch cold; and I'd ask you ifyou'd be so good as tell my husband to come, on your way back--he's at the Rainbow, I doubt--if you found him anyway sober enoughto be o' use. Or else, there's Mrs. Snell 'ud happen send the boyup to fetch and carry, for there may be things wanted from thedoctor's.""No, I'll stay, now I'm once out--I'll stay outside here," saidGodfrey, when they came opposite Marner's cottage. "You can comeand tell me if I can do anything.""Well, sir, you're very good: you've a tender heart," said Dolly,going to the door.Godfrey was too painfully preoccupied to feel a twinge ofself-reproach at this undeserved praise. He walked up and down,unconscious that he was plunging ankle-deep in snow, unconscious ofeverything but trembling suspense about what was going on in thecottage, and the effect of each alternative on his future lot. No,not quite unconscious of everything else. Deeper down, andhalf-smothered by passionate desire and dread, there was the sensethat he ought not to be waiting on these alternatives; that he oughtto accept the consequences of his deeds, own the miserable wife, andfulfil the claims of the helpless child. But he had not moralcourage enough to contemplate that active renunciation of Nancy aspossible for him: he had only conscience and heart enough to makehim for ever uneasy under the weakness that forbade therenunciation. And at this moment his mind leaped away from allrestraint toward the sudden prospect of deliverance from his longbondage."Is she dead?" said the voice that predominated over every otherwithin him. "If she is, I may marry Nancy; and then I shall be agood fellow in future, and have no secrets, and the child--shallbe taken care of somehow." But across that vision came the otherpossibility--"She may live, and then it's all up with me."Godfrey never knew how long it was before the door of the cottageopened and Mr. Kimble came out. He went forward to meet his uncle,prepared to suppress the agitation he must feel, whatever news hewas to hear."I waited for you, as I'd come so far," he said, speaking first."Pooh, it was nonsense for you to come out: why didn't you send oneof the men? There's nothing to be done. She's dead--has beendead for hours, I should say.""What sort of woman is she?" said Godfrey, feeling the blood rushto his face."A young woman, but emaciated, with long black hair. Some vagrant--quite in rags. She's got a wedding-ring on, however. They mustfetch her away to the workhouse to-morrow. Come, come along.""I want to look at her," said Godfrey. "I think I saw such awoman yesterday. I'll overtake you in a minute or two."Mr. Kimble went on, and Godfrey turned back to the cottage. He castonly one glance at the dead face on the pillow, which Dolly hadsmoothed with decent care; but he remembered that last look at hisunhappy hated wife so well, that at the end of sixteen years everyline in the worn face was present to him when he told the full storyof this night.He turned immediately towards the hearth, where Silas Marner satlulling the child. She was perfectly quiet now, but not asleep--only soothed by sweet porridge and warmth into that wide-gazing calmwhich makes us older human beings, with our inward turmoil, feel acertain awe in the presence of a little child, such as we feelbefore some quiet majesty or beauty in the earth or sky--before asteady glowing planet, or a full-flowered eglantine, or the bendingtrees over a silent pathway. The wide-open blue eyes looked up atGodfrey's without any uneasiness or sign of recognition: the childcould make no visible audible claim on its father; and the fatherfelt a strange mixture of feelings, a conflict of regret and joy,that the pulse of that little heart had no response for thehalf-jealous yearning in his own, when the blue eyes turned awayfrom him slowly, and fixed themselves on the weaver's queer face,which was bent low down to look at them, while the small hand beganto pull Marner's withered cheek with loving disfiguration."You'll take the child to the parish to-morrow?" asked Godfrey,speaking as indifferently as he could."Who says so?" said Marner, sharply. "Will they make me takeher?""Why, you wouldn't like to keep her, should you--an old bachelorlike you?""Till anybody shows they've a right to take her away from me,"said Marner. "The mother's dead, and I reckon it's got no father:it's a lone thing--and I'm a lone thing. My money's gone, I don'tknow where--and this is come from I don't know where. I knownothing--I'm partly mazed.""Poor little thing!" said Godfrey. "Let me give somethingtowards finding it clothes."He had put his hand in his pocket and found half-a-guinea, and,thrusting it into Silas's hand, he hurried out of the cottage toovertake Mr. Kimble."Ah, I see it's not the same woman I saw," he said, as he came up."It's a pretty little child: the old fellow seems to want to keepit; that's strange for a miser like him. But I gave him a trifle tohelp him out: the parish isn't likely to quarrel with him for theright to keep the child.""No; but I've seen the time when I might have quarrelled with himfor it myself. It's too late now, though. If the child ran intothe fire, your aunt's too fat to overtake it: she could only sit andgrunt like an alarmed sow. But what a fool you are, Godfrey, tocome out in your dancing shoes and stockings in this way--and youone of the beaux of the evening, and at your own house! What do youmean by such freaks, young fellow? Has Miss Nancy been cruel, anddo you want to spite her by spoiling your pumps?""Oh, everything has been disagreeable to-night. I was tired todeath of jigging and gallanting, and that bother about thehornpipes. And I'd got to dance with the other Miss Gunn," saidGodfrey, glad of the subterfuge his uncle had suggested to him.The prevarication and white lies which a mind that keeps itselfambitiously pure is as uneasy under as a great artist under thefalse touches that no eye detects but his own, are worn as lightlyas mere trimmings when once the actions have become a lie.Godfrey reappeared in the White Parlour with dry feet, and, sincethe truth must be told, with a sense of relief and gladness that wastoo strong for painful thoughts to struggle with. For could he notventure now, whenever opportunity offered, to say the tenderestthings to Nancy Lammeter--to promise her and himself that he wouldalways be just what she would desire to see him? There was nodanger that his dead wife would be recognized: those were not daysof active inquiry and wide report; and as for the registry of theirmarriage, that was a long way off, buried in unturned pages, awayfrom every one's interest but his own. Dunsey might betray him ifhe came back; but Dunsey might be won to silence.And when events turn out so much better for a man than he has hadreason to dread, is it not a proof that his conduct has been lessfoolish and blameworthy than it might otherwise have appeared? Whenwe are treated well, we naturally begin to think that we are notaltogether unmeritorious, and that it is only just we should treatourselves well, and not mar our own good fortune. Where, after all,would be the use of his confessing the past to Nancy Lammeter, andthrowing away his happiness?--nay, hers? for he felt someconfidence that she loved him. As for the child, he would see thatit was cared for: he would never forsake it; he would do everythingbut own it. Perhaps it would be just as happy in life without beingowned by its father, seeing that nobody could tell how things wouldturn out, and that--is there any other reason wanted?--well,then, that the father would be much happier without owning thechild.