Silas Marner
tending to imply that everything must be done by human hands, and that
there was no power which could make away with the guineas without
moving the bricks. Nevertheless, he turned round rather sharply on Mr.
Tookey, when the zealous deputy, feeling that this was a view of the
case peculiarly suited to a parish-clerk, carried it still farther, and
doubted whether it was right to inquire into a robbery at all when the
circumstances were so mysterious.
“As if,” concluded Mr. Tookey—“as if there was nothing but what could
be made out by justices and constables.”
“Now, don’t you be for overshooting the mark, Tookey,” said Mr. Macey,
nodding his head aside admonishingly. “That’s what you’re allays at; if
I throw a stone and hit, you think there’s summat better than hitting,
and you try to throw a stone beyond. What I said was against the
tinder-box: I said nothing against justices 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’ King George.”
While these discussions were going on amongst the group outside the
Rainbow, a higher consultation was being carried on within, under the
presidency of Mr. Crackenthorp, the rector, assisted by Squire Cass and
other substantial parishioners. It had just occurred to Mr. Snell, the
landlord—he being, as he observed, a man accustomed to put two and two
together—to connect with the tinder-box, which, as deputy-constable, he
himself had had the honourable distinction of finding, certain
recollections of a pedlar who had called to drink at the house about a
month before, and had actually stated that he carried a tinder-box
about with him to light his pipe. Here, surely, was a clue to be
followed out. And as memory, when duly impregnated with ascertained
facts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile, Mr. Snell gradually recovered
a vivid impression of the effect produced on him by the pedlar’s
countenance and conversation. He had a “look with his eye” which fell
unpleasantly on Mr. Snell’s sensitive organism. To be sure, he didn’t
say anything particular—no, except that about the tinder-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 boded little honesty.
“Did he wear ear-rings?” Mr. Crackenthorp wished to know, having some
acquaintance with foreign customs.
“Well—stay—let me see,” said Mr. Snell, like a docile clairvoyante, who
would really not make a mistake if she could help it. After stretching
the corners of his mouth and contracting his eyes, as if he were trying
to see the ear-rings, he appeared to give up the effort, and said,
“Well, he’d got ear-rings in his box to sell, so it’s nat’ral to
suppose he might wear ’em. But he called at 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 to say.”
Mr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that somebody else would remember
the pedlar’s ear-rings. For on the spread of inquiry among the
villagers it was stated with gathering emphasis, that the parson had
wanted to know whether the pedlar wore ear-rings in his ears, and an
impression was created that a great deal depended on the eliciting of
this fact. Of course, every one who heard the question, not having any
distinct image of the pedlar as _without_ ear-rings, immediately had an
image of him _with_ ear-rings, larger or smaller, as the case might be;
and the image was presently taken for a vivid recollection, so that the
glazier’s wife, a well-intentioned woman, not given to lying, and whose
house was among the cleanest in the village, was ready to declare, as
sure as ever she meant to take the sacrament the very next Christmas
that was ever coming, that she had seen big ear-rings, in the shape of
the young moon, in the pedlar’s two ears; while Jinny Oates, the
cobbler’s daughter, being a more imaginative person, stated not only
that 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 the tinder-box,
a collection was made of all the articles purchased from the pedlar at
various houses, and carried to the Rainbow to be exhibited there. In
fact, there was a general feeling in the village, that for the
clearing-up of this robbery there must be a great deal done at the
Rainbow, and that no man need offer his wife an excuse for going there
while it was the scene of severe public duties.
Some disappointment was felt, and perhaps a little indignation also,
when it became known that Silas Marner, on being questioned by the
Squire and the parson, had retained no other recollection of the pedlar
than that he had called at his door, but had not entered his 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.