Silas Marner
benches placed for them near the door; and great was the admiration and
satisfaction in that quarter when the couples had formed themselves for
the dance, and the Squire led off with Mrs. Crackenthorp, joining hands
with the rector and Mrs. Osgood. That was as it should be—that was what
everybody had been used to—and the charter of Raveloe seemed to be
renewed by the ceremony. It was not thought of as an unbecoming levity
for the old and middle-aged people to dance a little before sitting
down to cards, but rather as part of their social duties. For what were
these if not to be merry at appropriate times, interchanging visits and
poultry with due frequency, paying each other old-established
compliments in sound traditional phrases, passing well-tried personal
jokes, urging your guests to eat and drink too much out of hospitality,
and eating and drinking too much in your neighbour’s house to show that
you liked your cheer? And the parson naturally set an example in these
social duties. For it would not have been possible for the Raveloe
mind, without a peculiar revelation, to know that a clergyman should be
a pale-faced memento of solemnities, instead of a reasonably faulty man
whose exclusive authority to read prayers and preach, to christen,
marry, and bury you, necessarily coexisted with the right to sell you
the ground to be buried in and to take tithe in kind; on which last
point, of course, there was a little grumbling, but not to the extent
of irreligion—not of deeper significance than the grumbling at the
rain, which was by no means accompanied with a spirit of impious
defiance, but with a desire that the prayer for fine weather might be
read forthwith.
There was no reason, then, why the rector’s dancing should not be
received as part of the fitness of things quite as much as the
Squire’s, or why, on the other hand, Mr. Macey’s official respect
should restrain him from subjecting the parson’s performance to that
criticism with which minds of extraordinary acuteness must necessarily
contemplate the doings of their fallible fellow-men.
“The Squire’s pretty springe, considering his weight,” said Mr. Macey,
“and he stamps uncommon well. But Mr. Lammeter beats ’em all for
shapes: you see he holds his head like a sodger, and he isn’t so
cushiony as most o’ the oldish gentlefolks—they run fat in general; and
he’s got a fine leg. The parson’s nimble enough, but he hasn’t got much
of a leg: it’s a bit too thick down’ard, and his knees might be a bit
nearer wi’out damage; but he might do worse, he might do worse. Though
he hasn’t that grand way o’ waving his hand as the Squire has.”
“Talk o’ nimbleness, look at Mrs. Osgood,” said Ben Winthrop, who was
holding his son Aaron between his knees. “She trips along with her
little steps, so as nobody can see how she goes—it’s like as if she had
little wheels to her feet. She doesn’t look a day older nor last year:
she’s the finest-made woman as is, let the next be where she will.”
“I don’t heed how the women are made,” said Mr. Macey, with some
contempt. “They wear nayther coat nor breeches: you can’t make much out
o’ their shapes.”
“Fayder,” said Aaron, whose feet were busy beating out the tune, “how
does that big cock’s-feather stick in Mrs. Crackenthorp’s yead? Is
there a little hole for it, like in my shuttle-cock?”
“Hush, lad, hush; that’s the way the ladies dress theirselves, that
is,” said the father, adding, however, in an undertone to Mr. Macey,
“It does make her look funny, though—partly like a short-necked bottle
wi’ a long quill in it. Hey, by jingo, there’s the young Squire leading
off now, wi’ Miss Nancy for partners! There’s a lass for you!—like a
pink-and-white posy—there’s nobody ’ud think as anybody could be so
pritty. I shouldn’t wonder if she’s Madam Cass some day, arter all—and
nobody more rightfuller, for they’d make a fine match. You can find
nothing against Master Godfrey’s shapes, Macey, _I_’ll bet a penny.”
Mr. Macey screwed up his mouth, leaned his head further on one side,
and twirled his thumbs with a presto movement as his eyes followed
Godfrey up the dance. At last he summed up his opinion.
“Pretty well down’ard, but a bit too round i’ the shoulder-blades. And
as for them coats as he gets from the Flitton tailor, they’re a poor
cut to pay double money for.”
“Ah, Mr. Macey, you and me are two folks,” said Ben, slightly indignant
at this carping. “When I’ve got a pot o’ good ale, I like to swaller
it, and do my inside good, i’stead o’ smelling and staring at it to see
if I can’t find faut wi’ the brewing. I should like you to pick me out
a finer-limbed young fellow nor Master Godfrey—one as ’ud knock you
down easier, or ’s more pleasanter-looksed when he’s piert and merry.”
“Tchuh!” said Mr. Macey, provoked to increased severity, “he isn’t come
to his right colour yet: he’s partly like a slack-baked pie. And I
doubt he’s got a soft place in his head, else why should he be turned
round the finger by that offal Dunsey as nobody’s seen o’ late, and let
him kill that fine hunting hoss as was the talk o’ the country? And one
while he was allays after Miss Nancy, and then it all went off again,
like a smell o’ hot porridge, as I may say. That wasn’t my way when _I_
went a-coorting.”
“Ah, but mayhap Miss Nancy hung off, like, and your lass didn’t,” said
Ben.
“I should say she didn’t,” said Mr. Macey, significantly. “Before I
said ‘sniff,’ I took care to know as she’d say ‘snaff,’ and pretty
quick too. I wasn’t a-going to open _my_ mouth, like a dog at a fly,
and snap it to again, wi’ nothing to swaller.”
“Well, I think Miss Nancy’s a-coming round again,” said Ben, “for
Master Godfrey doesn’t look so down-hearted to-night. And I see he’s
for taking her away to sit down, now they’re at the end o’ the dance:
that looks like sweethearting, that does.”
The reason why Godfrey and Nancy had left the dance was not so tender
as Ben imagined. In the close press of couples a slight accident had
happened to Nancy’s dress, which, while it was short enough to show her
neat ankle in front, was long enough behind to be caught under the
stately stamp of the Squire’s foot, so as to rend certain stitches at
the waist, and cause much sisterly agitation in Priscilla’s mind, as
well as serious concern in Nancy’s. One’s thoughts may be much occupied
with love-struggles, but hardly so as to be insensible to a disorder in
the general framework of things. Nancy had no sooner completed her duty
in the figure they were dancing than she said to Godfrey, with a deep
blush, that she must go and sit down till Priscilla could come to her;
for the sisters had already exchanged a short whisper and an open-eyed
glance full of meaning. No reason less urgent than this could have
prevailed on Nancy to give Godfrey this opportunity of sitting apart
with her. As for Godfrey, he was feeling so happy and oblivious under
the long charm of the country-dance with Nancy, that he got rather bold
on the strength of her confusion, and was capable of leading her
straight away, without leave asked, into the adjoining small parlour,
where the card-tables were set.
“Oh no, thank you,” said Nancy, coldly, as soon as she perceived where
he was going, “not in there. I’ll wait here till Priscilla’s ready to
come to me. I’m sorry to bring you out of the dance and make myself
troublesome.”
“Why, you’ll be more comfortable here by yourself,” said the artful
Godfrey: “I’ll leave you here till your sister can come.” He spoke in
an indifferent tone.
That was an agreeable proposition, and just what Nancy desired; why,
then, was she a little hurt that Mr. Godfrey should make it? They
entered, and she seated herself on a chair against one of the
card-tables, as the stiffest and most unapproachable position she could
choose.
“Thank you, sir,” she said immediately. “I needn’t give you any more
trouble. I’m sorry you’ve had such an unlucky partner.”
“That’s very ill-natured of you,” said Godfrey, standing by her without
any sign of intended departure, “to be sorry you’ve danced with me.”
“Oh, no, sir, I don’t mean to say what’s ill-natured at all,” said
Nancy, looking distractingly prim and pretty. “When gentlemen have so
many pleasures, one dance can matter but very little.”
“You know that isn’t true. You know one dance with you matters more to
me than all the other pleasures in the world.”
It was a long, long while since Godfrey had said anything so direct as
that, and Nancy was startled. But her instinctive dignity and
repugnance to any show of emotion made her sit perfectly still, and
only throw a little more decision into her voice, as she said—
“No, indeed, Mr. Godfrey, that’s not known to me, and I have very good
reasons for thinking different. But if it’s true, I don’t wish to hear
it.”
“Would you never forgive me, then, Nancy—never think well of me, let
what would happen—would you never think the present made amends for the
past? Not if I turned a good fellow, and gave up everything you didn’t
like?”
Godfrey was half conscious that this sudden opportunity of speaking to
Nancy alone had driven him beside himself; but blind feeling had got
the mastery of his tongue. Nancy really felt much agitated by the
possibility Godfrey’s words suggested, but this very pressure of
emotion that she was in danger of finding too strong for her roused all
her power of self-command.
“I should be glad to see a good change in anybody, Mr. Godfrey,” she
answered, with the slightest discernible difference of tone, “but it
’ud be better if no change was wanted.”
“You’re very hard-hearted, Nancy,” said Godfrey, pettishly. “You might
encourage me to be a better fellow. I’m very miserable—but you’ve no
feeling.”
“I think those have the least feeling that act wrong to begin with,”
said Nancy, sending out a flash in spite of herself. Godfrey was
delighted with that little flash, and would have liked to go on and
make her quarrel with him; Nancy was so exasperatingly quiet and firm.
But she was not indifferent to him _yet_, though—
The entrance of Priscilla, bustling forward and saying, “Dear heart
alive, child, let us look at this gown,” cut off Godfrey’s hopes of a
quarrel.
“I suppose I must go now,” he said to Priscilla.
“It’s no matter to me whether you go or stay,” said that frank lady,
searching for something in her pocket, with a preoccupied brow.
“Do _you_ want me to go?” said Godfrey, looking at Nancy, who was now
standing up by Priscilla’s order.
“As you like,” said Nancy, trying to recover all her former coldness,
and looking down carefully at the hem of her gown.
“Then I like to stay,” said Godfrey, with a reckless determination to
get as much of this joy as he could to-night, and think nothing of the
morrow.
CHAPTER XII.
While Godfrey Cass was taking draughts of forgetfulness from the sweet
presence of Nancy, willingly losing all sense of that hidden bond which
at other moments galled and fretted him so as to mingle irritation with
the very sunshine, Godfrey’s wife was walking with slow uncertain steps
through the snow-covered Raveloe lanes, carrying her child in her arms.
This journey on New Year’s Eve was a premeditated act of vengeance
which she had kept in her heart ever since Godfrey, in a fit of
passion, had told her he would sooner die than acknowledge her as his
wife. There would be a great party at the Red House on New Year’s Eve,
she knew: her husband would be smiling and smiled upon, hiding _her_
existence in the darkest corner of his heart. But she would mar his
pleasure: she would go in her dingy rags, with her faded face, once as
handsome as the best, with her little child that had its father’s hair
and eyes, and disclose herself to the Squire as his eldest son’s wife.