Silas Marner
shoe. He delivered this box into Eppie’s charge when she had grown up,
and she often opened it to look at the ring: but still she thought
hardly at all about the father of whom it was the symbol. Had she not a
father very close to her, who loved her better than any real fathers in
the village seemed to love their daughters? On the contrary, who her
mother was, and how she came to die in that forlornness, were questions
that often pressed on Eppie’s mind. Her knowledge of Mrs. Winthrop, who
was her nearest friend next to Silas, made her feel that a mother must
be very precious; and she had again and again asked Silas to tell her
how her mother looked, whom she was like, and how he had found her
against the furze bush, led towards it by the little footsteps and the
outstretched arms. The furze bush was there still; and this afternoon,
when Eppie came out with Silas into the sunshine, it was the first
object that arrested her eyes and thoughts.
“Father,” she said, in a tone of gentle gravity, which sometimes came
like a sadder, slower cadence across her playfulness, “we shall take
the furze bush into the garden; it’ll come into the corner, and just
against it I’ll put snowdrops and crocuses, ’cause Aaron says they
won’t die out, but’ll always get more and more.”
“Ah, child,” said Silas, always ready to talk when he had his pipe in
his hand, apparently enjoying the pauses more than the puffs, “it
wouldn’t do to leave out the furze bush; and there’s nothing prettier,
to my thinking, when it’s yallow with flowers. But it’s just come into
my head what we’re to do for a fence—mayhap Aaron can help us to a
thought; but a fence we must have, else the donkeys and things ’ull
come and trample everything down. And fencing’s hard to be got at, by
what I can make out.”
“Oh, I’ll tell you, daddy,” said Eppie, clasping her hands suddenly,
after a minute’s thought. “There’s lots o’ loose stones about, some of
’em not big, and we might lay ’em atop of one another, and make a wall.
You and me could carry the smallest, and Aaron ’ud carry the rest—I
know he would.”
“Eh, my precious un,” said Silas, “there isn’t enough stones to go all
round; and as for you carrying, why, wi’ your little arms you couldn’t
carry a stone no bigger than a turnip. You’re dillicate made, my dear,”
he added, with a tender intonation—“that’s what Mrs. Winthrop says.”
“Oh, I’m stronger than you think, daddy,” said Eppie; “and if there
wasn’t stones enough to go all round, why they’ll go part o’ the way,
and then it’ll be easier to get sticks and things for the rest. See
here, round the big pit, what a many stones!”
She skipped forward to the pit, meaning to lift one of the stones and
exhibit her strength, but she started back in surprise.
“Oh, father, just come and look here,” she exclaimed—“come and see how
the water’s gone down since yesterday. Why, yesterday the pit was ever
so full!”
“Well, to be sure,” said Silas, coming to her side. “Why, that’s the
draining they’ve begun on, since harvest, i’ Mr. Osgood’s fields, I
reckon. The foreman said to me the other day, when I passed by ’em,
‘Master Marner,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if we lay your bit o’
waste as dry as a bone.’ It was Mr. Godfrey Cass, he said, had gone
into the draining: he’d been taking these fields o’ Mr. Osgood.”
“How odd it’ll seem to have the old pit dried up!” said Eppie, turning
away, and stooping to lift rather a large stone. “See, daddy, I can
carry this quite well,” she said, going along with much energy for a
few steps, but presently letting it fall.
“Ah, you’re fine and strong, aren’t you?” said Silas, while Eppie shook
her aching arms and laughed. “Come, come, let us go and sit down on the
bank against the stile there, and have no more lifting. You might hurt
yourself, child. You’d need have somebody to work for you—and my arm
isn’t over strong.”
Silas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it implied more than met
the ear; and Eppie, when they sat down on the bank, nestled close to
his side, and, taking hold caressingly of the arm that was not over
strong, held it on her lap, while Silas puffed again dutifully at the
pipe, which occupied his other arm. An ash in the hedgerow behind made
a fretted screen from the sun, and threw happy playful shadows all
about them.
“Father,” said Eppie, very gently, after they had been sitting in
silence a little while, “if I was to be married, ought I to be married
with my mother’s ring?”
Silas gave an almost imperceptible start, though the question fell in
with the under-current of thought in his own mind, and then said, in a
subdued tone, “Why, Eppie, have you been a-thinking on it?”
“Only this last week, father,” said Eppie, ingenuously, “since Aaron
talked to me about it.”
“And what did he say?” said Silas, still in the same subdued way, as if
he were anxious lest he should fall into the slightest tone that was
not for Eppie’s good.
“He said he should like to be married, because he was a-going in
four-and-twenty, and had got a deal of gardening work, now Mr. Mott’s
given up; and he goes twice a-week regular to Mr. Cass’s, and once to
Mr. Osgood’s, and they’re going to take him on at the Rectory.”
“And who is it as he’s wanting to marry?” said Silas, with rather a sad
smile.
“Why, me, to be sure, daddy,” said Eppie, with dimpling laughter,
kissing her father’s cheek; “as if he’d want to marry anybody else!”
“And you mean to have him, do you?” said Silas.
“Yes, some time,” said Eppie, “I don’t know when. Everybody’s married
some time, Aaron says. But I told him that wasn’t true: for, I said,
look at father—he’s never been married.”
“No, child,” said Silas, “your father was a lone man till you was sent
to him.”
“But you’ll never be lone again, father,” said Eppie, tenderly. “That
was what Aaron said—‘I could never think o’ taking you away from Master
Marner, Eppie.’ And I said, ‘It ’ud be no use if you did, Aaron.’ And
he wants us all to live together, so as you needn’t work a bit, father,
only what’s for your own pleasure; and he’d be as good as a son to
you—that was what he said.”
“And should you like that, Eppie?” said Silas, looking at her.
“I shouldn’t mind it, father,” said Eppie, quite simply. “And I should
like things to be so as you needn’t work much. But if it wasn’t for
that, I’d sooner things didn’t change. I’m very happy: I like Aaron to
be fond of me, and come and see us often, and behave pretty to you—he
always _does_ behave pretty to you, doesn’t he, father?”
“Yes, child, nobody could behave better,” said Silas, emphatically.
“He’s his mother’s lad.”
“But I don’t want any change,” said Eppie. “I should like to go on a
long, long while, just as we are. Only Aaron does want a change; and he
made me cry a bit—only a bit—because he said I didn’t care for him, for
if I cared for him I should want us to be married, as he did.”
“Eh, my blessed child,” said Silas, laying down his pipe as if it were
useless to pretend to smoke any longer, “you’re o’er young to be
married. We’ll ask Mrs. Winthrop—we’ll ask Aaron’s mother what _she_
thinks: if there’s a right thing to do, she’ll come at it. But there’s
this to be thought on, Eppie: things _will_ change, whether we like it
or no; things won’t go on for a long while just as they are and no
difference. I shall get older and helplesser, and be a burden on you,
belike, if I don’t go away from you altogether. Not as I mean you’d
think me a burden—I know you wouldn’t—but it ’ud be hard upon you; and
when I look for’ard to that, I like to think as you’d have somebody
else besides me—somebody young and strong, as’ll outlast your own life,
and take care on you to the end.” Silas paused, and, resting his wrists
on his knees, lifted his hands up and down meditatively as he looked on
the ground.
“Then, would you like me to be married, father?” said Eppie, with a
little trembling in her voice.
“I’ll not be the man to say no, Eppie,” said Silas, emphatically; “but
we’ll ask your godmother. She’ll wish the right thing by you and her
son too.”
“There they come, then,” said Eppie. “Let us go and meet ’em. Oh, the
pipe! won’t you have it lit again, father?” said Eppie, lifting that
medicinal appliance from the ground.
“Nay, child,” said Silas, “I’ve done enough for to-day. I think,
mayhap, a little of it does me more good than so much at once.”
CHAPTER XVII.
While Silas and Eppie were seated on the bank discoursing in the
fleckered shade of the ash tree, Miss Priscilla Lammeter was resisting
her sister’s arguments, that it would be better to take tea at the Red
House, and let her father have a long nap, than drive home to the
Warrens so soon after dinner. The family party (of four only) were
seated round the table in the dark wainscoted parlour, with the Sunday
dessert before them, of fresh filberts, apples, and pears, duly
ornamented with leaves by Nancy’s own hand before the bells had rung
for church.
A great change has come over the dark wainscoted parlour since we saw
it in Godfrey’s bachelor days, and under the wifeless reign of the old
Squire. Now all is polish, on which no yesterday’s dust is ever allowed
to rest, from the yard’s width of oaken boards round the carpet, to the
old Squire’s gun and whips and walking-sticks, ranged on the stag’s
antlers above the mantelpiece. All other signs of sporting and outdoor
occupation Nancy has removed to another room; but she has brought into
the Red House the habit of filial reverence, and preserves sacredly in
a place of honour these relics of her husband’s departed father. The
tankards are on the side-table still, but the bossed silver is undimmed
by handling, and there are no dregs to send forth unpleasant
suggestions: the only prevailing scent is of the lavender and
rose-leaves that fill the vases of Derbyshire spar. All is purity and
order in this once dreary room, for, fifteen years ago, it was entered
by a new presiding spirit.
“Now, father,” said Nancy, “_is_ there any call for you to go home to
tea? Mayn’t you just as well stay with us?—such a beautiful evening as
it’s likely to be.”
The old gentleman had been talking with Godfrey about the increasing
poor-rate and the ruinous times, and had not heard the dialogue between
his daughters.
“My dear, you must ask Priscilla,” he said, in the once firm voice, now
become rather broken. “She manages me and the farm too.”
“And reason good as I should manage you, father,” said Priscilla, “else
you’d be giving yourself your death with rheumatism. And as for the
farm, if anything turns out wrong, as it can’t but do in these times,
there’s nothing kills a man so soon as having nobody to find fault with
but himself. It’s a deal the best way o’ being master, to let somebody
else do the ordering, and keep the blaming in your own hands. It ’ud
save many a man a stroke, _I_ believe.”
“Well, well, my dear,” said her father, with a quiet laugh, “I didn’t
say you don’t manage for everybody’s good.”
“Then manage so as you may stay tea, Priscilla,” said Nancy, putting
her hand on her sister’s arm affectionately. “Come now; and we’ll go
round the garden while father has his nap.”
“My dear child, he’ll have a beautiful nap in the gig, for I shall
drive. And as for staying tea, I can’t hear of it; for there’s this
dairymaid, now she knows she’s to be married, turned Michaelmas, she’d
as lief pour the new milk into the pig-trough as into the pans. That’s
the way with ’em all: it’s as if they thought the world ’ud be new-made
because they’re to be married. So come and let me put my bonnet on, and
there’ll be time for us to walk round the garden while the horse is
being put in.”
When the sisters were treading the neatly-swept garden-walks, between