The next morning the whole village was excited by the story of the robbery, and Godfrey, like every one else, was occupied in gathering3 and discussing news about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits. The rain had washed away all possibility of distinguishing foot-marks, but a close investigation4 of the spot had disclosed, in the direction opposite to the village, a tinder-box, with a flint and steel, half sunk in the mud. It was not Silas's tinder-box, for the only one he had ever had was still standing5 on his shelf; and the inference generally accepted was, that the tinder-box in the ditch was somehow connected with the robbery. A small minority shook their heads, and intimated their opinion that it was not a robbery to have much light thrown on it by tinder-boxes, that Master Marner's tale had a queer look with it, and that such things had been known as a man's doing himself a mischief6, and then setting the justice to look for the doer. But when questioned closely as to their grounds for this opinion, and what Master Marner had to gain by such false pretences7, they only shook their heads as before, and observed that there was no knowing what some folks counted gain; moreover, that everybody had a right to their own opinions, grounds or no grounds, and that the weaver8, as everybody knew, was partly crazy. Mr. Macey, though he joined in the defence of Marner against all suspicions of deceit, also pooh-poohed the tinder-box; indeed, repudiated9 it as a rather impious suggestion, 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 zealous10 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 constables11."
"Now, don't you be for overshooting the mark, Tookey," said Mr. Macey, nodding his head aside admonishingly. "That's what you're allays12 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 consultation13 was being carried on within, under the presidency14 of Mr. Crackenthorp, the rector, assisted by Squire15 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 honourable16 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 ascertained17 facts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile, Mr. Snell gradually recovered a vivid impression of the effect produced on him by the pedlar's countenance18 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 complexion19 which boded20 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 docile21 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 surmise22, that somebody else would remember the pedlar's ear-rings. For on the spread of inquiry23 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 eliciting24 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 testimony25, 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 irritation26 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 miser27. 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 recitals28 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 random29 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 uncertainty30 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 squandered31 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 superstitious32 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 trot33, 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 wince34 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 confession36 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 withheld37 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 breach38 of trust hardly less culpable39 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.
"I don't pretend to be a good fellow," he said to himself; "but I'm not a scoundrel—at least, I'll stop short somewhere. I'll bear the consequences of what I have done sooner than make believe I've done what I never would have done. I'd never have spent the money for my own pleasure—I was tortured into it."
Through the remainder of this day Godfrey, with only occasional fluctuations40, kept his will bent41 in the direction of a complete avowal42 to his father, and he withheld the story of Wildfire's loss till the next morning, that it might serve him as an introduction to heavier matter. The old Squire was accustomed to his son's frequent absence from home, and thought neither Dunstan's nor Wildfire's non-appearance a matter calling for remark. Godfrey said to himself again and again, that if he let slip this one opportunity of confession, he might never have another; the revelation might be made even in a more odious43 way than by Dunstan's malignity44: she might come as she had threatened to do. And then he tried to make the scene easier to himself by rehearsal45: he made up his mind how he would pass from the admission of his weakness in letting Dunstan have the money to the fact that Dunstan had a hold on him which he had been unable to shake off, and how he would work up his father to expect something very bad before he told him the fact. The old Squire 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 fiery46 volcanic47 matters cool and harden into rock. Like many violent and implacable men, he allowed evils to grow under favour of his own heedlessness, till they pressed upon him with exasperating48 force, and then he turned round with fierce severity and became unrelentingly hard. This was his system with his tenants49: he allowed them to get into arrears50, neglect their fences, reduce their stock, sell their straw, and otherwise go the wrong way,—and then, when he became short of money in consequence of this indulgence, he took the hardest measures and would listen to no appeal. Godfrey knew all this, and felt it with the greater force because he had constantly suffered annoyance51 from witnessing his father's sudden fits of unrelentingness, for which his own habitual52 irresolution53 deprived him of all sympathy. (He was not critical on the faulty indulgence which preceded these fits; that seemed to him natural enough.) Still there was just the chance, Godfrey thought, that his father's pride might see this marriage in a light that would induce him to hush54 it up, rather than turn his son out and make the family the talk of the country for ten miles round.
This was the view of the case that Godfrey managed to keep before him pretty closely till midnight, and he went to sleep thinking that he had done with inward debating. But when he awoke in the still morning darkness he found it impossible to reawaken his evening thoughts; it was as if they had been tired out and were not to be roused to further work. Instead of arguments for confession, he could now feel the presence of nothing but its evil consequences: the old dread35 of disgrace came back—the old shrinking from the thought of raising a hopeless barrier between himself and Nancy—the old disposition55 to rely on chances which might be favourable56 to him, and save him from betrayal. Why, after all, should he cut off the hope of them by his own act? He had seen the matter in a wrong light yesterday. He had been in a rage with Dunstan, and had thought of nothing but a thorough break-up of their mutual57 understanding; but what it would be really wisest for him to do, was to try and soften58 his father's anger against Dunsey, and keep things as nearly as possible in their old condition. If Dunsey did not come back for a few days (and Godfrey did not know but that the rascal59 had enough money in his pocket to enable him to keep away still longer), everything might blow over.
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1
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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2
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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3
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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4
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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5
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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6
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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7
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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9
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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10
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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11
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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12
allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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13
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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14
presidency
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| n.总统(校长，总经理)的职位(任期) | |
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15
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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16
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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17
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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19
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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20
boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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21
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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22
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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23
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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24
eliciting
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| n. 诱发, 引出 动词elicit的现在分词形式 | |
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25
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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26
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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27
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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28
recitals
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| n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 )；独奏会；小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等；一系列事件等的详述 | |
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29
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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30
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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31
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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33
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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34
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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35
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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36
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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37
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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38
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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39
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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40
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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41
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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42
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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43
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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44
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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45
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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46
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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47
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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48
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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49
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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50
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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51
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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52
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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53
irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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54
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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55
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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56
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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57
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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58
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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59
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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