Silas Marner George Eliot (christmas read aloud .TXT) 📖

a new fustian suit, who walks behind her, is not quite sure upon the question of hair in the abstract, when Eppie puts it to him, and thinks that perhaps straight hair is the best in general, but he doesn’t want Eppie’s hair to be different. She surely divines that there is someone behind her who is thinking about her very particularly, and mustering courage to come to her side as soon as they are out in the lane, else why should she look rather shy, and take care not to turn away her head from her father Silas, to whom she keeps murmuring little sentences as to who was at church and who was not at church, and how pretty the red mountain-ash is over the Rectory wall?

“I wish we had a little garden, father, with double daisies in, like Mrs. Winthrop’s,” said Eppie, when they were out in the lane; “only they say it ’ud take a deal of digging and bringing fresh soil⁠—and you couldn’t do that, could you, father? Anyhow, I shouldn’t like you to do it, for it ’ud be too hard work for you.”

“Yes, I could do it, child, if you want a bit o’ garden: these long evenings, I could work at taking in a little bit o’ the waste, just enough for a root or two o’ flowers for you; and again, i’ the morning, I could have a turn wi’ the spade before I sat down to the loom. Why didn’t you tell me before as you wanted a bit o’ garden?”

“I can dig it for you, Master Marner,” said the young man in fustian, who was now by Eppie’s side, entering into the conversation without the trouble of formalities. “It’ll be play to me after I’ve done my day’s work, or any odd bits o’ time when the work’s slack. And I’ll bring you some soil from Mr. Cass’s garden⁠—he’ll let me, and willing.”

“Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you there?” said Silas; “I wasn’t aware of you; for when Eppie’s talking o’ things, I see nothing but what she’s a-saying. Well, if you could help me with the digging, we might get her a bit o’ garden all the sooner.”

“Then, if you think well and good,” said Aaron, “I’ll come to the Stone-pits this afternoon, and we’ll settle what land’s to be taken in, and I’ll get up an hour earlier i’ the morning, and begin on it.”

“But not if you don’t promise me not to work at the hard digging, father,” said Eppie. “For I shouldn’t ha’ said anything about it,” she added, half-bashfully, half-roguishly, “only Mrs. Winthrop said as Aaron ’ud be so good, and⁠—”

“And you might ha’ known it without mother telling you,” said Aaron. “And Master Marner knows too, I hope, as I’m able and willing to do a turn o’ work for him, and he won’t do me the unkindness to anyways take it out o’ my hands.”

“There, now, father, you won’t work in it till it’s all easy,” said Eppie, “and you and me can mark out the beds, and make holes and plant the roots. It’ll be a deal livelier at the Stone-pits when we’ve got some flowers, for I always think the flowers can see us and know what we’re talking about. And I’ll have a bit o’ rosemary, and bergamot, and thyme, because they’re so sweet-smelling; but there’s no lavender only in the gentlefolks’ gardens, I think.”

“That’s no reason why you shouldn’t have some,” said Aaron, “for I can bring you slips of anything; I’m forced to cut no end of ’em when I’m gardening, and throw ’em away mostly. There’s a big bed o’ lavender at the Red House: the missis is very fond of it.”

“Well,” said Silas, gravely, “so as you don’t make free for us, or ask for anything as is worth much at the Red House: for Mr. Cass’s been so good to us, and built us up the new end o’ the cottage, and given us beds and things, as I couldn’t abide to be imposin’ for garden-stuff or anything else.”

“No, no, there’s no imposin’,” said Aaron; “there’s never a garden in all the parish but what there’s endless waste in it for want o’ somebody as could use everything up. It’s what I think to myself sometimes, as there need nobody run short o’ victuals if the land was made the most on, and there was never a morsel but what could find its way to a mouth. It sets one thinking o’ that⁠—gardening does. But I must go back now, else mother ’ull be in trouble as I aren’t there.”

“Bring her with you this afternoon, Aaron,” said Eppie; “I shouldn’t like to fix about the garden, and her not know everything from the first⁠—should you, father?”

“Aye, bring her if you can, Aaron,” said Silas; “she’s sure to have a word to say as’ll help us to set things on their right end.”

Aaron turned back up the village, while Silas and Eppie went on up the lonely sheltered lane.

“O daddy!” she began, when they were in privacy, clasping and squeezing Silas’s arm, and skipping round to give him an energetic kiss. “My little old daddy! I’m so glad. I don’t think I shall want anything else when we’ve got a little garden; and I knew Aaron would dig it for us,” she went on with roguish triumph⁠—“I knew that very well.”

“You’re a deep little puss, you are,” said Silas, with the mild passive happiness of love-crowned age in his face; “but you’ll make yourself fine and beholden to Aaron.”

“Oh, no, I shan’t,” said Eppie, laughing and frisking; “he likes it.”

“Come, come, let me carry your prayerbook, else you’ll be dropping it, jumping i’ that way.”

Eppie was now aware that her behaviour was under observation, but it was only the observation of a friendly donkey, browsing with a log fastened to his foot⁠—a meek donkey, not scornfully critical of human trivialities, but thankful to share in them, if possible, by