Silas Marner George Eliot (christmas read aloud .TXT) š
- Author: George Eliot
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Silas, on the other hand, was again stricken in conscience, and alarmed lest Godfreyās accusation should be trueā ālest he should be raising his own will as an obstacle to Eppieās good. For many moments he was mute, struggling for the self-conquest necessary to the uttering of the difficult words. They came out tremulously.
āIāll say no more. Let it be as you will. Speak to the child. Iāll hinder nothing.ā
Even Nancy, with all the acute sensibility of her own affections, shared her husbandās view, that Marner was not justifiable in his wish to retain Eppie, after her real father had avowed himself. She felt that it was a very hard trial for the poor weaver, but her code allowed no question that a father by blood must have a claim above that of any foster-father. Besides, Nancy, used all her life to plenteous circumstances and the privileges of ārespectability,ā could not enter into the pleasures which early nurture and habit connect with all the little aims and efforts of the poor who are born poor: to her mind, Eppie, in being restored to her birthright, was entering on a too long withheld but unquestionable good. Hence she heard Silasās last words with relief, and thought, as Godfrey did, that their wish was achieved.
āEppie, my dear,ā said Godfrey, looking at his daughter, not without some embarrassment, under the sense that she was old enough to judge him, āitāll always be our wish that you should show your love and gratitude to one whoās been a father to you so many years, and we shall want to help you to make him comfortable in every way. But we hope youāll come to love us as well; and though I havenāt been what a father should haā been to you all these years, I wish to do the utmost in my power for you for the rest of my life, and provide for you as my only child. And youāll have the best of mothers in my wifeā āthatāll be a blessing you havenāt known since you were old enough to know it.ā
āMy dear, youāll be a treasure to me,ā said Nancy, in her gentle voice. āWe shall want for nothing when we have our daughter.ā
Eppie did not come forward and curtsy, as she had done before. She held Silasās hand in hers, and grasped it firmlyā āit was a weaverās hand, with a palm and fingertips that were sensitive to such pressureā āwhile she spoke with colder decision than before.
āThank you, maāamā āthank you, sir, for your offersā ātheyāre very great, and far above my wish. For I should have no delight iā life any more if I was forced to go away from my father, and knew he was sitting at home, a-thinking of me and feeling lone. Weāve been used to be happy together every day, and I canāt think oā no happiness without him. And he says heād nobody iā the world till I was sent to him, and heād have nothing when I was gone. And heās took care of me and loved me from the first, and Iāll cleave to him as long as he lives, and nobody shall ever come between him and me.ā
āBut you must make sure, Eppie,ā said Silas, in a low voiceā āāyou must make sure as you wonāt ever be sorry, because youāve made your choice to stay among poor folks, and with poor clothes and things, when you might haā had everything oā the best.ā
His sensitiveness on this point had increased as he listened to Eppieās words of faithful affection.
āI can never be sorry, father,ā said Eppie. āI shouldnāt know what to think on or to wish for with fine things about me, as I havenāt been used to. And it āud be poor work for me to put on things, and ride in a gig, and sit in a place at church, as āud make them as Iām fond of think me unfitting company for āem. What could I care for then?ā
Nancy looked at Godfrey with a pained questioning glance. But his eyes were fixed on the floor, where he was moving the end of his stick, as if he were pondering on something absently. She thought there was a word which might perhaps come better from her lips than from his.
āWhat you say is natural, my dear childā āitās natural you should cling to those whoāve brought you up,ā she said, mildly; ābut thereās a duty you owe to your lawful father. Thereās perhaps something to be given up on more sides than one. When your father opens his home to you, I think itās right you shouldnāt turn your back on it.ā
āI canāt feel as Iāve got any father but one,ā said Eppie, impetuously, while the tears gathered. āIāve always thought of a little home where heād sit iā the corner, and I should fend and do everything for him: I canāt think oā no other home. I wasnāt brought up to be a lady, and I canāt turn my mind to it. I like the working-folks, and their victuals, and their ways. And,ā she ended passionately, while the tears fell, āIām promised to marry a workingman, asāll live with father, and
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