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Tragedy, therefore, plays a large part in the story; for, according to George Eliot, tragedy and suffering walk close behind us, or lurk at every turn in the road of life. Like all her novels, Silas Marner is depressing. We turn away from even the wedding of Eppie which is just as it should be with a sense of sadness and incompleteness.
Silas Marner must be a person of the same sort, for how did he know what would bring back Sally Oates's breath, if he didn't know a fine sight more than that? The Wise Woman had words that she muttered to herself, so that you couldn't hear what they were, and if she tied a bit of red thread round the child's toe the while, it would keep off the water in the head.
We will not follow them now; for may there not be some others in this departing congregation whom we should like to see again some of those who are not likely to be handsomely clad, and whom we may not recognize so easily as the master and mistress of the Red House? But it is impossible to mistake Silas Marner.
For a few moments there was a dead silence, Marner's want of breath and agitation not allowing him to speak. The landlord, under the habitual sense that he was bound to keep his house open to all company, and confident in the protection of his unbroken neutrality, at last took on himself the task of adjuring the ghost. "Master Marner," he said, in a conciliatory tone, "what's lacking to you?
But I beg and pray of you to leave off weaving of a Sunday, for it's bad for soul and body and the money as comes i' that way 'ull be a bad bed to lie down on at the last, if it doesn't fly away, nobody knows where, like the white frost. And you'll excuse me being that free with you, Master Marner, for I wish you well I do. Make your bow, Aaron."
"Me stole your money!" said Jem, angrily. "I'll pitch this can at your eye if you talk o' my stealing your money." "Come, come, Master Marner," said the landlord, now rising resolutely, and seizing Marner by the shoulder, "if you've got any information to lay, speak it out sensible, and show as you're in your right mind, if you expect anybody to listen to you. You're as wet as a drownded rat.
Some tramp's been in, that's all; and as for the no footmarks, and the bricks and the sand being all right why, your eyes are pretty much like a insect's, Master Marner; they're obliged to look so close, you can't see much at a time. It's my opinion as, if I'd been you, or you'd been me for it comes to the same thing you wouldn't have thought you'd found everything as you left it.
In the early years of the nineteenth century a linen-weaver named Silas Marner worked at his vocation in a stone cottage that stood among the nutty hedgerows near the village of Raveloe, and not far from the edge of a deserted stone-pit. It was fifteen years since Silas Marner had first come to Raveloe; he was then simply a pallid young man with prominent, short-sighted brown eyes.
And now, child, read me that chapter over agin, and then I think I could sleep a bit." Before morning Eliza Marner had passed away, and Polly became the head of her uncle's house.
Neighbours who had nothing but verbal consolation to give showed a disposition not only to greet Silas and discuss his misfortune at some length when they encountered him in the village, but also to take the trouble of calling at his cottage and getting him to repeat all the details on the very spot; and then they would try to cheer him by saying, "Well, Master Marner, you're no worse off nor other poor folks, after all; and if you was to be crippled, the parish 'ud give you a 'lowance."
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