Chapter 21 explained simply

The next morning, when Silas and Eppie were seated at their breakfast, he said to her— “Eppie, there’s a thing I’ve had on my mind to do this two year, and now the money’s been brought back to us, we can do it. I’ve been turning it over and over in the night, and I think we’ll set out to-morrow, while the fine days last. We’ll leave the house and everything for your godmother to take care on, and we’ll make a little bundle o’ things and set out.” “Where to go, daddy?” said Eppie, in much surprise. “To my old country—to the town where I was born—up Lantern Yard. I want to see Mr. Paston, the minister: something may ha’ come out to make ’em know I was innicent o’ the robbery. And Mr. Paston was a man with a deal o’ light—I want to speak to him about the drawing o’ the lots. And I should like to talk to him about the religion o’ this country-side, for I partly think he doesn’t know on it.” Eppie was very joyful, for there was the prospect not only of wonder and delight at seeing a strange country, but also of coming back to tell Aaron all about it. Aaron was so much wiser than she was about most things—it would be rather pleasant to have this little advantage over him. Mrs. Winthrop, though possessed with a dim fear of dangers attendant on so long a journey, and requiring many assurances that it would not take them out of the region of carriers’ carts and slow waggons, was nevertheless well pleased that Silas should revisit his own country, and find out if he had been cleared from that false accusation. “You’d be easier in your mind for the rest o’ your life, Master Marner,” said Dolly—“that you would. And if there’s any light to be got up the yard as you talk on, we’ve need of it i’ this world, and I’d be glad on it myself, if you could bring it back.” So on the fourth day from that time, Silas and Eppie, in their Sunday clothes, with a small bundle tied in a blue linen handkerchief, were making their way through the streets of a great manufacturing town. Silas, bewildered by the changes thirty years had brought over his native place, had stopped several persons in succession to ask them the name of this town, that he might be sure he was not under a mistake about it. “Ask for Lantern Yard, father—ask this gentleman with the tassels on his shoulders a-standing at the shop door; he isn’t in a hurry like the rest,” said Eppie, in some distress at her father’s bewilderment, and ill at ease, besides, amidst the noise, the movement, and the multitude of strange indifferent faces. “Eh, my child, he won’t know anything about it,” said Silas; “gentlefolks didn’t ever go up the Yard. But happen somebody can tell me which is the way to Prison Street, where the jail is. I know the way out o’ that as if I’d seen it yesterday.” With some difficulty, after many turnings and new inquiries, they reached Prison Street; and the grim walls of the jail, the first object that answered to any image in Silas’s memory, cheered him with the certitude, which no assurance of the town’s name had hitherto given him, that he was in his native place. “Ah,” he said, drawing a long breath, “there’s the jail, Eppie; that’s just the same: I aren’t afraid now. It’s the third turning on the left hand from the jail doors—that’s the way we must go.” “Oh, what a dark ugly place!” said Eppie. “How it hides the sky! It’s worse than the Workhouse. I’m glad you don’t live in this town now, father. Is Lantern Yard like this street?” “My precious child,” said Silas, smiling, “it isn’t a big street like this. I never was easy i’ this street myself, but I was fond o’ Lantern Yard. The shops here are all altered, I think—I can’t make ’em out; but I shall know the turning, because it’s the third.” “Here it is,” he said, in a tone of satisfaction, as they came to a narrow alley. “And then we must go to the left again, and then straight for’ard for a bit, up Shoe Lane: and then we shall be at the entry next to the o’erhanging window, where there’s the nick in the road for the water to run. Eh, I can see it all.” “O father, I’m like as if I was stifled,” said Eppie. “I couldn’t ha’ thought as any folks lived i’ this way, so close together. How pretty the Stone-pits ’ull look when we get back!” “It looks comical to _me_, child, now—and smells bad. I can’t think as it usened to smell so.” Here and there a sallow, begrimed face looked out from a gloomy doorway at the strangers, and increased Eppie’s uneasiness, so that it was a longed-for relief when they issued from the alleys into Shoe Lane, where there was a broader strip of sky. “Dear heart!” said Silas, “why, there’s people coming out o’ the Yard as if they’d been to chapel at this time o’ day—a weekday noon!” Suddenly he started and stood still with a look of distressed amazement, that alarmed Eppie. They were before an opening in front of a large factory, from which men and women were streaming for their midday meal. “Father,” said Eppie, clasping his arm, “what’s the matter?” But she had to speak again and again before Silas could answer her. “It’s gone, child,” he said, at last, in strong agitation—“Lantern Yard’s gone. It must ha’ been here, because here’s the house with the o’erhanging window—I know that—it’s just the same; but they’ve made this new opening; and see that big factory! It’s all gone—chapel and all.” “Come into that little brush-shop and sit down, father—they’ll let you sit down,” said Eppie, always on the watch lest one of her father’s strange attacks should come on. “Perhaps the people can tell you all about it.” But neither from the brush-maker, who had come to Shoe Lane only ten years ago, when the factory was already built, nor from any other source within his reach, could Silas learn anything of the old Lantern Yard friends, or of Mr. Paston the minister. “The old place is all swep’ away,” Silas said to Dolly Winthrop on the night of his return—“the little graveyard and everything. The old home’s gone; I’ve no home but this now. I shall never know whether they got at the truth o’ the robbery, nor whether Mr. Paston could ha’ given me any light about the drawing o’ the lots. It’s dark to me, Mrs. Winthrop, that is; I doubt it’ll be dark to the last.” “Well, yes, Master Marner,” said Dolly, who sat with a placid listening face, now bordered by grey hairs; “I doubt it may. It’s the will o’ Them above as a many things should be dark to us; but there’s some things as I’ve never felt i’ the dark about, and they’re mostly what comes i’ the day’s work. You were hard done by that once, Master Marner, and it seems as you’ll never know the rights of it; but that doesn’t hinder there _being_ a rights, Master Marner, for all it’s dark to you and me.” “No,” said Silas, “no; that doesn’t hinder. Since the time the child was sent to me and I’ve come to love her as myself, I’ve had light enough to trusten by; and now she says she’ll never leave me, I think I shall trusten till I die.” CONCLUSION There was one time of the year which was held in Raveloe to be especially suitable for a wedding. It was when the great lilacs and laburnums in the old-fashioned gardens showed their golden and purple wealth above the lichen-tinted walls, and when there were calves still young enough to want bucketfuls of fragrant milk. People were not so busy then as they must become when the full cheese-making and the mowing had set in; and besides, it was a time when a light bridal dress could be worn with comfort and seen to advantage. Happily the sunshine fell more warmly than usual on the lilac tufts the morning that Eppie was married, for her dress was a very light one. She had often thought, though with a feeling of renunciation, that the perfection of a wedding-dress would be a white cotton, with the tiniest pink sprig at wide intervals; so that when Mrs. Godfrey Cass begged to provide one, and asked Eppie to choose what it should be, previous meditation had enabled her to give a decided answer at once. Seen at a little distance as she walked across the churchyard and down the village, she seemed to be attired in pure white, and her hair looked like the dash of gold on a lily. One hand was on her husband’s arm, and with the other she clasped the hand of her father Silas. “You won’t be giving me away, father,” she had said before they went to church; “you’ll only be taking Aaron to be a son to you.” Dolly Winthrop walked behind with her husband; and there ended the little bridal procession. There were many eyes to look at it, and Miss Priscilla Lammeter was glad that she and her father had happened to drive up to the door of the Red House just in time to see this pretty sight. They had come to keep Nancy company to-day, because Mr. Cass had had to go away to Lytherley, for special reasons. That seemed to be a pity, for otherwise he might have gone, as Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr. Osgood certainly would, to look on at the wedding-feast which he had ordered at the Rainbow, naturally feeling a great interest in the weaver who had been wronged by one of his own family. “I could ha’ wished Nancy had had the luck to find a child like that and bring her up,” said Priscilla to her father, as they sat in the gig; “I should ha’ had something young to think of then, besides the lambs and the calves.” “Yes, my dear, yes,” said Mr. Lammeter; “one feels that as one gets older. Things look dim to old folks: they’d need have some young eyes about ’em, to let ’em know the world’s the same as it used to be.” Nancy came out now to welcome her father and sister; and the wedding group had passed on beyond the Red House to the humbler part of the village. Dolly Winthrop was the first to divine that old Mr. Macey, who had been set in his arm-chair outside his own door, would expect some special notice as they passed, since he was too old to be at the wedding-feast. “Mr. Macey’s looking for a word from us,” said Dolly; “he’ll be hurt if we pass him and say nothing—and him so racked with rheumatiz.” So they turned aside to shake hands with the old man. He had looked forward to the occasion, and had his premeditated speech. “Well, Master Marner,” he said, in a voice that quavered a good deal, “I’ve lived to see my words come true. I was the first to say there was no harm in you, though your looks might be again’ you; and I was the first to say you’d get your money back. And it’s nothing but rightful as you should. And I’d ha’ said the ‘Amens,’ and willing, at the holy matrimony; but Tookey’s done it a good while now, and I hope you’ll have none the worse luck.” In the open yard before the Rainbow the party of guests were already assembled, though it was still nearly an hour before the appointed feast time. But by this means they could not only enjoy the slow advent of their pleasure; they had also ample leisure to talk of Silas Marner’s strange history, and arrive by due degrees at the conclusion that he had brought a blessing on himself by acting like a father to a lone motherless child. Even the farrier did not negative this sentiment: on the contrary, he took it up as peculiarly his own, and invited any hardy person present to contradict him. But he met with no contradiction; and all differences among the company were merged in a general agreement with Mr. Snell’s sentiment, that when a man had deserved his good luck, it was the part of his neighbours to wish him joy. As the bridal group approached, a hearty cheer was raised in the Rainbow yard; and Ben Winthrop, whose jokes had retained their acceptable flavour, found it agreeable to turn in there and receive congratulations; not requiring the proposed interval of quiet at the Stone-pits before joining the company. Eppie had a larger garden than she had ever expected there now; and in other ways there had been alterations at the expense of Mr. Cass, the landlord, to suit Silas’s larger family. For he and Eppie had declared that they would rather stay at the Stone-pits than go to any new home. The garden was fenced with stones on two sides, but in front there was an open fence, through which the flowers shone with answering gladness, as the four united people came within sight of them. “O father,” said Eppie, “what a pretty home ours is! I think nobody could be happier than we are.”