And in the evening, too, he said to himself, everything
was the same as when he had left it. The sand and bricks looked as
if they had not been moved. Was it a thief who had taken the bags?
or was it a cruel power that no hands could reach, which had delighted
in making him a second time desolate? He shrank from this vaguer
dread, and fixed his mind with struggling effort on the robber with
hands, who could be reached by hands. His thoughts glanced at all
the neighbours who had made any remarks, or asked any questions
which he might now regard as a ground of suspicion. There was Jem
Rodney, a known poacher, and otherwise disreputable: he had often
met Marner in his journeys across the fields, and had said something
jestingly about the weaver's money; nay, he had once irritated Marner,
by lingering at the fire when he called to light his pipe, instead
of going about his business. Jem Rodney was the man- there was ease in
the thought. Jem could be found and made to restore the money:
Marner did not want to punish him, but only to get back his gold which
had gone from him, and left his soul like a forlorn traveller on an
unknown desert. The robber must be laid hold of. Marner's ideas of
legal authority were confused, but he felt that he must go and
proclaim his loss; and the great people in the village- the clergyman,
the constable, and Squire Cass- would make Jem Rodney, or somebody
else, deliver up the stolen money.
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