Silas Marner
where moral censure was severe, but it was thought a weakness in the
Squire that he had kept all his sons at home in idleness; and though
some licence was to be allowed to young men whose fathers could afford
it, people shook their heads at the courses of the second son, Dunstan,
commonly called Dunsey Cass, whose taste for swopping and betting might
turn out to be a sowing of something worse than wild oats. To be sure,
the neighbours said, it was no matter what became of Dunsey—a spiteful
jeering fellow, who seemed to enjoy his drink the more when other
people went dry—always provided that his doings did not bring trouble
on a family like Squire Cass’s, with a monument in the church, and
tankards older than King George. But it would be a thousand pities if
Mr. Godfrey, the eldest, a fine open-faced good-natured young man who
was to come into the land some day, should take to going along the same
road with his brother, as he had seemed to do of late. If he went on in
that way, he would lose Miss Nancy Lammeter; for it was well known that
she had looked very shyly on him ever since last Whitsuntide
twelvemonth, when there was so much talk about his being away from home
days and days together. There was something wrong, more than
common—that was quite clear; for Mr. Godfrey didn’t look half so
fresh-coloured and open as he used to do. At one time everybody was
saying, What a handsome couple he and Miss Nancy Lammeter would make!
and if she could come to be mistress at the Red House, there would be a
fine change, for the Lammeters had been brought up in that way, that
they never suffered a pinch of salt to be wasted, and yet everybody in
their household had of the best, according to his place. Such a
daughter-in-law would be a saving to the old Squire, if she never
brought a penny to her fortune; for it was to be feared that,
notwithstanding his incomings, there were more holes in his pocket than
the one where he put his own hand in. But if Mr. Godfrey didn’t turn
over a new leaf, he might say “Good-bye” to Miss Nancy Lammeter.
It was the once hopeful Godfrey who was standing, with his hands in his
side-pockets and his back to the fire, in the dark wainscoted parlour,
one late November afternoon in that fifteenth year of Silas Marner’s
life at Raveloe. The fading grey light fell dimly on the walls
decorated with guns, whips, and foxes’ brushes, on coats and hats flung
on the chairs, on tankards sending forth a scent of flat ale, and on a
half-choked fire, with pipes propped up in the chimney-corners: signs
of a domestic life destitute of any hallowing charm, with which the
look of gloomy vexation on Godfrey’s blond face was in sad accordance.
He seemed to be waiting and listening for some one’s approach, and
presently the sound of a heavy step, with an accompanying whistle, was
heard across the large empty entrance-hall.
The door opened, and a thick-set, heavy-looking young man entered, with
the flushed face and the gratuitously elated bearing which mark the
first stage of intoxication. It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him
Godfrey’s face parted with some of its gloom to take on the more active
expression of hatred. The handsome brown spaniel that lay on the hearth
retreated under the chair in the chimney-corner.
“Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me?” said Dunsey, in a
mocking tone. “You’re my elders and betters, you know; I was obliged to
come when you sent for me.”
“Why, this is what I want—and just shake yourself sober and listen,
will you?” said Godfrey, savagely. He had himself been drinking more
than was good for him, trying to turn his gloom into uncalculating
anger. “I want to tell you, I must hand over that rent of Fowler’s to
the Squire, or else tell him I gave it you; for he’s threatening to
distrain for it, and it’ll all be out soon, whether I tell him or not.
He said, just now, before he went out, he should send word to Cox to
distrain, if Fowler didn’t come and pay up his arrears this week. The
Squire’s short o’ cash, and in no humour to stand any nonsense; and you
know what he threatened, if ever he found you making away with his
money again. So, see and get the money, and pretty quickly, will you?”
“Oh!” said Dunsey, sneeringly, coming nearer to his brother and looking
in his face. “Suppose, now, you get the money yourself, and save me the
trouble, eh? Since you was so kind as to hand it over to me, you’ll not
refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me: it was your brotherly
love made you do it, you know.”
Godfrey bit his lips and clenched his fist. “Don’t come near me with
that look, else I’ll knock you down.”
“Oh no, you won’t,” said Dunsey, turning away on his heel, however.
“Because I’m such a good-natured brother, you know. I might get you
turned out of house and home, and cut off with a shilling any day. I
might tell the Squire how his handsome son was married to that nice
young woman, Molly Farren, and was very unhappy because he couldn’t
live with his drunken wife, and I should slip into your place as
comfortable as could be. But you see, I don’t do it—I’m so easy and
good-natured. You’ll take any trouble for me. You’ll get the hundred
pounds for me—I know you will.”
“How can I get the money?” said Godfrey, quivering. “I haven’t a
shilling to bless myself with. And it’s a lie that you’d slip into my
place: you’d get yourself turned out too, that’s all. For if you begin
telling tales, I’ll follow. Bob’s my father’s favourite—you know that
very well. He’d only think himself well rid of you.”
“Never mind,” said Dunsey, nodding his head sideways as he looked out
of the window. “It ’ud be very pleasant to me to go in your
company—you’re such a handsome brother, and we’ve always been so fond
of quarrelling with one another, I shouldn’t know what to do without
you. But you’d like better for us both to stay at home together; I know
you would. So you’ll manage to get that little sum o’ money, and I’ll
bid you good-bye, though I’m sorry to part.”
Dunstan was moving off, but Godfrey rushed after him and seized him by
the arm, saying, with an oath—
“I tell you, I have no money: I can get no money.”
“Borrow of old Kimble.”
“I tell you, he won’t lend me any more, and I shan’t ask him.”
“Well, then, sell Wildfire.”
“Yes, that’s easy talking. I must have the money directly.”
“Well, you’ve only got to ride him to the hunt to-morrow. There’ll be
Bryce and Keating there, for sure. You’ll get more bids than one.”
“I daresay, and get back home at eight o’clock, splashed up to the
chin. I’m going to Mrs. Osgood’s birthday dance.”
“Oho!” said Dunsey, turning his head on one side, and trying to speak
in a small mincing treble. “And there’s sweet Miss Nancy coming; and we
shall dance with her, and promise never to be naughty again, and be
taken into favour, and—”
“Hold your tongue about Miss Nancy, you fool,” said Godfrey, turning
red, “else I’ll throttle you.”
“What for?” said Dunsey, still in an artificial tone, but taking a whip
from the table and beating the butt-end of it on his palm. “You’ve a
very good chance. I’d advise you to creep up her sleeve again: it ’ud
be saving time, if Molly should happen to take a drop too much laudanum
some day, and make a widower of you. Miss Nancy wouldn’t mind being a
second, if she didn’t know it. And you’ve got a good-natured brother,
who’ll keep your secret well, because you’ll be so very obliging to
him.”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Godfrey, quivering, and pale again,
“my patience is pretty near at an end. If you’d a little more sharpness
in you, you might know that you may urge a man a bit too far, and make
one leap as easy as another. I don’t know but what it is so now: I may
as well tell the Squire everything myself—I should get you off my back,
if I got nothing else. And, after all, he’ll know some time. She’s been
threatening to come herself and tell him. So, don’t flatter yourself
that your secrecy’s worth any price you choose to ask. You drain me of
money till I have got nothing to pacify _her_ with, and she’ll do as
she threatens some day. It’s all one. I’ll tell my father everything
myself, and you may go to the devil.”
Dunsey perceived that he had overshot his mark, and that there was a
point at which even the hesitating Godfrey might be driven into
decision. But he said, with an air of unconcern—
“As you please; but I’ll have a draught of ale first.” And ringing the
bell, he threw himself across two chairs, and began to rap the
window-seat with the handle of his whip.
Godfrey stood, still with his back to the fire, uneasily moving his
fingers among the contents of his side-pockets, and looking at the
floor. That big muscular frame of his held plenty of animal courage,
but helped him to no decision when the dangers to be braved were such
as could neither be knocked down nor throttled. His natural
irresolution and moral cowardice were exaggerated by a position in
which dreaded consequences seemed to press equally on all sides, and
his irritation had no sooner provoked him to defy Dunstan and
anticipate all possible betrayals, than the miseries he must bring on
himself by such a step seemed more unendurable to him than the present
evil. The results of confession were not contingent, they were certain;
whereas betrayal was not certain. From the near vision of that
certainty he fell back on suspense and vacillation with a sense of
repose. The disinherited son of a small squire, equally disinclined to
dig and to beg, was almost as helpless as an uprooted tree, which, by
the favour of earth and sky, has grown to a handsome bulk on the spot
where it first shot upward. Perhaps it would have been possible to
think of digging with some cheerfulness if Nancy Lammeter were to be
won on those terms; but, since he must irrevocably lose _her_ as well
as the inheritance, and must break every tie but the one that degraded
him and left him without motive for trying to recover his better self,
he could imagine no future for himself on the other side of confession
but that of “’listing for a soldier”—the most desperate step, short of
suicide, in the eyes of respectable families. No! he would rather trust
to casualties than to his own resolve—rather go on sitting at the
feast, and sipping the wine he loved, though with the sword hanging
over him and terror in his heart, than rush away into the cold darkness
where there was no pleasure left. The utmost concession to Dunstan
about the horse began to seem easy, compared with the fulfilment of his
own threat. But his pride would not let him recommence the conversation
otherwise than by continuing the quarrel. Dunstan was waiting for this,
and took his ale in shorter draughts than usual.
“It’s just like you,” Godfrey burst out, in a bitter tone, “to talk
about my selling Wildfire in that cool way—the last thing I’ve got to
call my own, and the best bit of horse-flesh I ever had in my life. And
if you’d got a spark of pride in you, you’d be ashamed to see the
stables emptied, and everybody sneering about it. But it’s my belief
you’d sell yourself, if it was only for the pleasure of making somebody
feel he’d got a bad bargain.”
“Aye, aye,” said Dunstan, very placably, “you do me justice, I see. You
know I’m a jewel for ’ticing people into bargains. For which reason I
advise you to let _me_ sell Wildfire. I’d ride him to the hunt
to-morrow for you, with pleasure. I shouldn’t look so handsome as you
in the saddle, but it’s the horse they’ll bid for, and not the rider.”
“Yes, I daresay—trust my horse to you!”
“As you please,” said Dunstan, rapping the window-seat again with an
air of great unconcern. “It’s _you_ have got to pay Fowler’s money;
it’s none of my business. You received the money from him when you went