Silas Marner George Eliot (christmas read aloud .TXT) 📖

“Fowler did pay that hundred pounds. He paid it to me, when I was over there one day last month. And Dunsey bothered me for the money, and I let him have it, because I hoped I should be able to pay it you before this.”

The Squire was purple with anger before his son had done speaking, and found utterance difficult. “You let Dunsey have it, sir? And how long have you been so thick with Dunsey that you must collogue with him to embezzle my money? Are you turning out a scamp? I tell you I won’t have it. I’ll turn the whole pack of you out of the house together, and marry again. I’d have you to remember, sir, my property’s got no entail on it;⁠—since my grandfather’s time the Casses can do as they like with their land. Remember that, sir. Let Dunsey have the money! Why should you let Dunsey have the money? There’s some lie at the bottom of it.”

“There’s no lie, sir,” said Godfrey. “I wouldn’t have spent the money myself, but Dunsey bothered me, and I was a fool, and let him have it. But I meant to pay it, whether he did or not. That’s the whole story. I never meant to embezzle money, and I’m not the man to do it. You never knew me do a dishonest trick, sir.”

“Where’s Dunsey, then? What do you stand talking there for? Go and fetch Dunsey, as I tell you, and let him give account of what he wanted the money for, and what he’s done with it. He shall repent it. I’ll turn him out. I said I would, and I’ll do it. He shan’t brave me. Go and fetch him.”

“Dunsey isn’t come back, sir.”

“What! did he break his own neck, then?” said the Squire, with some disgust at the idea that, in that case, he could not fulfil his threat.

“No, he wasn’t hurt, I believe, for the horse was found dead, and Dunsey must have walked off. I daresay we shall see him again by-and-by. I don’t know where he is.”

“And what must you be letting him have my money for? Answer me that,” said the Squire, attacking Godfrey again, since Dunsey was not within reach.

“Well, sir, I don’t know,” said Godfrey, hesitatingly. That was a feeble evasion, but Godfrey was not fond of lying, and, not being sufficiently aware that no sort of duplicity can long flourish without the help of vocal falsehoods, he was quite unprepared with invented motives.

“You don’t know? I tell you what it is, sir. You’ve been up to some trick, and you’ve been bribing him not to tell,” said the Squire, with a sudden acuteness which startled Godfrey, who felt his heart beat violently at the nearness of his father’s guess. The sudden alarm pushed him on to take the next step⁠—a very slight impulse suffices for that on a downward road.

“Why, sir,” he said, trying to speak with careless ease, “it was a little affair between me and Dunsey; it’s no matter to anybody else. It’s hardly worth while to pry into young men’s fooleries: it wouldn’t have made any difference to you, sir, if I’d not had the bad luck to lose Wildfire. I should have paid you the money.”

“Fooleries! Pshaw! it’s time you’d done with fooleries. And I’d have you know, sir, you must ha’ done with ’em,” said the Squire, frowning and casting an angry glance at his son. “Your goings-on are not what I shall find money for any longer. There’s my grandfather had his stables full o’ horses, and kept a good house, too, and in worse times, by what I can make out; and so might I, if I hadn’t four good-for-nothing fellows to hang on me like horseleeches. I’ve been too good a father to you all⁠—that’s what it is. But I shall pull up, sir.”

Godfrey was silent. He was not likely to be very penetrating in his judgments, but he had always had a sense that his father’s indulgence had not been kindness, and had had a vague longing for some discipline that would have checked his own errant weakness and helped his better will. The Squire ate his bread and meat hastily, took a deep draught of ale, then turned his chair from the table, and began to speak again.

“It’ll be all the worse for you, you know⁠—you’d need try and help me keep things together.”

“Well, sir, I’ve often offered to take the management of things, but you know you’ve taken it ill always, and seemed to think I wanted to push you out of your place.”

“I know nothing o’ your offering or o’ my taking it ill,” said the Squire, whose memory consisted in certain strong impressions unmodified by detail; “but I know, one while you seemed to be thinking o’ marrying, and I didn’t offer to put any obstacles in your way, as some fathers would. I’d as lieve you married Lammeter’s daughter as anybody. I suppose, if I’d said you nay, you’d ha’ kept on with it; but, for want o’ contradiction, you’ve changed your mind. You’re a shilly-shally fellow: you take after your poor mother. She never had a will of her own; a woman has no call for one, if she’s got a proper man for her husband. But your wife had need have one, for you hardly know your own mind enough to make both your legs walk one way. The lass hasn’t said downright she won’t have you, has she?”

“No,” said Godfrey, feeling very hot and uncomfortable; “but I don’t think she will.”

“Think! why haven’t you the courage to ask her? Do you stick to it, you want to have her⁠—that’s the thing?”

“There’s no other woman I want to marry,” said Godfrey, evasively.

“Well, then, let me make the offer for you, that’s all, if you haven’t the pluck to do it yourself. Lammeter isn’t likely to be loath for his daughter to marry into my family, I should think.