Silas Marner by George Eliot (free children's online books .txt) 📕

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 someone’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 thickset, 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 goodbye, 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 tomorrow. 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