Chapter IX

by George Eliot

　　Godfrey rose and took his own breakfast earlier than usual, butlingered in the wainscoted parlour till his younger brothers hadfinished their meal and gone out; awaiting his father, who alwaystook a walk with his managing-man before breakfast. Every onebreakfasted at a different hour in the Red House, and the Squire wasalways the latest, giving a long chance to a rather feeble morningappetite before he tried it. The table had been spread withsubstantial eatables nearly two hours before he presented himself--a tall, stout man of sixty, with a face in which the knit brow andrather hard glance seemed contradicted by the slack and feeblemouth. His person showed marks of habitual neglect, his dress wasslovenly; and yet there was something in the presence of the oldSquire distinguishable from that of the ordinary farmers in theparish, who were perhaps every whit as refined as he, but, havingslouched their way through life with a consciousness of being in thevicinity of their "betters", wanted that self-possession andauthoritativeness of voice and carriage which belonged to a man whothought of superiors as remote existences with whom he hadpersonally little more to do than with America or the stars. TheSquire had been used to parish homage all his life, used to thepresupposition that his family, his tankards, and everything thatwas his, were the oldest and best; and as he never associated withany gentry higher than himself, his opinion was not disturbed bycomparison.He glanced at his son as he entered the room, and said, "What, sir!haven't you had your breakfast yet?" but there was no pleasantmorning greeting between them; not because of any unfriendliness,but because the sweet flower of courtesy is not a growth of suchhomes as the Red House."Yes, sir," said Godfrey, "I've had my breakfast, but I waswaiting to speak to you.""Ah! well," said the Squire, throwing himself indifferently intohis chair, and speaking in a ponderous coughing fashion, which wasfelt in Raveloe to be a sort of privilege of his rank, while he cuta piece of beef, and held it up before the deer-hound that had comein with him. "Ring the bell for my ale, will you? You youngsters'business is your own pleasure, mostly. There's no hurry about itfor anybody but yourselves."The Squire's life was quite as idle as his sons', but it was afiction kept up by himself and his contemporaries in Raveloe thatyouth was exclusively the period of folly, and that their agedwisdom was constantly in a state of endurance mitigated by sarcasm.Godfrey waited, before he spoke again, until the ale had beenbrought and the door closed--an interval during which Fleet, thedeer-hound, had consumed enough bits of beef to make a poor man'sholiday dinner."There's been a cursed piece of ill-luck with Wildfire," he began;"happened the day before yesterday.""What! broke his knees?" said the Squire, after taking a draughtof ale. "I thought you knew how to ride better than that, sir.I never threw a horse down in my life. If I had, I might ha'whistled for another, for my father wasn't quite so ready tounstring as some other fathers I know of. But they must turn over anew leaf--they must. What with mortgages and arrears, I'm asshort o' cash as a roadside pauper. And that fool Kimble says thenewspaper's talking about peace. Why, the country wouldn't have aleg to stand on. Prices 'ud run down like a jack, and I shouldnever get my arrears, not if I sold all the fellows up. And there'sthat damned Fowler, I won't put up with him any longer; I've toldWinthrop to go to Cox this very day. The lying scoundrel told mehe'd be sure to pay me a hundred last month. He takes advantagebecause he's on that outlying farm, and thinks I shall forget him."The Squire had delivered this speech in a coughing and interruptedmanner, but with no pause long enough for Godfrey to make it apretext for taking up the word again. He felt that his father meantto ward off any request for money on the ground of the misfortunewith Wildfire, and that the emphasis he had thus been led to lay onhis shortness of cash and his arrears was likely to produce anattitude of mind the utmost unfavourable for his own disclosure.But he must go on, now he had begun."It's worse than breaking the horse's knees--he's been staked andkilled," he said, as soon as his father was silent, and had begunto cut his meat. "But I wasn't thinking of asking you to buy meanother horse; I was only thinking I'd lost the means of paying youwith the price of Wildfire, as I'd meant to do. Dunsey took him tothe hunt to sell him for me the other day, and after he'd made abargain for a hundred and twenty with Bryce, he went after thehounds, and took some fool's leap or other that did for the horse atonce. If it hadn't been for that, I should have paid you a hundredpounds this morning."The Squire had laid down his knife and fork, and was staring at hisson in amazement, not being sufficiently quick of brain to form aprobable guess as to what could have caused so strange an inversionof the paternal and filial relations as this proposition of his sonto pay him a hundred pounds."The truth is, sir--I'm very sorry--I was quite to blame,"said Godfrey. "Fowler did pay that hundred pounds. He paid it tome, when I was over there one day last month. And Dunsey botheredme for the money, and I let him have it, because I hoped I should beable 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? Andhow long have you been so thick with Dunsey that you must colloguewith him to embezzle my money? Are you turning out a scamp? I tellyou I won't have it. I'll turn the whole pack of you out of thehouse together, and marry again. I'd have you to remember, sir, myproperty's got no entail on it;--since my grandfather's time theCasses can do as they like with their land. Remember that, sir.Let Dunsey have the money! Why should you let Dunsey have themoney? There's some lie at the bottom of it.""There's no lie, sir," said Godfrey. "I wouldn't have spent themoney myself, but Dunsey bothered me, and I was a fool, and let himhave it. But I meant to pay it, whether he did or not. That's thewhole story. I never meant to embezzle money, and I'm not the manto do it. You never knew me do a dishonest trick, sir.""Where's Dunsey, then? What do you stand talking there for? Goand fetch Dunsey, as I tell you, and let him give account of what hewanted the money for, and what he's done with it. He shall repentit. I'll turn him out. I said I would, and I'll do it. He shan'tbrave me. Go and fetch him.""Dunsey isn't come back, sir.""What! did he break his own neck, then?" said the Squire, withsome disgust at the idea that, in that case, he could not fulfil histhreat."No, he wasn't hurt, I believe, for the horse was found dead, andDunsey must have walked off. I daresay we shall see him againby-and-by. I don't know where he is.""And what must you be letting him have my money for? Answer methat," said the Squire, attacking Godfrey again, since Dunsey wasnot within reach."Well, sir, I don't know," said Godfrey, hesitatingly. That was afeeble evasion, but Godfrey was not fond of lying, and, not beingsufficiently aware that no sort of duplicity can long flourishwithout the help of vocal falsehoods, he was quite unprepared withinvented motives."You don't know? I tell you what it is, sir. You've been up tosome trick, and you've been bribing him not to tell," said theSquire, with a sudden acuteness which startled Godfrey, who felt hisheart beat violently at the nearness of his father's guess. Thesudden alarm pushed him on to take the next step--a very slightimpulse suffices for that on a downward road."Why, sir," he said, trying to speak with careless ease, "it wasa little affair between me and Dunsey; it's no matter to anybodyelse. It's hardly worth while to pry into young men's fooleries: itwouldn't have made any difference to you, sir, if I'd not had thebad luck to lose Wildfire. I should have paid you the money.""Fooleries! Pshaw! it's time you'd done with fooleries. And I'dhave you know, sir, you must ha' done with 'em," said the Squire,frowning and casting an angry glance at his son. "Your goings-onare not what I shall find money for any longer. There's mygrandfather 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, ifI hadn't four good-for-nothing fellows to hang on me likehorse-leeches. I've been too good a father to you all--that'swhat it is. But I shall pull up, sir."Godfrey was silent. He was not likely to be very penetrating in hisjudgments, but he had always had a sense that his father'sindulgence had not been kindness, and had had a vague longing forsome discipline that would have checked his own errant weakness andhelped 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 andhelp 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 Iwanted to push you out of your place.""I know nothing o' your offering or o' my taking it ill," said theSquire, whose memory consisted in certain strong impressionsunmodified by detail; "but I know, one while you seemed to bethinking o' marrying, and I didn't offer to put any obstacles inyour way, as some fathers would. I'd as lieve you marriedLammeter'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'vechanged your mind. You're a shilly-shally fellow: you take afteryour poor mother. She never had a will of her own; a woman has nocall for one, if she's got a proper man for her husband. But yourwife had need have one, for you hardly know your own mind enough tomake both your legs walk one way. The lass hasn't said downrightshe won't have you, has she?""No," said Godfrey, feeling very hot and uncomfortable; "but Idon't think she will.""Think! why haven't you the courage to ask her? Do you stick toit, 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 youhaven't the pluck to do it yourself. Lammeter isn't likely to beloath for his daughter to marry into my family, I should think.And as for the pretty lass, she wouldn't have her cousin--andthere's nobody else, as I see, could ha' stood in your way.""I'd rather let it be, please sir, at present," said Godfrey, inalarm. "I think she's a little offended with me just now, and Ishould like to speak for myself. A man must manage these things forhimself.""Well, speak, then, and manage it, and see if you can't turn over anew leaf. That's what a man must do when he thinks o' marrying.""I don't see how I can think of it at present, sir. You wouldn'tlike to settle me on one of the farms, I suppose, and I don't thinkshe'd come to live in this house with all my brothers. It's adifferent sort of life to what she's been used to.""Not come to live in this house? Don't tell me. You ask her,that's all," said the Squire, with a short, scornful laugh."I'd rather let the thing be, at present, sir," said Godfrey. "Ihope you won't try to hurry it on by saying anything.""I shall do what I choose," said the Squire, "and I shall let youknow I'm master; else you may turn out and find an estate to dropinto somewhere else. Go out and tell Winthrop not to go to Cox's,but wait for me. And tell 'em to get my horse saddled. And stop:look out and get that hack o' Dunsey's sold, and hand me the money,will you? He'll keep no more hacks at my expense. And if you knowwhere he's sneaking--I daresay you do--you may tell him to sparehimself the journey o' coming back home. Let him turn ostler, andkeep himself. He shan't hang on me any more.""I don't know where he is, sir; and if I did, it isn't my place totell him to keep away," said Godfrey, moving towards the door."Confound it, sir, don't stay arguing, but go and order my horse,"said the Squire, taking up a pipe.Godfrey left the room, hardly knowing whether he were more relievedby the sense that the interview was ended without having made anychange in his position, or more uneasy that he had entangled himselfstill further in prevarication and deceit. What had passed abouthis proposing to Nancy had raised a new alarm, lest by someafter-dinner words of his father's to Mr. Lammeter he should bethrown into the embarrassment of being obliged absolutely to declineher when she seemed to be within his reach. He fled to his usualrefuge, that of hoping for some unforeseen turn of fortune, somefavourable chance which would save him from unpleasant consequences--perhaps even justify his insincerity by manifesting its prudence.And in this point of trusting to some throw of fortune's dice,Godfrey can hardly be called specially old-fashioned. FavourableChance, I fancy, is the god of all men who follow their own devicesinstead of obeying a law they believe in. Let even a polished manof these days get into a position he is ashamed to avow, and hismind will be bent on all the possible issues that may deliver himfrom the calculable results of that position. Let him live outsidehis income, or shirk the resolute honest work that brings wages, andhe will presently find himself dreaming of a possible benefactor, apossible simpleton who may be cajoled into using his interest, apossible state of mind in some possible person not yet forthcoming.Let him neglect the responsibilities of his office, and he willinevitably anchor himself on the chance that the thing left undonemay turn out not to be of the supposed importance. Let him betrayhis friend's confidence, and he will adore that same cunningcomplexity called Chance, which gives him the hope that his friendwill never know. Let him forsake a decent craft that he may pursuethe gentilities of a profession to which nature never called him,and his religion will infallibly be the worship of blessed Chance,which he will believe in as the mighty creator of success. The evilprinciple deprecated in that religion is the orderly sequence bywhich the seed brings forth a crop after its kind.