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diff --git a/old/145-0.txt b/old/145-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 20e3e20..0000000 --- a/old/145-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,33285 +0,0 @@ -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 145 *** - - - - -Middlemarch - -George Eliot - -New York and Boston -H. M. Caldwell Company Publishers - -To my dear Husband, George Henry Lewes, -in this nineteenth year of our blessed union. - - -Contents - - PRELUDE. - - BOOK I. MISS BROOKE. - CHAPTER I. - CHAPTER II. - CHAPTER III. - CHAPTER IV. - CHAPTER V. - CHAPTER VI. - CHAPTER VII. - CHAPTER VIII. - CHAPTER IX. - CHAPTER X. - CHAPTER XI. - CHAPTER XII. - - BOOK II. OLD AND YOUNG. - CHAPTER XIII. - CHAPTER XIV. - CHAPTER XV. - CHAPTER XVI. - CHAPTER XVII. - CHAPTER XVIII. - CHAPTER XIX. - CHAPTER XX. - CHAPTER XXI. - CHAPTER XXII. - - BOOK III. WAITING FOR DEATH. - CHAPTER XXIII. - CHAPTER XXIV. - CHAPTER XXV. - CHAPTER XXVI. - CHAPTER XXVII. - CHAPTER XXVIII. - CHAPTER XXIX. - CHAPTER XXX. - CHAPTER XXXI. - CHAPTER XXXII. - CHAPTER XXXIII. - - BOOK IV. THREE LOVE PROBLEMS. - CHAPTER XXXIV. - CHAPTER XXXV. - CHAPTER XXXVI. - CHAPTER XXXVII. - CHAPTER XXXVIII. - CHAPTER XXXIX. - CHAPTER XL. - CHAPTER XLI. - CHAPTER XLII. - - BOOK V. THE DEAD HAND. - CHAPTER XLIII. - CHAPTER XLIV. - CHAPTER XLV. - CHAPTER XLVI. - CHAPTER XLVII. - CHAPTER XLVIII. - CHAPTER XLIX. - CHAPTER L. - CHAPTER LI. - CHAPTER LII. - - BOOK VI. THE WIDOW AND THE WIFE. - CHAPTER LIII. - CHAPTER LIV. - CHAPTER LV. - CHAPTER LVI. - CHAPTER LVII. - CHAPTER LVIII. - CHAPTER LIX. - CHAPTER LX. - CHAPTER LXI. - CHAPTER LXII. - - BOOK VII. TWO TEMPTATIONS. - CHAPTER LXIII. - CHAPTER LXIV. - CHAPTER LXV. - CHAPTER LXVI. - CHAPTER LXVII. - CHAPTER LXVIII. - CHAPTER LXIX. - CHAPTER LXX. - CHAPTER LXXI. - - BOOK VIII. SUNSET AND SUNRISE. - CHAPTER LXXII. - CHAPTER LXXIII. - CHAPTER LXXIV. - CHAPTER LXXV. - CHAPTER LXXVI. - CHAPTER LXXVII. - CHAPTER LXXVIII. - CHAPTER LXXIX. - CHAPTER LXXX. - CHAPTER LXXXI. - CHAPTER LXXXII. - CHAPTER LXXXIII. - CHAPTER LXXXIV. - CHAPTER LXXXV. - CHAPTER LXXXVI. - - FINALE. - - - - -PRELUDE. - - -Who that cares much to know the history of man, and how the mysterious -mixture behaves under the varying experiments of Time, has not dwelt, -at least briefly, on the life of Saint Theresa, has not smiled with -some gentleness at the thought of the little girl walking forth one -morning hand-in-hand with her still smaller brother, to go and seek -martyrdom in the country of the Moors? Out they toddled from rugged -Avila, wide-eyed and helpless-looking as two fawns, but with human -hearts, already beating to a national idea; until domestic reality met -them in the shape of uncles, and turned them back from their great -resolve. That child-pilgrimage was a fit beginning. Theresa’s -passionate, ideal nature demanded an epic life: what were many-volumed -romances of chivalry and the social conquests of a brilliant girl to -her? Her flame quickly burned up that light fuel; and, fed from within, -soared after some illimitable satisfaction, some object which would -never justify weariness, which would reconcile self-despair with the -rapturous consciousness of life beyond self. She found her epos in the -reform of a religious order. - -That Spanish woman who lived three hundred years ago, was certainly not -the last of her kind. Many Theresas have been born who found for -themselves no epic life wherein there was a constant unfolding of -far-resonant action; perhaps only a life of mistakes, the offspring of -a certain spiritual grandeur ill-matched with the meanness of -opportunity; perhaps a tragic failure which found no sacred poet and -sank unwept into oblivion. With dim lights and tangled circumstance -they tried to shape their thought and deed in noble agreement; but -after all, to common eyes their struggles seemed mere inconsistency and -formlessness; for these later-born Theresas were helped by no coherent -social faith and order which could perform the function of knowledge -for the ardently willing soul. Their ardor alternated between a vague -ideal and the common yearning of womanhood; so that the one was -disapproved as extravagance, and the other condemned as a lapse. - -Some have felt that these blundering lives are due to the inconvenient -indefiniteness with which the Supreme Power has fashioned the natures -of women: if there were one level of feminine incompetence as strict as -the ability to count three and no more, the social lot of women might -be treated with scientific certitude. Meanwhile the indefiniteness -remains, and the limits of variation are really much wider than any one -would imagine from the sameness of women’s coiffure and the favorite -love-stories in prose and verse. Here and there a cygnet is reared -uneasily among the ducklings in the brown pond, and never finds the -living stream in fellowship with its own oary-footed kind. Here and -there is born a Saint Theresa, foundress of nothing, whose loving -heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and are -dispersed among hindrances, instead of centring in some -long-recognizable deed. - - - - -BOOK I. -MISS BROOKE. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -Since I can do no good because a woman, -Reach constantly at something that is near it. - —_The Maid’s Tragedy:_ BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. - - -Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into -relief by poor dress. Her hand and wrist were so finely formed that she -could wear sleeves not less bare of style than those in which the -Blessed Virgin appeared to Italian painters; and her profile as well as -her stature and bearing seemed to gain the more dignity from her plain -garments, which by the side of provincial fashion gave her the -impressiveness of a fine quotation from the Bible,—or from one of our -elder poets,—in a paragraph of to-day’s newspaper. She was usually -spoken of as being remarkably clever, but with the addition that her -sister Celia had more common-sense. Nevertheless, Celia wore scarcely -more trimmings; and it was only to close observers that her dress -differed from her sister’s, and had a shade of coquetry in its -arrangements; for Miss Brooke’s plain dressing was due to mixed -conditions, in most of which her sister shared. The pride of being -ladies had something to do with it: the Brooke connections, though not -exactly aristocratic, were unquestionably “good:” if you inquired -backward for a generation or two, you would not find any yard-measuring -or parcel-tying forefathers—anything lower than an admiral or a -clergyman; and there was even an ancestor discernible as a Puritan -gentleman who served under Cromwell, but afterwards conformed, and -managed to come out of all political troubles as the proprietor of a -respectable family estate. Young women of such birth, living in a quiet -country-house, and attending a village church hardly larger than a -parlor, naturally regarded frippery as the ambition of a huckster’s -daughter. Then there was well-bred economy, which in those days made -show in dress the first item to be deducted from, when any margin was -required for expenses more distinctive of rank. Such reasons would have -been enough to account for plain dress, quite apart from religious -feeling; but in Miss Brooke’s case, religion alone would have -determined it; and Celia mildly acquiesced in all her sister’s -sentiments, only infusing them with that common-sense which is able to -accept momentous doctrines without any eccentric agitation. Dorothea -knew many passages of Pascal’s Pensees and of Jeremy Taylor by heart; -and to her the destinies of mankind, seen by the light of Christianity, -made the solicitudes of feminine fashion appear an occupation for -Bedlam. She could not reconcile the anxieties of a spiritual life -involving eternal consequences, with a keen interest in gimp and -artificial protrusions of drapery. Her mind was theoretic, and yearned -by its nature after some lofty conception of the world which might -frankly include the parish of Tipton and her own rule of conduct there; -she was enamoured of intensity and greatness, and rash in embracing -whatever seemed to her to have those aspects; likely to seek martyrdom, -to make retractations, and then to incur martyrdom after all in a -quarter where she had not sought it. Certainly such elements in the -character of a marriageable girl tended to interfere with her lot, and -hinder it from being decided according to custom, by good looks, -vanity, and merely canine affection. With all this, she, the elder of -the sisters, was not yet twenty, and they had both been educated, since -they were about twelve years old and had lost their parents, on plans -at once narrow and promiscuous, first in an English family and -afterwards in a Swiss family at Lausanne, their bachelor uncle and -guardian trying in this way to remedy the disadvantages of their -orphaned condition. - -It was hardly a year since they had come to live at Tipton Grange with -their uncle, a man nearly sixty, of acquiescent temper, miscellaneous -opinions, and uncertain vote. He had travelled in his younger years, -and was held in this part of the county to have contracted a too -rambling habit of mind. Mr. Brooke’s conclusions were as difficult to -predict as the weather: it was only safe to say that he would act with -benevolent intentions, and that he would spend as little money as -possible in carrying them out. For the most glutinously indefinite -minds enclose some hard grains of habit; and a man has been seen lax -about all his own interests except the retention of his snuff-box, -concerning which he was watchful, suspicious, and greedy of clutch. - -In Mr. Brooke the hereditary strain of Puritan energy was clearly in -abeyance; but in his niece Dorothea it glowed alike through faults and -virtues, turning sometimes into impatience of her uncle’s talk or his -way of “letting things be” on his estate, and making her long all the -more for the time when she would be of age and have some command of -money for generous schemes. She was regarded as an heiress; for not -only had the sisters seven hundred a-year each from their parents, but -if Dorothea married and had a son, that son would inherit Mr. Brooke’s -estate, presumably worth about three thousand a-year—a rental which -seemed wealth to provincial families, still discussing Mr. Peel’s late -conduct on the Catholic question, innocent of future gold-fields, and -of that gorgeous plutocracy which has so nobly exalted the necessities -of genteel life. - -And how should Dorothea not marry?—a girl so handsome and with such -prospects? Nothing could hinder it but her love of extremes, and her -insistence on regulating life according to notions which might cause a -wary man to hesitate before he made her an offer, or even might lead -her at last to refuse all offers. A young lady of some birth and -fortune, who knelt suddenly down on a brick floor by the side of a sick -laborer and prayed fervidly as if she thought herself living in the -time of the Apostles—who had strange whims of fasting like a Papist, -and of sitting up at night to read old theological books! Such a wife -might awaken you some fine morning with a new scheme for the -application of her income which would interfere with political economy -and the keeping of saddle-horses: a man would naturally think twice -before he risked himself in such fellowship. Women were expected to -have weak opinions; but the great safeguard of society and of domestic -life was, that opinions were not acted on. Sane people did what their -neighbors did, so that if any lunatics were at large, one might know -and avoid them. - -The rural opinion about the new young ladies, even among the cottagers, -was generally in favor of Celia, as being so amiable and -innocent-looking, while Miss Brooke’s large eyes seemed, like her -religion, too unusual and striking. Poor Dorothea! compared with her, -the innocent-looking Celia was knowing and worldly-wise; so much -subtler is a human mind than the outside tissues which make a sort of -blazonry or clock-face for it. - -Yet those who approached Dorothea, though prejudiced against her by -this alarming hearsay, found that she had a charm unaccountably -reconcilable with it. Most men thought her bewitching when she was on -horseback. She loved the fresh air and the various aspects of the -country, and when her eyes and cheeks glowed with mingled pleasure she -looked very little like a devotee. Riding was an indulgence which she -allowed herself in spite of conscientious qualms; she felt that she -enjoyed it in a pagan sensuous way, and always looked forward to -renouncing it. - -She was open, ardent, and not in the least self-admiring; indeed, it -was pretty to see how her imagination adorned her sister Celia with -attractions altogether superior to her own, and if any gentleman -appeared to come to the Grange from some other motive than that of -seeing Mr. Brooke, she concluded that he must be in love with Celia: -Sir James Chettam, for example, whom she constantly considered from -Celia’s point of view, inwardly debating whether it would be good for -Celia to accept him. That he should be regarded as a suitor to herself -would have seemed to her a ridiculous irrelevance. Dorothea, with all -her eagerness to know the truths of life, retained very childlike ideas -about marriage. She felt sure that she would have accepted the -judicious Hooker, if she had been born in time to save him from that -wretched mistake he made in matrimony; or John Milton when his -blindness had come on; or any of the other great men whose odd habits -it would have been glorious piety to endure; but an amiable handsome -baronet, who said “Exactly” to her remarks even when she expressed -uncertainty,—how could he affect her as a lover? The really delightful -marriage must be that where your husband was a sort of father, and -could teach you even Hebrew, if you wished it. - -These peculiarities of Dorothea’s character caused Mr. Brooke to be all -the more blamed in neighboring families for not securing some -middle-aged lady as guide and companion to his nieces. But he himself -dreaded so much the sort of superior woman likely to be available for -such a position, that he allowed himself to be dissuaded by Dorothea’s -objections, and was in this case brave enough to defy the world—that is -to say, Mrs. Cadwallader the Rector’s wife, and the small group of -gentry with whom he visited in the northeast corner of Loamshire. So -Miss Brooke presided in her uncle’s household, and did not at all -dislike her new authority, with the homage that belonged to it. - -Sir James Chettam was going to dine at the Grange to-day with another -gentleman whom the girls had never seen, and about whom Dorothea felt -some venerating expectation. This was the Reverend Edward Casaubon, -noted in the county as a man of profound learning, understood for many -years to be engaged on a great work concerning religious history; also -as a man of wealth enough to give lustre to his piety, and having views -of his own which were to be more clearly ascertained on the publication -of his book. His very name carried an impressiveness hardly to be -measured without a precise chronology of scholarship. - -Early in the day Dorothea had returned from the infant school which she -had set going in the village, and was taking her usual place in the -pretty sitting-room which divided the bedrooms of the sisters, bent on -finishing a plan for some buildings (a kind of work which she delighted -in), when Celia, who had been watching her with a hesitating desire to -propose something, said— - -“Dorothea, dear, if you don’t mind—if you are not very busy—suppose we -looked at mamma’s jewels to-day, and divided them? It is exactly six -months to-day since uncle gave them to you, and you have not looked at -them yet.” - -Celia’s face had the shadow of a pouting expression in it, the full -presence of the pout being kept back by an habitual awe of Dorothea and -principle; two associated facts which might show a mysterious -electricity if you touched them incautiously. To her relief, Dorothea’s -eyes were full of laughter as she looked up. - -“What a wonderful little almanac you are, Celia! Is it six calendar or -six lunar months?” - -“It is the last day of September now, and it was the first of April -when uncle gave them to you. You know, he said that he had forgotten -them till then. I believe you have never thought of them since you -locked them up in the cabinet here.” - -“Well, dear, we should never wear them, you know.” Dorothea spoke in a -full cordial tone, half caressing, half explanatory. She had her pencil -in her hand, and was making tiny side-plans on a margin. - -Celia colored, and looked very grave. “I think, dear, we are wanting in -respect to mamma’s memory, to put them by and take no notice of them. -And,” she added, after hesitating a little, with a rising sob of -mortification, “necklaces are quite usual now; and Madame Poincon, who -was stricter in some things even than you are, used to wear ornaments. -And Christians generally—surely there are women in heaven now who wore -jewels.” Celia was conscious of some mental strength when she really -applied herself to argument. - -“You would like to wear them?” exclaimed Dorothea, an air of astonished -discovery animating her whole person with a dramatic action which she -had caught from that very Madame Poincon who wore the ornaments. “Of -course, then, let us have them out. Why did you not tell me before? But -the keys, the keys!” She pressed her hands against the sides of her -head and seemed to despair of her memory. - -“They are here,” said Celia, with whom this explanation had been long -meditated and prearranged. - -“Pray open the large drawer of the cabinet and get out the jewel-box.” - -The casket was soon open before them, and the various jewels spread -out, making a bright parterre on the table. It was no great collection, -but a few of the ornaments were really of remarkable beauty, the finest -that was obvious at first being a necklace of purple amethysts set in -exquisite gold work, and a pearl cross with five brilliants in it. -Dorothea immediately took up the necklace and fastened it round her -sister’s neck, where it fitted almost as closely as a bracelet; but the -circle suited the Henrietta-Maria style of Celia’s head and neck, and -she could see that it did, in the pier-glass opposite. - -“There, Celia! you can wear that with your Indian muslin. But this -cross you must wear with your dark dresses.” - -Celia was trying not to smile with pleasure. “O Dodo, you must keep the -cross yourself.” - -“No, no, dear, no,” said Dorothea, putting up her hand with careless -deprecation. - -“Yes, indeed you must; it would suit you—in your black dress, now,” -said Celia, insistingly. “You _might_ wear that.” - -“Not for the world, not for the world. A cross is the last thing I -would wear as a trinket.” Dorothea shuddered slightly. - -“Then you will think it wicked in me to wear it,” said Celia, uneasily. - -“No, dear, no,” said Dorothea, stroking her sister’s cheek. “Souls have -complexions too: what will suit one will not suit another.” - -“But you might like to keep it for mamma’s sake.” - -“No, I have other things of mamma’s—her sandal-wood box which I am so -fond of—plenty of things. In fact, they are all yours, dear. We need -discuss them no longer. There—take away your property.” - -Celia felt a little hurt. There was a strong assumption of superiority -in this Puritanic toleration, hardly less trying to the blond flesh of -an unenthusiastic sister than a Puritanic persecution. - -“But how can I wear ornaments if you, who are the elder sister, will -never wear them?” - -“Nay, Celia, that is too much to ask, that I should wear trinkets to -keep you in countenance. If I were to put on such a necklace as that, I -should feel as if I had been pirouetting. The world would go round with -me, and I should not know how to walk.” - -Celia had unclasped the necklace and drawn it off. “It would be a -little tight for your neck; something to lie down and hang would suit -you better,” she said, with some satisfaction. The complete unfitness -of the necklace from all points of view for Dorothea, made Celia -happier in taking it. She was opening some ring-boxes, which disclosed -a fine emerald with diamonds, and just then the sun passing beyond a -cloud sent a bright gleam over the table. - -“How very beautiful these gems are!” said Dorothea, under a new current -of feeling, as sudden as the gleam. “It is strange how deeply colors -seem to penetrate one, like scent. I suppose that is the reason why -gems are used as spiritual emblems in the Revelation of St. John. They -look like fragments of heaven. I think that emerald is more beautiful -than any of them.” - -“And there is a bracelet to match it,” said Celia. “We did not notice -this at first.” - -“They are lovely,” said Dorothea, slipping the ring and bracelet on her -finely turned finger and wrist, and holding them towards the window on -a level with her eyes. All the while her thought was trying to justify -her delight in the colors by merging them in her mystic religious joy. - -“You _would_ like those, Dorothea,” said Celia, rather falteringly, -beginning to think with wonder that her sister showed some weakness, -and also that emeralds would suit her own complexion even better than -purple amethysts. “You must keep that ring and bracelet—if nothing -else. But see, these agates are very pretty and quiet.” - -“Yes! I will keep these—this ring and bracelet,” said Dorothea. Then, -letting her hand fall on the table, she said in another tone—“Yet what -miserable men find such things, and work at them, and sell them!” She -paused again, and Celia thought that her sister was going to renounce -the ornaments, as in consistency she ought to do. - -“Yes, dear, I will keep these,” said Dorothea, decidedly. “But take all -the rest away, and the casket.” - -She took up her pencil without removing the jewels, and still looking -at them. She thought of often having them by her, to feed her eye at -these little fountains of pure color. - -“Shall you wear them in company?” said Celia, who was watching her with -real curiosity as to what she would do. - -Dorothea glanced quickly at her sister. Across all her imaginative -adornment of those whom she loved, there darted now and then a keen -discernment, which was not without a scorching quality. If Miss Brooke -ever attained perfect meekness, it would not be for lack of inward -fire. - -“Perhaps,” she said, rather haughtily. “I cannot tell to what level I -may sink.” - -Celia blushed, and was unhappy: she saw that she had offended her -sister, and dared not say even anything pretty about the gift of the -ornaments which she put back into the box and carried away. Dorothea -too was unhappy, as she went on with her plan-drawing, questioning the -purity of her own feeling and speech in the scene which had ended with -that little explosion. - -Celia’s consciousness told her that she had not been at all in the -wrong: it was quite natural and justifiable that she should have asked -that question, and she repeated to herself that Dorothea was -inconsistent: either she should have taken her full share of the -jewels, or, after what she had said, she should have renounced them -altogether. - -“I am sure—at least, I trust,” thought Celia, “that the wearing of a -necklace will not interfere with my prayers. And I do not see that I -should be bound by Dorothea’s opinions now we are going into society, -though of course she herself ought to be bound by them. But Dorothea is -not always consistent.” - -Thus Celia, mutely bending over her tapestry, until she heard her -sister calling her. - -“Here, Kitty, come and look at my plan; I shall think I am a great -architect, if I have not got incompatible stairs and fireplaces.” - -As Celia bent over the paper, Dorothea put her cheek against her -sister’s arm caressingly. Celia understood the action. Dorothea saw -that she had been in the wrong, and Celia pardoned her. Since they -could remember, there had been a mixture of criticism and awe in the -attitude of Celia’s mind towards her elder sister. The younger had -always worn a yoke; but is there any yoked creature without its private -opinions? - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -“‘Dime; no ves aquel caballero que hacia nosotros viene sobre un -caballo rucio rodado que trae puesto en la cabeza un yelmo de oro?’ ‘Lo -que veo y columbro,’ respondio Sancho, ‘no es sino un hombre sobre un -as no pardo como el mio, que trae sobre la cabeza una cosa que -relumbra.’ ‘Pues ese es el yelmo de Mambrino,’ dijo Don -Quijote.”—CERVANTES. - - -“‘Seest thou not yon cavalier who cometh toward us on a dapple-gray -steed, and weareth a golden helmet?’ ‘What I see,’ answered Sancho, ‘is -nothing but a man on a gray ass like my own, who carries something -shiny on his head.’ ‘Just so,’ answered Don Quixote: ‘and that -resplendent object is the helmet of Mambrino.’” - - -“Sir Humphry Davy?” said Mr. Brooke, over the soup, in his easy smiling -way, taking up Sir James Chettam’s remark that he was studying Davy’s -Agricultural Chemistry. “Well, now, Sir Humphry Davy; I dined with him -years ago at Cartwright’s, and Wordsworth was there too—the poet -Wordsworth, you know. Now there was something singular. I was at -Cambridge when Wordsworth was there, and I never met him—and I dined -with him twenty years afterwards at Cartwright’s. There’s an oddity in -things, now. But Davy was there: he was a poet too. Or, as I may say, -Wordsworth was poet one, and Davy was poet two. That was true in every -sense, you know.” - -Dorothea felt a little more uneasy than usual. In the beginning of -dinner, the party being small and the room still, these motes from the -mass of a magistrate’s mind fell too noticeably. She wondered how a man -like Mr. Casaubon would support such triviality. His manners, she -thought, were very dignified; the set of his iron-gray hair and his -deep eye-sockets made him resemble the portrait of Locke. He had the -spare form and the pale complexion which became a student; as different -as possible from the blooming Englishman of the red-whiskered type -represented by Sir James Chettam. - -“I am reading the Agricultural Chemistry,” said this excellent baronet, -“because I am going to take one of the farms into my own hands, and see -if something cannot be done in setting a good pattern of farming among -my tenants. Do you approve of that, Miss Brooke?” - -“A great mistake, Chettam,” interposed Mr. Brooke, “going into -electrifying your land and that kind of thing, and making a parlor of -your cow-house. It won’t do. I went into science a great deal myself at -one time; but I saw it would not do. It leads to everything; you can -let nothing alone. No, no—see that your tenants don’t sell their straw, -and that kind of thing; and give them draining-tiles, you know. But -your fancy farming will not do—the most expensive sort of whistle you -can buy: you may as well keep a pack of hounds.” - -“Surely,” said Dorothea, “it is better to spend money in finding out -how men can make the most of the land which supports them all, than in -keeping dogs and horses only to gallop over it. It is not a sin to make -yourself poor in performing experiments for the good of all.” - -She spoke with more energy than is expected of so young a lady, but Sir -James had appealed to her. He was accustomed to do so, and she had -often thought that she could urge him to many good actions when he was -her brother-in-law. - -Mr. Casaubon turned his eyes very markedly on Dorothea while she was -speaking, and seemed to observe her newly. - -“Young ladies don’t understand political economy, you know,” said Mr. -Brooke, smiling towards Mr. Casaubon. “I remember when we were all -reading Adam Smith. _There_ is a book, now. I took in all the new ideas -at one time—human perfectibility, now. But some say, history moves in -circles; and that may be very well argued; I have argued it myself. The -fact is, human reason may carry you a little too far—over the hedge, in -fact. It carried me a good way at one time; but I saw it would not do. -I pulled up; I pulled up in time. But not too hard. I have always been -in favor of a little theory: we must have Thought; else we shall be -landed back in the dark ages. But talking of books, there is Southey’s -‘Peninsular War.’ I am reading that of a morning. You know Southey?” - -“No,” said Mr. Casaubon, not keeping pace with Mr. Brooke’s impetuous -reason, and thinking of the book only. “I have little leisure for such -literature just now. I have been using up my eyesight on old characters -lately; the fact is, I want a reader for my evenings; but I am -fastidious in voices, and I cannot endure listening to an imperfect -reader. It is a misfortune, in some senses: I feed too much on the -inward sources; I live too much with the dead. My mind is something -like the ghost of an ancient, wandering about the world and trying -mentally to construct it as it used to be, in spite of ruin and -confusing changes. But I find it necessary to use the utmost caution -about my eyesight.” - -This was the first time that Mr. Casaubon had spoken at any length. He -delivered himself with precision, as if he had been called upon to make -a public statement; and the balanced sing-song neatness of his speech, -occasionally corresponded to by a movement of his head, was the more -conspicuous from its contrast with good Mr. Brooke’s scrappy -slovenliness. Dorothea said to herself that Mr. Casaubon was the most -interesting man she had ever seen, not excepting even Monsieur Liret, -the Vaudois clergyman who had given conferences on the history of the -Waldenses. To reconstruct a past world, doubtless with a view to the -highest purposes of truth—what a work to be in any way present at, to -assist in, though only as a lamp-holder! This elevating thought lifted -her above her annoyance at being twitted with her ignorance of -political economy, that never-explained science which was thrust as an -extinguisher over all her lights. - -“But you are fond of riding, Miss Brooke,” Sir James presently took an -opportunity of saying. “I should have thought you would enter a little -into the pleasures of hunting. I wish you would let me send over a -chestnut horse for you to try. It has been trained for a lady. I saw -you on Saturday cantering over the hill on a nag not worthy of you. My -groom shall bring Corydon for you every day, if you will only mention -the time.” - -“Thank you, you are very good. I mean to give up riding. I shall not -ride any more,” said Dorothea, urged to this brusque resolution by a -little annoyance that Sir James would be soliciting her attention when -she wanted to give it all to Mr. Casaubon. - -“No, that is too hard,” said Sir James, in a tone of reproach that -showed strong interest. “Your sister is given to self-mortification, is -she not?” he continued, turning to Celia, who sat at his right hand. - -“I think she is,” said Celia, feeling afraid lest she should say -something that would not please her sister, and blushing as prettily as -possible above her necklace. “She likes giving up.” - -“If that were true, Celia, my giving-up would be self-indulgence, not -self-mortification. But there may be good reasons for choosing not to -do what is very agreeable,” said Dorothea. - -Mr. Brooke was speaking at the same time, but it was evident that Mr. -Casaubon was observing Dorothea, and she was aware of it. - -“Exactly,” said Sir James. “You give up from some high, generous -motive.” - -“No, indeed, not exactly. I did not say that of myself,” answered -Dorothea, reddening. Unlike Celia, she rarely blushed, and only from -high delight or anger. At this moment she felt angry with the perverse -Sir James. Why did he not pay attention to Celia, and leave her to -listen to Mr. Casaubon?—if that learned man would only talk, instead of -allowing himself to be talked to by Mr. Brooke, who was just then -informing him that the Reformation either meant something or it did -not, that he himself was a Protestant to the core, but that Catholicism -was a fact; and as to refusing an acre of your ground for a Romanist -chapel, all men needed the bridle of religion, which, properly -speaking, was the dread of a Hereafter. - -“I made a great study of theology at one time,” said Mr. Brooke, as if -to explain the insight just manifested. “I know something of all -schools. I knew Wilberforce in his best days. Do you know Wilberforce?” - -Mr. Casaubon said, “No.” - -“Well, Wilberforce was perhaps not enough of a thinker; but if I went -into Parliament, as I have been asked to do, I should sit on the -independent bench, as Wilberforce did, and work at philanthropy.” - -Mr. Casaubon bowed, and observed that it was a wide field. - -“Yes,” said Mr. Brooke, with an easy smile, “but I have documents. I -began a long while ago to collect documents. They want arranging, but -when a question has struck me, I have written to somebody and got an -answer. I have documents at my back. But now, how do you arrange your -documents?” - -“In pigeon-holes partly,” said Mr. Casaubon, with rather a startled air -of effort. - -“Ah, pigeon-holes will not do. I have tried pigeon-holes, but -everything gets mixed in pigeon-holes: I never know whether a paper is -in A or Z.” - -“I wish you would let me sort your papers for you, uncle,” said -Dorothea. “I would letter them all, and then make a list of subjects -under each letter.” - -Mr. Casaubon gravely smiled approval, and said to Mr. Brooke, “You have -an excellent secretary at hand, you perceive.” - -“No, no,” said Mr. Brooke, shaking his head; “I cannot let young ladies -meddle with my documents. Young ladies are too flighty.” - -Dorothea felt hurt. Mr. Casaubon would think that her uncle had some -special reason for delivering this opinion, whereas the remark lay in -his mind as lightly as the broken wing of an insect among all the other -fragments there, and a chance current had sent it alighting on _her_. - -When the two girls were in the drawing-room alone, Celia said— - -“How very ugly Mr. Casaubon is!” - -“Celia! He is one of the most distinguished-looking men I ever saw. He -is remarkably like the portrait of Locke. He has the same deep -eye-sockets.” - -“Had Locke those two white moles with hairs on them?” - -“Oh, I dare say! when people of a certain sort looked at him,” said -Dorothea, walking away a little. - -“Mr. Casaubon is so sallow.” - -“All the better. I suppose you admire a man with the complexion of a -_cochon de lait_.” - -“Dodo!” exclaimed Celia, looking after her in surprise. “I never heard -you make such a comparison before.” - -“Why should I make it before the occasion came? It is a good -comparison: the match is perfect.” - -Miss Brooke was clearly forgetting herself, and Celia thought so. - -“I wonder you show temper, Dorothea.” - -“It is so painful in you, Celia, that you will look at human beings as -if they were merely animals with a toilet, and never see the great soul -in a man’s face.” - -“Has Mr. Casaubon a great soul?” Celia was not without a touch of naive -malice. - -“Yes, I believe he has,” said Dorothea, with the full voice of -decision. “Everything I see in him corresponds to his pamphlet on -Biblical Cosmology.” - -“He talks very little,” said Celia - -“There is no one for him to talk to.” - -Celia thought privately, “Dorothea quite despises Sir James Chettam; I -believe she would not accept him.” Celia felt that this was a pity. She -had never been deceived as to the object of the baronet’s interest. -Sometimes, indeed, she had reflected that Dodo would perhaps not make a -husband happy who had not her way of looking at things; and stifled in -the depths of her heart was the feeling that her sister was too -religious for family comfort. Notions and scruples were like spilt -needles, making one afraid of treading, or sitting down, or even -eating. - -When Miss Brooke was at the tea-table, Sir James came to sit down by -her, not having felt her mode of answering him at all offensive. Why -should he? He thought it probable that Miss Brooke liked him, and -manners must be very marked indeed before they cease to be interpreted -by preconceptions either confident or distrustful. She was thoroughly -charming to him, but of course he theorized a little about his -attachment. He was made of excellent human dough, and had the rare -merit of knowing that his talents, even if let loose, would not set the -smallest stream in the county on fire: hence he liked the prospect of a -wife to whom he could say, “What shall we do?” about this or that; who -could help her husband out with reasons, and would also have the -property qualification for doing so. As to the excessive religiousness -alleged against Miss Brooke, he had a very indefinite notion of what it -consisted in, and thought that it would die out with marriage. In -short, he felt himself to be in love in the right place, and was ready -to endure a great deal of predominance, which, after all, a man could -always put down when he liked. Sir James had no idea that he should -ever like to put down the predominance of this handsome girl, in whose -cleverness he delighted. Why not? A man’s mind—what there is of it—has -always the advantage of being masculine,—as the smallest birch-tree is -of a higher kind than the most soaring palm,—and even his ignorance is -of a sounder quality. Sir James might not have originated this -estimate; but a kind Providence furnishes the limpest personality with -a little gum or starch in the form of tradition. - -“Let me hope that you will rescind that resolution about the horse, -Miss Brooke,” said the persevering admirer. “I assure you, riding is -the most healthy of exercises.” - -“I am aware of it,” said Dorothea, coldly. “I think it would do Celia -good—if she would take to it.” - -“But you are such a perfect horsewoman.” - -“Excuse me; I have had very little practice, and I should be easily -thrown.” - -“Then that is a reason for more practice. Every lady ought to be a -perfect horsewoman, that she may accompany her husband.” - -“You see how widely we differ, Sir James. I have made up my mind that I -ought not to be a perfect horsewoman, and so I should never correspond -to your pattern of a lady.” Dorothea looked straight before her, and -spoke with cold brusquerie, very much with the air of a handsome boy, -in amusing contrast with the solicitous amiability of her admirer. - -“I should like to know your reasons for this cruel resolution. It is -not possible that you should think horsemanship wrong.” - -“It is quite possible that I should think it wrong for me.” - -“Oh, why?” said Sir James, in a tender tone of remonstrance. - -Mr. Casaubon had come up to the table, teacup in hand, and was -listening. - -“We must not inquire too curiously into motives,” he interposed, in his -measured way. “Miss Brooke knows that they are apt to become feeble in -the utterance: the aroma is mixed with the grosser air. We must keep -the germinating grain away from the light.” - -Dorothea colored with pleasure, and looked up gratefully to the -speaker. Here was a man who could understand the higher inward life, -and with whom there could be some spiritual communion; nay, who could -illuminate principle with the widest knowledge: a man whose learning -almost amounted to a proof of whatever he believed! - -Dorothea’s inferences may seem large; but really life could never have -gone on at any period but for this liberal allowance of conclusions, -which has facilitated marriage under the difficulties of civilization. -Has any one ever pinched into its pilulous smallness the cobweb of -pre-matrimonial acquaintanceship? - -“Certainly,” said good Sir James. “Miss Brooke shall not be urged to -tell reasons she would rather be silent upon. I am sure her reasons -would do her honor.” - -He was not in the least jealous of the interest with which Dorothea had -looked up at Mr. Casaubon: it never occurred to him that a girl to whom -he was meditating an offer of marriage could care for a dried bookworm -towards fifty, except, indeed, in a religious sort of way, as for a -clergyman of some distinction. - -However, since Miss Brooke had become engaged in a conversation with -Mr. Casaubon about the Vaudois clergy, Sir James betook himself to -Celia, and talked to her about her sister; spoke of a house in town, -and asked whether Miss Brooke disliked London. Away from her sister, -Celia talked quite easily, and Sir James said to himself that the -second Miss Brooke was certainly very agreeable as well as pretty, -though not, as some people pretended, more clever and sensible than the -elder sister. He felt that he had chosen the one who was in all -respects the superior; and a man naturally likes to look forward to -having the best. He would be the very Mawworm of bachelors who -pretended not to expect it. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -“Say, goddess, what ensued, when Raphael, -The affable archangel . . . - Eve -The story heard attentive, and was filled -With admiration, and deep muse, to hear -Of things so high and strange.” -—_Paradise Lost_, B. vii. - - -If it had really occurred to Mr. Casaubon to think of Miss Brooke as a -suitable wife for him, the reasons that might induce her to accept him -were already planted in her mind, and by the evening of the next day -the reasons had budded and bloomed. For they had had a long -conversation in the morning, while Celia, who did not like the company -of Mr. Casaubon’s moles and sallowness, had escaped to the vicarage to -play with the curate’s ill-shod but merry children. - -Dorothea by this time had looked deep into the ungauged reservoir of -Mr. Casaubon’s mind, seeing reflected there in vague labyrinthine -extension every quality she herself brought; had opened much of her own -experience to him, and had understood from him the scope of his great -work, also of attractively labyrinthine extent. For he had been as -instructive as Milton’s “affable archangel;” and with something of the -archangelic manner he told her how he had undertaken to show (what -indeed had been attempted before, but not with that thoroughness, -justice of comparison, and effectiveness of arrangement at which Mr. -Casaubon aimed) that all the mythical systems or erratic mythical -fragments in the world were corruptions of a tradition originally -revealed. Having once mastered the true position and taken a firm -footing there, the vast field of mythical constructions became -intelligible, nay, luminous with the reflected light of -correspondences. But to gather in this great harvest of truth was no -light or speedy work. His notes already made a formidable range of -volumes, but the crowning task would be to condense these voluminous -still-accumulating results and bring them, like the earlier vintage of -Hippocratic books, to fit a little shelf. In explaining this to -Dorothea, Mr. Casaubon expressed himself nearly as he would have done -to a fellow-student, for he had not two styles of talking at command: -it is true that when he used a Greek or Latin phrase he always gave the -English with scrupulous care, but he would probably have done this in -any case. A learned provincial clergyman is accustomed to think of his -acquaintances as of “lords, knyghtes, and other noble and worthi men, -that conne Latyn but lytille.” - -Dorothea was altogether captivated by the wide embrace of this -conception. Here was something beyond the shallows of ladies’ school -literature: here was a living Bossuet, whose work would reconcile -complete knowledge with devoted piety; here was a modern Augustine who -united the glories of doctor and saint. - -The sanctity seemed no less clearly marked than the learning, for when -Dorothea was impelled to open her mind on certain themes which she -could speak of to no one whom she had before seen at Tipton, especially -on the secondary importance of ecclesiastical forms and articles of -belief compared with that spiritual religion, that submergence of self -in communion with Divine perfection which seemed to her to be expressed -in the best Christian books of widely distant ages, she found in Mr. -Casaubon a listener who understood her at once, who could assure her of -his own agreement with that view when duly tempered with wise -conformity, and could mention historical examples before unknown to -her. - -“He thinks with me,” said Dorothea to herself, “or rather, he thinks a -whole world of which my thought is but a poor twopenny mirror. And his -feelings too, his whole experience—what a lake compared with my little -pool!” - -Miss Brooke argued from words and dispositions not less unhesitatingly -than other young ladies of her age. Signs are small measurable things, -but interpretations are illimitable, and in girls of sweet, ardent -nature, every sign is apt to conjure up wonder, hope, belief, vast as a -sky, and colored by a diffused thimbleful of matter in the shape of -knowledge. They are not always too grossly deceived; for Sinbad himself -may have fallen by good-luck on a true description, and wrong reasoning -sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long way -off the true point, and proceeding by loops and zigzags, we now and -then arrive just where we ought to be. Because Miss Brooke was hasty in -her trust, it is not therefore clear that Mr. Casaubon was unworthy of -it. - -He stayed a little longer than he had intended, on a slight pressure of -invitation from Mr. Brooke, who offered no bait except his own -documents on machine-breaking and rick-burning. Mr. Casaubon was called -into the library to look at these in a heap, while his host picked up -first one and then the other to read aloud from in a skipping and -uncertain way, passing from one unfinished passage to another with a -“Yes, now, but here!” and finally pushing them all aside to open the -journal of his youthful Continental travels. - -“Look here—here is all about Greece. Rhamnus, the ruins of Rhamnus—you -are a great Grecian, now. I don’t know whether you have given much -study to the topography. I spent no end of time in making out these -things—Helicon, now. Here, now!—‘We started the next morning for -Parnassus, the double-peaked Parnassus.’ All this volume is about -Greece, you know,” Mr. Brooke wound up, rubbing his thumb transversely -along the edges of the leaves as he held the book forward. - -Mr. Casaubon made a dignified though somewhat sad audience; bowed in -the right place, and avoided looking at anything documentary as far as -possible, without showing disregard or impatience; mindful that this -desultoriness was associated with the institutions of the country, and -that the man who took him on this severe mental scamper was not only an -amiable host, but a landholder and custos rotulorum. Was his endurance -aided also by the reflection that Mr. Brooke was the uncle of Dorothea? - -Certainly he seemed more and more bent on making her talk to him, on -drawing her out, as Celia remarked to herself; and in looking at her -his face was often lit up by a smile like pale wintry sunshine. Before -he left the next morning, while taking a pleasant walk with Miss Brooke -along the gravelled terrace, he had mentioned to her that he felt the -disadvantage of loneliness, the need of that cheerful companionship -with which the presence of youth can lighten or vary the serious toils -of maturity. And he delivered this statement with as much careful -precision as if he had been a diplomatic envoy whose words would be -attended with results. Indeed, Mr. Casaubon was not used to expect that -he should have to repeat or revise his communications of a practical or -personal kind. The inclinations which he had deliberately stated on the -2d of October he would think it enough to refer to by the mention of -that date; judging by the standard of his own memory, which was a -volume where a vide supra could serve instead of repetitions, and not -the ordinary long-used blotting-book which only tells of forgotten -writing. But in this case Mr. Casaubon’s confidence was not likely to -be falsified, for Dorothea heard and retained what he said with the -eager interest of a fresh young nature to which every variety in -experience is an epoch. - -It was three o’clock in the beautiful breezy autumn day when Mr. -Casaubon drove off to his Rectory at Lowick, only five miles from -Tipton; and Dorothea, who had on her bonnet and shawl, hurried along -the shrubbery and across the park that she might wander through the -bordering wood with no other visible companionship than that of Monk, -the Great St. Bernard dog, who always took care of the young ladies in -their walks. There had risen before her the girl’s vision of a possible -future for herself to which she looked forward with trembling hope, and -she wanted to wander on in that visionary future without interruption. -She walked briskly in the brisk air, the color rose in her cheeks, and -her straw bonnet (which our contemporaries might look at with -conjectural curiosity as at an obsolete form of basket) fell a little -backward. She would perhaps be hardly characterized enough if it were -omitted that she wore her brown hair flatly braided and coiled behind -so as to expose the outline of her head in a daring manner at a time -when public feeling required the meagreness of nature to be -dissimulated by tall barricades of frizzed curls and bows, never -surpassed by any great race except the Feejeean. This was a trait of -Miss Brooke’s asceticism. But there was nothing of an ascetic’s -expression in her bright full eyes, as she looked before her, not -consciously seeing, but absorbing into the intensity of her mood, the -solemn glory of the afternoon with its long swathes of light between -the far-off rows of limes, whose shadows touched each other. - -All people, young or old (that is, all people in those ante-reform -times), would have thought her an interesting object if they had -referred the glow in her eyes and cheeks to the newly awakened ordinary -images of young love: the illusions of Chloe about Strephon have been -sufficiently consecrated in poetry, as the pathetic loveliness of all -spontaneous trust ought to be. Miss Pippin adoring young Pumpkin, and -dreaming along endless vistas of unwearying companionship, was a little -drama which never tired our fathers and mothers, and had been put into -all costumes. Let but Pumpkin have a figure which would sustain the -disadvantages of the shortwaisted swallow-tail, and everybody felt it -not only natural but necessary to the perfection of womanhood, that a -sweet girl should be at once convinced of his virtue, his exceptional -ability, and above all, his perfect sincerity. But perhaps no persons -then living—certainly none in the neighborhood of Tipton—would have had -a sympathetic understanding for the dreams of a girl whose notions -about marriage took their color entirely from an exalted enthusiasm -about the ends of life, an enthusiasm which was lit chiefly by its own -fire, and included neither the niceties of the trousseau, the pattern -of plate, nor even the honors and sweet joys of the blooming matron. - -It had now entered Dorothea’s mind that Mr. Casaubon might wish to make -her his wife, and the idea that he would do so touched her with a sort -of reverential gratitude. How good of him—nay, it would be almost as if -a winged messenger had suddenly stood beside her path and held out his -hand towards her! For a long while she had been oppressed by the -indefiniteness which hung in her mind, like a thick summer haze, over -all her desire to make her life greatly effective. What could she do, -what ought she to do?—she, hardly more than a budding woman, but yet -with an active conscience and a great mental need, not to be satisfied -by a girlish instruction comparable to the nibblings and judgments of a -discursive mouse. With some endowment of stupidity and conceit, she -might have thought that a Christian young lady of fortune should find -her ideal of life in village charities, patronage of the humbler -clergy, the perusal of “Female Scripture Characters,” unfolding the -private experience of Sara under the Old Dispensation, and Dorcas under -the New, and the care of her soul over her embroidery in her own -boudoir—with a background of prospective marriage to a man who, if less -strict than herself, as being involved in affairs religiously -inexplicable, might be prayed for and seasonably exhorted. From such -contentment poor Dorothea was shut out. The intensity of her religious -disposition, the coercion it exercised over her life, was but one -aspect of a nature altogether ardent, theoretic, and intellectually -consequent: and with such a nature struggling in the bands of a narrow -teaching, hemmed in by a social life which seemed nothing but a -labyrinth of petty courses, a walled-in maze of small paths that led no -whither, the outcome was sure to strike others as at once exaggeration -and inconsistency. The thing which seemed to her best, she wanted to -justify by the completest knowledge; and not to live in a pretended -admission of rules which were never acted on. Into this soul-hunger as -yet all her youthful passion was poured; the union which attracted her -was one that would deliver her from her girlish subjection to her own -ignorance, and give her the freedom of voluntary submission to a guide -who would take her along the grandest path. - -“I should learn everything then,” she said to herself, still walking -quickly along the bridle road through the wood. “It would be my duty to -study that I might help him the better in his great works. There would -be nothing trivial about our lives. Every-day things with us would mean -the greatest things. It would be like marrying Pascal. I should learn -to see the truth by the same light as great men have seen it by. And -then I should know what to do, when I got older: I should see how it -was possible to lead a grand life here—now—in England. I don’t feel -sure about doing good in any way now: everything seems like going on a -mission to a people whose language I don’t know;—unless it were -building good cottages—there can be no doubt about that. Oh, I hope I -should be able to get the people well housed in Lowick! I will draw -plenty of plans while I have time.” - -Dorothea checked herself suddenly with self-rebuke for the presumptuous -way in which she was reckoning on uncertain events, but she was spared -any inward effort to change the direction of her thoughts by the -appearance of a cantering horseman round a turning of the road. The -well-groomed chestnut horse and two beautiful setters could leave no -doubt that the rider was Sir James Chettam. He discerned Dorothea, -jumped off his horse at once, and, having delivered it to his groom, -advanced towards her with something white on his arm, at which the two -setters were barking in an excited manner. - -“How delightful to meet you, Miss Brooke,” he said, raising his hat and -showing his sleekly waving blond hair. “It has hastened the pleasure I -was looking forward to.” - -Miss Brooke was annoyed at the interruption. This amiable baronet, -really a suitable husband for Celia, exaggerated the necessity of -making himself agreeable to the elder sister. Even a prospective -brother-in-law may be an oppression if he will always be presupposing -too good an understanding with you, and agreeing with you even when you -contradict him. The thought that he had made the mistake of paying his -addresses to herself could not take shape: all her mental activity was -used up in persuasions of another kind. But he was positively obtrusive -at this moment, and his dimpled hands were quite disagreeable. Her -roused temper made her color deeply, as she returned his greeting with -some haughtiness. - -Sir James interpreted the heightened color in the way most gratifying -to himself, and thought he never saw Miss Brooke looking so handsome. - -“I have brought a little petitioner,” he said, “or rather, I have -brought him to see if he will be approved before his petition is -offered.” He showed the white object under his arm, which was a tiny -Maltese puppy, one of nature’s most naive toys. - -“It is painful to me to see these creatures that are bred merely as -pets,” said Dorothea, whose opinion was forming itself that very moment -(as opinions will) under the heat of irritation. - -“Oh, why?” said Sir James, as they walked forward. - -“I believe all the petting that is given them does not make them happy. -They are too helpless: their lives are too frail. A weasel or a mouse -that gets its own living is more interesting. I like to think that the -animals about us have souls something like our own, and either carry on -their own little affairs or can be companions to us, like Monk here. -Those creatures are parasitic.” - -“I am so glad I know that you do not like them,” said good Sir James. -“I should never keep them for myself, but ladies usually are fond of -these Maltese dogs. Here, John, take this dog, will you?” - -The objectionable puppy, whose nose and eyes were equally black and -expressive, was thus got rid of, since Miss Brooke decided that it had -better not have been born. But she felt it necessary to explain. - -“You must not judge of Celia’s feeling from mine. I think she likes -these small pets. She had a tiny terrier once, which she was very fond -of. It made me unhappy, because I was afraid of treading on it. I am -rather short-sighted.” - -“You have your own opinion about everything, Miss Brooke, and it is -always a good opinion.” - -What answer was possible to such stupid complimenting? - -“Do you know, I envy you that,” Sir James said, as they continued -walking at the rather brisk pace set by Dorothea. - -“I don’t quite understand what you mean.” - -“Your power of forming an opinion. I can form an opinion of persons. I -know when I like people. But about other matters, do you know, I have -often a difficulty in deciding. One hears very sensible things said on -opposite sides.” - -“Or that seem sensible. Perhaps we don’t always discriminate between -sense and nonsense.” - -Dorothea felt that she was rather rude. - -“Exactly,” said Sir James. “But you seem to have the power of -discrimination.” - -“On the contrary, I am often unable to decide. But that is from -ignorance. The right conclusion is there all the same, though I am -unable to see it.” - -“I think there are few who would see it more readily. Do you know, -Lovegood was telling me yesterday that you had the best notion in the -world of a plan for cottages—quite wonderful for a young lady, he -thought. You had a real _genus_, to use his expression. He said you -wanted Mr. Brooke to build a new set of cottages, but he seemed to -think it hardly probable that your uncle would consent. Do you know, -that is one of the things I wish to do—I mean, on my own estate. I -should be so glad to carry out that plan of yours, if you would let me -see it. Of course, it is sinking money; that is why people object to -it. Laborers can never pay rent to make it answer. But, after all, it -is worth doing.” - -“Worth doing! yes, indeed,” said Dorothea, energetically, forgetting -her previous small vexations. “I think we deserve to be beaten out of -our beautiful houses with a scourge of small cords—all of us who let -tenants live in such sties as we see round us. Life in cottages might -be happier than ours, if they were real houses fit for human beings -from whom we expect duties and affections.” - -“Will you show me your plan?” - -“Yes, certainly. I dare say it is very faulty. But I have been -examining all the plans for cottages in Loudon’s book, and picked out -what seem the best things. Oh what a happiness it would be to set the -pattern about here! I think instead of Lazarus at the gate, we should -put the pigsty cottages outside the park-gate.” - -Dorothea was in the best temper now. Sir James, as brother in-law, -building model cottages on his estate, and then, perhaps, others being -built at Lowick, and more and more elsewhere in imitation—it would be -as if the spirit of Oberlin had passed over the parishes to make the -life of poverty beautiful! - -Sir James saw all the plans, and took one away to consult upon with -Lovegood. He also took away a complacent sense that he was making great -progress in Miss Brooke’s good opinion. The Maltese puppy was not -offered to Celia; an omission which Dorothea afterwards thought of with -surprise; but she blamed herself for it. She had been engrossing Sir -James. After all, it was a relief that there was no puppy to tread -upon. - -Celia was present while the plans were being examined, and observed Sir -James’s illusion. “He thinks that Dodo cares about him, and she only -cares about her plans. Yet I am not certain that she would refuse him -if she thought he would let her manage everything and carry out all her -notions. And how very uncomfortable Sir James would be! I cannot bear -notions.” - -It was Celia’s private luxury to indulge in this dislike. She dared not -confess it to her sister in any direct statement, for that would be -laying herself open to a demonstration that she was somehow or other at -war with all goodness. But on safe opportunities, she had an indirect -mode of making her negative wisdom tell upon Dorothea, and calling her -down from her rhapsodic mood by reminding her that people were staring, -not listening. Celia was not impulsive: what she had to say could wait, -and came from her always with the same quiet staccato evenness. When -people talked with energy and emphasis she watched their faces and -features merely. She never could understand how well-bred persons -consented to sing and open their mouths in the ridiculous manner -requisite for that vocal exercise. - -It was not many days before Mr. Casaubon paid a morning visit, on which -he was invited again for the following week to dine and stay the night. -Thus Dorothea had three more conversations with him, and was convinced -that her first impressions had been just. He was all she had at first -imagined him to be: almost everything he had said seemed like a -specimen from a mine, or the inscription on the door of a museum which -might open on the treasures of past ages; and this trust in his mental -wealth was all the deeper and more effective on her inclination because -it was now obvious that his visits were made for her sake. This -accomplished man condescended to think of a young girl, and take the -pains to talk to her, not with absurd compliment, but with an appeal to -her understanding, and sometimes with instructive correction. What -delightful companionship! Mr. Casaubon seemed even unconscious that -trivialities existed, and never handed round that small-talk of heavy -men which is as acceptable as stale bride-cake brought forth with an -odor of cupboard. He talked of what he was interested in, or else he -was silent and bowed with sad civility. To Dorothea this was adorable -genuineness, and religious abstinence from that artificiality which -uses up the soul in the efforts of pretence. For she looked as -reverently at Mr. Casaubon’s religious elevation above herself as she -did at his intellect and learning. He assented to her expressions of -devout feeling, and usually with an appropriate quotation; he allowed -himself to say that he had gone through some spiritual conflicts in his -youth; in short, Dorothea saw that here she might reckon on -understanding, sympathy, and guidance. On one—only one—of her favorite -themes she was disappointed. Mr. Casaubon apparently did not care about -building cottages, and diverted the talk to the extremely narrow -accommodation which was to be had in the dwellings of the ancient -Egyptians, as if to check a too high standard. After he was gone, -Dorothea dwelt with some agitation on this indifference of his; and her -mind was much exercised with arguments drawn from the varying -conditions of climate which modify human needs, and from the admitted -wickedness of pagan despots. Should she not urge these arguments on Mr. -Casaubon when he came again? But further reflection told her that she -was presumptuous in demanding his attention to such a subject; he would -not disapprove of her occupying herself with it in leisure moments, as -other women expected to occupy themselves with their dress and -embroidery—would not forbid it when—Dorothea felt rather ashamed as she -detected herself in these speculations. But her uncle had been invited -to go to Lowick to stay a couple of days: was it reasonable to suppose -that Mr. Casaubon delighted in Mr. Brooke’s society for its own sake, -either with or without documents? - -Meanwhile that little disappointment made her delight the more in Sir -James Chettam’s readiness to set on foot the desired improvements. He -came much oftener than Mr. Casaubon, and Dorothea ceased to find him -disagreeable since he showed himself so entirely in earnest; for he had -already entered with much practical ability into Lovegood’s estimates, -and was charmingly docile. She proposed to build a couple of cottages, -and transfer two families from their old cabins, which could then be -pulled down, so that new ones could be built on the old sites. Sir -James said “Exactly,” and she bore the word remarkably well. - -Certainly these men who had so few spontaneous ideas might be very -useful members of society under good feminine direction, if they were -fortunate in choosing their sisters-in-law! It is difficult to say -whether there was or was not a little wilfulness in her continuing -blind to the possibility that another sort of choice was in question in -relation to her. But her life was just now full of hope and action: she -was not only thinking of her plans, but getting down learned books from -the library and reading many things hastily (that she might be a little -less ignorant in talking to Mr. Casaubon), all the while being visited -with conscientious questionings whether she were not exalting these -poor doings above measure and contemplating them with that -self-satisfaction which was the last doom of ignorance and folly. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -1_st Gent_. Our deeds are fetters that we forge ourselves. - -2_d Gent._ Ay, truly: but I think it is the world -That brings the iron. - - -“Sir James seems determined to do everything you wish,” said Celia, as -they were driving home from an inspection of the new building-site. - -“He is a good creature, and more sensible than any one would imagine,” -said Dorothea, inconsiderately. - -“You mean that he appears silly.” - -“No, no,” said Dorothea, recollecting herself, and laying her hand on -her sister’s a moment, “but he does not talk equally well on all -subjects.” - -“I should think none but disagreeable people do,” said Celia, in her -usual purring way. “They must be very dreadful to live with. Only -think! at breakfast, and always.” - -Dorothea laughed. “O Kitty, you are a wonderful creature!” She pinched -Celia’s chin, being in the mood now to think her very winning and -lovely—fit hereafter to be an eternal cherub, and if it were not -doctrinally wrong to say so, hardly more in need of salvation than a -squirrel. “Of course people need not be always talking well. Only one -tells the quality of their minds when they try to talk well.” - -“You mean that Sir James tries and fails.” - -“I was speaking generally. Why do you catechise me about Sir James? It -is not the object of his life to please me.” - -“Now, Dodo, can you really believe that?” - -“Certainly. He thinks of me as a future sister—that is all.” Dorothea -had never hinted this before, waiting, from a certain shyness on such -subjects which was mutual between the sisters, until it should be -introduced by some decisive event. Celia blushed, but said at once— - -“Pray do not make that mistake any longer, Dodo. When Tantripp was -brushing my hair the other day, she said that Sir James’s man knew from -Mrs. Cadwallader’s maid that Sir James was to marry the eldest Miss -Brooke.” - -“How can you let Tantripp talk such gossip to you, Celia?” said -Dorothea, indignantly, not the less angry because details asleep in her -memory were now awakened to confirm the unwelcome revelation. “You must -have asked her questions. It is degrading.” - -“I see no harm at all in Tantripp’s talking to me. It is better to hear -what people say. You see what mistakes you make by taking up notions. I -am quite sure that Sir James means to make you an offer; and he -believes that you will accept him, especially since you have been so -pleased with him about the plans. And uncle too—I know he expects it. -Every one can see that Sir James is very much in love with you.” - -The revulsion was so strong and painful in Dorothea’s mind that the -tears welled up and flowed abundantly. All her dear plans were -embittered, and she thought with disgust of Sir James’s conceiving that -she recognized him as her lover. There was vexation too on account of -Celia. - -“How could he expect it?” she burst forth in her most impetuous manner. -“I have never agreed with him about anything but the cottages: I was -barely polite to him before.” - -“But you have been so pleased with him since then; he has begun to feel -quite sure that you are fond of him.” - -“Fond of him, Celia! How can you choose such odious expressions?” said -Dorothea, passionately. - -“Dear me, Dorothea, I suppose it would be right for you to be fond of a -man whom you accepted for a husband.” - -“It is offensive to me to say that Sir James could think I was fond of -him. Besides, it is not the right word for the feeling I must have -towards the man I would accept as a husband.” - -“Well, I am sorry for Sir James. I thought it right to tell you, -because you went on as you always do, never looking just where you are, -and treading in the wrong place. You always see what nobody else sees; -it is impossible to satisfy you; yet you never see what is quite plain. -That’s your way, Dodo.” Something certainly gave Celia unusual courage; -and she was not sparing the sister of whom she was occasionally in awe. -Who can tell what just criticisms Murr the Cat may be passing on us -beings of wider speculation? - -“It is very painful,” said Dorothea, feeling scourged. “I can have no -more to do with the cottages. I must be uncivil to him. I must tell him -I will have nothing to do with them. It is very painful.” Her eyes -filled again with tears. - -“Wait a little. Think about it. You know he is going away for a day or -two to see his sister. There will be nobody besides Lovegood.” Celia -could not help relenting. “Poor Dodo,” she went on, in an amiable -staccato. “It is very hard: it is your favorite _fad_ to draw plans.” - -“_Fad_ to draw plans! Do you think I only care about my -fellow-creatures’ houses in that childish way? I may well make -mistakes. How can one ever do anything nobly Christian, living among -people with such petty thoughts?” - -No more was said; Dorothea was too much jarred to recover her temper -and behave so as to show that she admitted any error in herself. She -was disposed rather to accuse the intolerable narrowness and the -purblind conscience of the society around her: and Celia was no longer -the eternal cherub, but a thorn in her spirit, a pink-and-white -nullifidian, worse than any discouraging presence in the “Pilgrim’s -Progress.” The _fad_ of drawing plans! What was life worth—what great -faith was possible when the whole effect of one’s actions could be -withered up into such parched rubbish as that? When she got out of the -carriage, her cheeks were pale and her eyelids red. She was an image of -sorrow, and her uncle who met her in the hall would have been alarmed, -if Celia had not been close to her looking so pretty and composed, that -he at once concluded Dorothea’s tears to have their origin in her -excessive religiousness. He had returned, during their absence, from a -journey to the county town, about a petition for the pardon of some -criminal. - -“Well, my dears,” he said, kindly, as they went up to kiss him, “I hope -nothing disagreeable has happened while I have been away.” - -“No, uncle,” said Celia, “we have been to Freshitt to look at the -cottages. We thought you would have been at home to lunch.” - -“I came by Lowick to lunch—you didn’t know I came by Lowick. And I have -brought a couple of pamphlets for you, Dorothea—in the library, you -know; they lie on the table in the library.” - -It seemed as if an electric stream went through Dorothea, thrilling her -from despair into expectation. They were pamphlets about the early -Church. The oppression of Celia, Tantripp, and Sir James was shaken -off, and she walked straight to the library. Celia went up-stairs. Mr. -Brooke was detained by a message, but when he re-entered the library, -he found Dorothea seated and already deep in one of the pamphlets which -had some marginal manuscript of Mr. Casaubon’s,—taking it in as eagerly -as she might have taken in the scent of a fresh bouquet after a dry, -hot, dreary walk. - -She was getting away from Tipton and Freshitt, and her own sad -liability to tread in the wrong places on her way to the New Jerusalem. - -Mr. Brooke sat down in his arm-chair, stretched his legs towards the -wood-fire, which had fallen into a wondrous mass of glowing dice -between the dogs, and rubbed his hands gently, looking very mildly -towards Dorothea, but with a neutral leisurely air, as if he had -nothing particular to say. Dorothea closed her pamphlet, as soon as she -was aware of her uncle’s presence, and rose as if to go. Usually she -would have been interested about her uncle’s merciful errand on behalf -of the criminal, but her late agitation had made her absent-minded. - -“I came back by Lowick, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, not as if with any -intention to arrest her departure, but apparently from his usual -tendency to say what he had said before. This fundamental principle of -human speech was markedly exhibited in Mr. Brooke. “I lunched there and -saw Casaubon’s library, and that kind of thing. There’s a sharp air, -driving. Won’t you sit down, my dear? You look cold.” - -Dorothea felt quite inclined to accept the invitation. Some times, when -her uncle’s easy way of taking things did not happen to be -exasperating, it was rather soothing. She threw off her mantle and -bonnet, and sat down opposite to him, enjoying the glow, but lifting up -her beautiful hands for a screen. They were not thin hands, or small -hands; but powerful, feminine, maternal hands. She seemed to be holding -them up in propitiation for her passionate desire to know and to think, -which in the unfriendly mediums of Tipton and Freshitt had issued in -crying and red eyelids. - -She bethought herself now of the condemned criminal. “What news have -you brought about the sheep-stealer, uncle?” - -“What, poor Bunch?—well, it seems we can’t get him off—he is to be -hanged.” - -Dorothea’s brow took an expression of reprobation and pity. - -“Hanged, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, with a quiet nod. “Poor Romilly! -he would have helped us. I knew Romilly. Casaubon didn’t know Romilly. -He is a little buried in books, you know, Casaubon is.” - -“When a man has great studies and is writing a great work, he must of -course give up seeing much of the world. How can he go about making -acquaintances?” - -“That’s true. But a man mopes, you know. I have always been a bachelor -too, but I have that sort of disposition that I never moped; it was my -way to go about everywhere and take in everything. I never moped: but I -can see that Casaubon does, you know. He wants a companion—a companion, -you know.” - -“It would be a great honor to any one to be his companion,” said -Dorothea, energetically. - -“You like him, eh?” said Mr. Brooke, without showing any surprise, or -other emotion. “Well, now, I’ve known Casaubon ten years, ever since he -came to Lowick. But I never got anything out of him—any ideas, you -know. However, he is a tiptop man and may be a bishop—that kind of -thing, you know, if Peel stays in. And he has a very high opinion of -you, my dear.” - -Dorothea could not speak. - -“The fact is, he has a very high opinion indeed of you. And he speaks -uncommonly well—does Casaubon. He has deferred to me, you not being of -age. In short, I have promised to speak to you, though I told him I -thought there was not much chance. I was bound to tell him that. I -said, my niece is very young, and that kind of thing. But I didn’t -think it necessary to go into everything. However, the long and the -short of it is, that he has asked my permission to make you an offer of -marriage—of marriage, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, with his explanatory -nod. “I thought it better to tell you, my dear.” - -No one could have detected any anxiety in Mr. Brooke’s manner, but he -did really wish to know something of his niece’s mind, that, if there -were any need for advice, he might give it in time. What feeling he, as -a magistrate who had taken in so many ideas, could make room for, was -unmixedly kind. Since Dorothea did not speak immediately, he repeated, -“I thought it better to tell you, my dear.” - -“Thank you, uncle,” said Dorothea, in a clear unwavering tone. “I am -very grateful to Mr. Casaubon. If he makes me an offer, I shall accept -him. I admire and honor him more than any man I ever saw.” - -Mr. Brooke paused a little, and then said in a lingering low tone, “Ah? -… Well! He is a good match in some respects. But now, Chettam is a good -match. And our land lies together. I shall never interfere against your -wishes, my dear. People should have their own way in marriage, and that -sort of thing—up to a certain point, you know. I have always said that, -up to a certain point. I wish you to marry well; and I have good reason -to believe that Chettam wishes to marry you. I mention it, you know.” - -“It is impossible that I should ever marry Sir James Chettam,” said -Dorothea. “If he thinks of marrying me, he has made a great mistake.” - -“That is it, you see. One never knows. I should have thought Chettam -was just the sort of man a woman would like, now.” - -“Pray do not mention him in that light again, uncle,” said Dorothea, -feeling some of her late irritation revive. - -Mr. Brooke wondered, and felt that women were an inexhaustible subject -of study, since even he at his age was not in a perfect state of -scientific prediction about them. Here was a fellow like Chettam with -no chance at all. - -“Well, but Casaubon, now. There is no hurry—I mean for you. It’s true, -every year will tell upon him. He is over five-and-forty, you know. I -should say a good seven-and-twenty years older than you. To be sure,—if -you like learning and standing, and that sort of thing, we can’t have -everything. And his income is good—he has a handsome property -independent of the Church—his income is good. Still he is not young, -and I must not conceal from you, my dear, that I think his health is -not over-strong. I know nothing else against him.” - -“I should not wish to have a husband very near my own age,” said -Dorothea, with grave decision. “I should wish to have a husband who was -above me in judgment and in all knowledge.” - -Mr. Brooke repeated his subdued, “Ah?—I thought you had more of your -own opinion than most girls. I thought you liked your own opinion—liked -it, you know.” - -“I cannot imagine myself living without some opinions, but I should -wish to have good reasons for them, and a wise man could help me to see -which opinions had the best foundation, and would help me to live -according to them.” - -“Very true. You couldn’t put the thing better—couldn’t put it better, -beforehand, you know. But there are oddities in things,” continued Mr. -Brooke, whose conscience was really roused to do the best he could for -his niece on this occasion. “Life isn’t cast in a mould—not cut out by -rule and line, and that sort of thing. I never married myself, and it -will be the better for you and yours. The fact is, I never loved any -one well enough to put myself into a noose for them. It _is_ a noose, -you know. Temper, now. There is temper. And a husband likes to be -master.” - -“I know that I must expect trials, uncle. Marriage is a state of higher -duties. I never thought of it as mere personal ease,” said poor -Dorothea. - -“Well, you are not fond of show, a great establishment, balls, dinners, -that kind of thing. I can see that Casaubon’s ways might suit you -better than Chettam’s. And you shall do as you like, my dear. I would -not hinder Casaubon; I said so at once; for there is no knowing how -anything may turn out. You have not the same tastes as every young -lady; and a clergyman and scholar—who may be a bishop—that kind of -thing—may suit you better than Chettam. Chettam is a good fellow, a -good sound-hearted fellow, you know; but he doesn’t go much into ideas. -I did, when I was his age. But Casaubon’s eyes, now. I think he has -hurt them a little with too much reading.” - -“I should be all the happier, uncle, the more room there was for me to -help him,” said Dorothea, ardently. - -“You have quite made up your mind, I see. Well, my dear, the fact is, I -have a letter for you in my pocket.” Mr. Brooke handed the letter to -Dorothea, but as she rose to go away, he added, “There is not too much -hurry, my dear. Think about it, you know.” - -When Dorothea had left him, he reflected that he had certainly spoken -strongly: he had put the risks of marriage before her in a striking -manner. It was his duty to do so. But as to pretending to be wise for -young people,—no uncle, however much he had travelled in his youth, -absorbed the new ideas, and dined with celebrities now deceased, could -pretend to judge what sort of marriage would turn out well for a young -girl who preferred Casaubon to Chettam. In short, woman was a problem -which, since Mr. Brooke’s mind felt blank before it, could be hardly -less complicated than the revolutions of an irregular solid. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -“Hard students are commonly troubled with gowts, catarrhs, rheums, -cachexia, bradypepsia, bad eyes, stone, and collick, crudities, -oppilations, vertigo, winds, consumptions, and all such diseases as -come by over-much sitting: they are most part lean, dry, ill-colored … -and all through immoderate pains and extraordinary studies. If you will -not believe the truth of this, look upon great Tostatus and Thomas -Aquinas’ works; and tell me whether those men took pains.”—BURTON’S -_Anatomy of Melancholy_, P. I, s. 2. - - -This was Mr. Casaubon’s letter. - -MY DEAR MISS BROOKE,—I have your guardian’s permission to address you -on a subject than which I have none more at heart. I am not, I trust, -mistaken in the recognition of some deeper correspondence than that of -date in the fact that a consciousness of need in my own life had arisen -contemporaneously with the possibility of my becoming acquainted with -you. For in the first hour of meeting you, I had an impression of your -eminent and perhaps exclusive fitness to supply that need (connected, I -may say, with such activity of the affections as even the -preoccupations of a work too special to be abdicated could not -uninterruptedly dissimulate); and each succeeding opportunity for -observation has given the impression an added depth by convincing me -more emphatically of that fitness which I had preconceived, and thus -evoking more decisively those affections to which I have but now -referred. Our conversations have, I think, made sufficiently clear to -you the tenor of my life and purposes: a tenor unsuited, I am aware, to -the commoner order of minds. But I have discerned in you an elevation -of thought and a capability of devotedness, which I had hitherto not -conceived to be compatible either with the early bloom of youth or with -those graces of sex that may be said at once to win and to confer -distinction when combined, as they notably are in you, with the mental -qualities above indicated. It was, I confess, beyond my hope to meet -with this rare combination of elements both solid and attractive, -adapted to supply aid in graver labors and to cast a charm over vacant -hours; and but for the event of my introduction to you (which, let me -again say, I trust not to be superficially coincident with -foreshadowing needs, but providentially related thereto as stages -towards the completion of a life’s plan), I should presumably have gone -on to the last without any attempt to lighten my solitariness by a -matrimonial union. - Such, my dear Miss Brooke, is the accurate statement of my - feelings; and I rely on your kind indulgence in venturing now to - ask you how far your own are of a nature to confirm my happy - presentiment. To be accepted by you as your husband and the earthly - guardian of your welfare, I should regard as the highest of - providential gifts. In return I can at least offer you an affection - hitherto unwasted, and the faithful consecration of a life which, - however short in the sequel, has no backward pages whereon, if you - choose to turn them, you will find records such as might justly - cause you either bitterness or shame. I await the expression of - your sentiments with an anxiety which it would be the part of - wisdom (were it possible) to divert by a more arduous labor than - usual. But in this order of experience I am still young, and in - looking forward to an unfavorable possibility I cannot but feel - that resignation to solitude will be more difficult after the - temporary illumination of hope. - - -In any case, I shall remain, - Yours with sincere devotion, - EDWARD CASAUBON. - - -Dorothea trembled while she read this letter; then she fell on her -knees, buried her face, and sobbed. She could not pray: under the rush -of solemn emotion in which thoughts became vague and images floated -uncertainly, she could but cast herself, with a childlike sense of -reclining, in the lap of a divine consciousness which sustained her -own. She remained in that attitude till it was time to dress for -dinner. - -How could it occur to her to examine the letter, to look at it -critically as a profession of love? Her whole soul was possessed by the -fact that a fuller life was opening before her: she was a neophyte -about to enter on a higher grade of initiation. She was going to have -room for the energies which stirred uneasily under the dimness and -pressure of her own ignorance and the petty peremptoriness of the -world’s habits. - -Now she would be able to devote herself to large yet definite duties; -now she would be allowed to live continually in the light of a mind -that she could reverence. This hope was not unmixed with the glow of -proud delight—the joyous maiden surprise that she was chosen by the man -whom her admiration had chosen. All Dorothea’s passion was transfused -through a mind struggling towards an ideal life; the radiance of her -transfigured girlhood fell on the first object that came within its -level. The impetus with which inclination became resolution was -heightened by those little events of the day which had roused her -discontent with the actual conditions of her life. - -After dinner, when Celia was playing an “air, with variations,” a small -kind of tinkling which symbolized the aesthetic part of the young -ladies’ education, Dorothea went up to her room to answer Mr. -Casaubon’s letter. Why should she defer the answer? She wrote it over -three times, not because she wished to change the wording, but because -her hand was unusually uncertain, and she could not bear that Mr. -Casaubon should think her handwriting bad and illegible. She piqued -herself on writing a hand in which each letter was distinguishable -without any large range of conjecture, and she meant to make much use -of this accomplishment, to save Mr. Casaubon’s eyes. Three times she -wrote. - -MY DEAR MR. CASAUBON,—I am very grateful to you for loving me, and -thinking me worthy to be your wife. I can look forward to no better -happiness than that which would be one with yours. If I said more, it -would only be the same thing written out at greater length, for I -cannot now dwell on any other thought than that I may be through life - - -Yours devotedly, - DOROTHEA BROOKE. - - -Later in the evening she followed her uncle into the library to give -him the letter, that he might send it in the morning. He was surprised, -but his surprise only issued in a few moments’ silence, during which he -pushed about various objects on his writing-table, and finally stood -with his back to the fire, his glasses on his nose, looking at the -address of Dorothea’s letter. - -“Have you thought enough about this, my dear?” he said at last. - -“There was no need to think long, uncle. I know of nothing to make me -vacillate. If I changed my mind, it must be because of something -important and entirely new to me.” - -“Ah!—then you have accepted him? Then Chettam has no chance? Has -Chettam offended you—offended you, you know? What is it you don’t like -in Chettam?” - -“There is nothing that I like in him,” said Dorothea, rather -impetuously. - -Mr. Brooke threw his head and shoulders backward as if some one had -thrown a light missile at him. Dorothea immediately felt some -self-rebuke, and said— - -“I mean in the light of a husband. He is very kind, I think—really very -good about the cottages. A well-meaning man.” - -“But you must have a scholar, and that sort of thing? Well, it lies a -little in our family. I had it myself—that love of knowledge, and going -into everything—a little too much—it took me too far; though that sort -of thing doesn’t often run in the female-line; or it runs underground -like the rivers in Greece, you know—it comes out in the sons. Clever -sons, clever mothers. I went a good deal into that, at one time. -However, my dear, I have always said that people should do as they like -in these things, up to a certain point. I couldn’t, as your guardian, -have consented to a bad match. But Casaubon stands well: his position -is good. I am afraid Chettam will be hurt, though, and Mrs. Cadwallader -will blame me.” - -That evening, of course, Celia knew nothing of what had happened. She -attributed Dorothea’s abstracted manner, and the evidence of further -crying since they had got home, to the temper she had been in about Sir -James Chettam and the buildings, and was careful not to give further -offence: having once said what she wanted to say, Celia had no -disposition to recur to disagreeable subjects. It had been her nature -when a child never to quarrel with any one—only to observe with wonder -that they quarrelled with her, and looked like turkey-cocks; whereupon -she was ready to play at cat’s cradle with them whenever they recovered -themselves. And as to Dorothea, it had always been her way to find -something wrong in her sister’s words, though Celia inwardly protested -that she always said just how things were, and nothing else: she never -did and never could put words together out of her own head. But the -best of Dodo was, that she did not keep angry for long together. Now, -though they had hardly spoken to each other all the evening, yet when -Celia put by her work, intending to go to bed, a proceeding in which -she was always much the earlier, Dorothea, who was seated on a low -stool, unable to occupy herself except in meditation, said, with the -musical intonation which in moments of deep but quiet feeling made her -speech like a fine bit of recitative— - -“Celia, dear, come and kiss me,” holding her arms open as she spoke. - -Celia knelt down to get the right level and gave her little butterfly -kiss, while Dorothea encircled her with gentle arms and pressed her -lips gravely on each cheek in turn. - -“Don’t sit up, Dodo, you are so pale to-night: go to bed soon,” said -Celia, in a comfortable way, without any touch of pathos. - -“No, dear, I am very, very happy,” said Dorothea, fervently. - -“So much the better,” thought Celia. “But how strangely Dodo goes from -one extreme to the other.” - -The next day, at luncheon, the butler, handing something to Mr. Brooke, -said, “Jonas is come back, sir, and has brought this letter.” - -Mr. Brooke read the letter, and then, nodding toward Dorothea, said, -“Casaubon, my dear: he will be here to dinner; he didn’t wait to write -more—didn’t wait, you know.” - -It could not seem remarkable to Celia that a dinner guest should be -announced to her sister beforehand, but, her eyes following the same -direction as her uncle’s, she was struck with the peculiar effect of -the announcement on Dorothea. It seemed as if something like the -reflection of a white sunlit wing had passed across her features, -ending in one of her rare blushes. For the first time it entered into -Celia’s mind that there might be something more between Mr. Casaubon -and her sister than his delight in bookish talk and her delight in -listening. Hitherto she had classed the admiration for this “ugly” and -learned acquaintance with the admiration for Monsieur Liret at -Lausanne, also ugly and learned. Dorothea had never been tired of -listening to old Monsieur Liret when Celia’s feet were as cold as -possible, and when it had really become dreadful to see the skin of his -bald head moving about. Why then should her enthusiasm not extend to -Mr. Casaubon simply in the same way as to Monsieur Liret? And it seemed -probable that all learned men had a sort of schoolmaster’s view of -young people. - -But now Celia was really startled at the suspicion which had darted -into her mind. She was seldom taken by surprise in this way, her -marvellous quickness in observing a certain order of signs generally -preparing her to expect such outward events as she had an interest in. -Not that she now imagined Mr. Casaubon to be already an accepted lover: -she had only begun to feel disgust at the possibility that anything in -Dorothea’s mind could tend towards such an issue. Here was something -really to vex her about Dodo: it was all very well not to accept Sir -James Chettam, but the idea of marrying Mr. Casaubon! Celia felt a sort -of shame mingled with a sense of the ludicrous. But perhaps Dodo, if -she were really bordering on such an extravagance, might be turned away -from it: experience had often shown that her impressibility might be -calculated on. The day was damp, and they were not going to walk out, -so they both went up to their sitting-room; and there Celia observed -that Dorothea, instead of settling down with her usual diligent -interest to some occupation, simply leaned her elbow on an open book -and looked out of the window at the great cedar silvered with the damp. -She herself had taken up the making of a toy for the curate’s children, -and was not going to enter on any subject too precipitately. - -Dorothea was in fact thinking that it was desirable for Celia to know -of the momentous change in Mr. Casaubon’s position since he had last -been in the house: it did not seem fair to leave her in ignorance of -what would necessarily affect her attitude towards him; but it was -impossible not to shrink from telling her. Dorothea accused herself of -some meanness in this timidity: it was always odious to her to have any -small fears or contrivances about her actions, but at this moment she -was seeking the highest aid possible that she might not dread the -corrosiveness of Celia’s pretty carnally minded prose. Her reverie was -broken, and the difficulty of decision banished, by Celia’s small and -rather guttural voice speaking in its usual tone, of a remark aside or -a “by the bye.” - -“Is any one else coming to dine besides Mr. Casaubon?” - -“Not that I know of.” - -“I hope there is some one else. Then I shall not hear him eat his soup -so.” - -“What is there remarkable about his soup-eating?” - -“Really, Dodo, can’t you hear how he scrapes his spoon? And he always -blinks before he speaks. I don’t know whether Locke blinked, but I’m -sure I am sorry for those who sat opposite to him if he did.” - -“Celia,” said Dorothea, with emphatic gravity, “pray don’t make any -more observations of that kind.” - -“Why not? They are quite true,” returned Celia, who had her reasons for -persevering, though she was beginning to be a little afraid. - -“Many things are true which only the commonest minds observe.” - -“Then I think the commonest minds must be rather useful. I think it is -a pity Mr. Casaubon’s mother had not a commoner mind: she might have -taught him better.” Celia was inwardly frightened, and ready to run -away, now she had hurled this light javelin. - -Dorothea’s feelings had gathered to an avalanche, and there could be no -further preparation. - -“It is right to tell you, Celia, that I am engaged to marry Mr. -Casaubon.” - -Perhaps Celia had never turned so pale before. The paper man she was -making would have had his leg injured, but for her habitual care of -whatever she held in her hands. She laid the fragile figure down at -once, and sat perfectly still for a few moments. When she spoke there -was a tear gathering. - -“Oh, Dodo, I hope you will be happy.” Her sisterly tenderness could not -but surmount other feelings at this moment, and her fears were the -fears of affection. - -Dorothea was still hurt and agitated. - -“It is quite decided, then?” said Celia, in an awed under tone. “And -uncle knows?” - -“I have accepted Mr. Casaubon’s offer. My uncle brought me the letter -that contained it; he knew about it beforehand.” - -“I beg your pardon, if I have said anything to hurt you, Dodo,” said -Celia, with a slight sob. She never could have thought that she should -feel as she did. There was something funereal in the whole affair, and -Mr. Casaubon seemed to be the officiating clergyman, about whom it -would be indecent to make remarks. - -“Never mind, Kitty, do not grieve. We should never admire the same -people. I often offend in something of the same way; I am apt to speak -too strongly of those who don’t please me.” - -In spite of this magnanimity Dorothea was still smarting: perhaps as -much from Celia’s subdued astonishment as from her small criticisms. Of -course all the world round Tipton would be out of sympathy with this -marriage. Dorothea knew of no one who thought as she did about life and -its best objects. - -Nevertheless before the evening was at an end she was very happy. In an -hour’s _tête-à-tête_ with Mr. Casaubon she talked to him with more -freedom than she had ever felt before, even pouring out her joy at the -thought of devoting herself to him, and of learning how she might best -share and further all his great ends. Mr. Casaubon was touched with an -unknown delight (what man would not have been?) at this childlike -unrestrained ardor: he was not surprised (what lover would have been?) -that he should be the object of it. - -“My dear young lady—Miss Brooke—Dorothea!” he said, pressing her hand -between his hands, “this is a happiness greater than I had ever -imagined to be in reserve for me. That I should ever meet with a mind -and person so rich in the mingled graces which could render marriage -desirable, was far indeed from my conception. You have all—nay, more -than all—those qualities which I have ever regarded as the -characteristic excellences of womanhood. The great charm of your sex is -its capability of an ardent self-sacrificing affection, and herein we -see its fitness to round and complete the existence of our own. -Hitherto I have known few pleasures save of the severer kind: my -satisfactions have been those of the solitary student. I have been -little disposed to gather flowers that would wither in my hand, but now -I shall pluck them with eagerness, to place them in your bosom.” - -No speech could have been more thoroughly honest in its intention: the -frigid rhetoric at the end was as sincere as the bark of a dog, or the -cawing of an amorous rook. Would it not be rash to conclude that there -was no passion behind those sonnets to Delia which strike us as the -thin music of a mandolin? - -Dorothea’s faith supplied all that Mr. Casaubon’s words seemed to leave -unsaid: what believer sees a disturbing omission or infelicity? The -text, whether of prophet or of poet, expands for whatever we can put -into it, and even his bad grammar is sublime. - -“I am very ignorant—you will quite wonder at my ignorance,” said -Dorothea. “I have so many thoughts that may be quite mistaken; and now -I shall be able to tell them all to you, and ask you about them. But,” -she added, with rapid imagination of Mr. Casaubon’s probable feeling, -“I will not trouble you too much; only when you are inclined to listen -to me. You must often be weary with the pursuit of subjects in your own -track. I shall gain enough if you will take me with you there.” - -“How should I be able now to persevere in any path without your -companionship?” said Mr. Casaubon, kissing her candid brow, and feeling -that heaven had vouchsafed him a blessing in every way suited to his -peculiar wants. He was being unconsciously wrought upon by the charms -of a nature which was entirely without hidden calculations either for -immediate effects or for remoter ends. It was this which made Dorothea -so childlike, and, according to some judges, so stupid, with all her -reputed cleverness; as, for example, in the present case of throwing -herself, metaphorically speaking, at Mr. Casaubon’s feet, and kissing -his unfashionable shoe-ties as if he were a Protestant Pope. She was -not in the least teaching Mr. Casaubon to ask if he were good enough -for her, but merely asking herself anxiously how she could be good -enough for Mr. Casaubon. Before he left the next day it had been -decided that the marriage should take place within six weeks. Why not? -Mr. Casaubon’s house was ready. It was not a parsonage, but a -considerable mansion, with much land attached to it. The parsonage was -inhabited by the curate, who did all the duty except preaching the -morning sermon. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -My lady’s tongue is like the meadow blades, -That cut you stroking them with idle hand. -Nice cutting is her function: she divides -With spiritual edge the millet-seed, -And makes intangible savings. - - -As Mr. Casaubon’s carriage was passing out of the gateway, it arrested -the entrance of a pony phaeton driven by a lady with a servant seated -behind. It was doubtful whether the recognition had been mutual, for -Mr. Casaubon was looking absently before him; but the lady was -quick-eyed, and threw a nod and a “How do you do?” in the nick of time. -In spite of her shabby bonnet and very old Indian shawl, it was plain -that the lodge-keeper regarded her as an important personage, from the -low curtsy which was dropped on the entrance of the small phaeton. - -“Well, Mrs. Fitchett, how are your fowls laying now?” said the -high-colored, dark-eyed lady, with the clearest chiselled utterance. - -“Pretty well for laying, madam, but they’ve ta’en to eating their eggs: -I’ve no peace o’ mind with ’em at all.” - -“Oh, the cannibals! Better sell them cheap at once. What will you sell -them a couple? One can’t eat fowls of a bad character at a high price.” - -“Well, madam, half-a-crown: I couldn’t let ’em go, not under.” - -“Half-a-crown, these times! Come now—for the Rector’s chicken-broth on -a Sunday. He has consumed all ours that I can spare. You are half paid -with the sermon, Mrs. Fitchett, remember that. Take a pair of -tumbler-pigeons for them—little beauties. You must come and see them. -You have no tumblers among your pigeons.” - -“Well, madam, Master Fitchett shall go and see ’em after work. He’s -very hot on new sorts; to oblige you.” - -“Oblige me! It will be the best bargain he ever made. A pair of church -pigeons for a couple of wicked Spanish fowls that eat their own eggs! -Don’t you and Fitchett boast too much, that is all!” - -The phaeton was driven onwards with the last words, leaving Mrs. -Fitchett laughing and shaking her head slowly, with an interjectional -“Sure_ly_, sure_ly_!”—from which it might be inferred that she would -have found the country-side somewhat duller if the Rector’s lady had -been less free-spoken and less of a skinflint. Indeed, both the farmers -and laborers in the parishes of Freshitt and Tipton would have felt a -sad lack of conversation but for the stories about what Mrs. -Cadwallader said and did: a lady of immeasurably high birth, descended, -as it were, from unknown earls, dim as the crowd of heroic shades—who -pleaded poverty, pared down prices, and cut jokes in the most -companionable manner, though with a turn of tongue that let you know -who she was. Such a lady gave a neighborliness to both rank and -religion, and mitigated the bitterness of uncommuted tithe. A much more -exemplary character with an infusion of sour dignity would not have -furthered their comprehension of the Thirty-nine Articles, and would -have been less socially uniting. - -Mr. Brooke, seeing Mrs. Cadwallader’s merits from a different point of -view, winced a little when her name was announced in the library, where -he was sitting alone. - -“I see you have had our Lowick Cicero here,” she said, seating herself -comfortably, throwing back her wraps, and showing a thin but well-built -figure. “I suspect you and he are brewing some bad polities, else you -would not be seeing so much of the lively man. I shall inform against -you: remember you are both suspicious characters since you took Peel’s -side about the Catholic Bill. I shall tell everybody that you are going -to put up for Middlemarch on the Whig side when old Pinkerton resigns, -and that Casaubon is going to help you in an underhand manner: going to -bribe the voters with pamphlets, and throw open the public-houses to -distribute them. Come, confess!” - -“Nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Brooke, smiling and rubbing his -eye-glasses, but really blushing a little at the impeachment. “Casaubon -and I don’t talk politics much. He doesn’t care much about the -philanthropic side of things; punishments, and that kind of thing. He -only cares about Church questions. That is not my line of action, you -know.” - -“Ra-a-ther too much, my friend. I have heard of your doings. Who was it -that sold his bit of land to the Papists at Middlemarch? I believe you -bought it on purpose. You are a perfect Guy Faux. See if you are not -burnt in effigy this 5th of November coming. Humphrey would not come to -quarrel with you about it, so I am come.” - -“Very good. I was prepared to be persecuted for not persecuting—not -persecuting, you know.” - -“There you go! That is a piece of clap-trap you have got ready for the -hustings. Now, _do not_ let them lure you to the hustings, my dear Mr. -Brooke. A man always makes a fool of himself, speechifying: there’s no -excuse but being on the right side, so that you can ask a blessing on -your humming and hawing. You will lose yourself, I forewarn you. You -will make a Saturday pie of all parties’ opinions, and be pelted by -everybody.” - -“That is what I expect, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, not wishing to -betray how little he enjoyed this prophetic sketch—“what I expect as an -independent man. As to the Whigs, a man who goes with the thinkers is -not likely to be hooked on by any party. He may go with them up to a -certain point—up to a certain point, you know. But that is what you -ladies never understand.” - -“Where your certain point is? No. I should like to be told how a man -can have any certain point when he belongs to no party—leading a roving -life, and never letting his friends know his address. ‘Nobody knows -where Brooke will be—there’s no counting on Brooke’—that is what people -say of you, to be quite frank. Now, do turn respectable. How will you -like going to Sessions with everybody looking shy on you, and you with -a bad conscience and an empty pocket?” - -“I don’t pretend to argue with a lady on politics,” said Mr. Brooke, -with an air of smiling indifference, but feeling rather unpleasantly -conscious that this attack of Mrs. Cadwallader’s had opened the -defensive campaign to which certain rash steps had exposed him. “Your -sex are not thinkers, you know—_varium et mutabile semper_—that kind of -thing. You don’t know Virgil. I knew”—Mr. Brooke reflected in time that -he had not had the personal acquaintance of the Augustan poet—“I was -going to say, poor Stoddart, you know. That was what _he_ said. You -ladies are always against an independent attitude—a man’s caring for -nothing but truth, and that sort of thing. And there is no part of the -county where opinion is narrower than it is here—I don’t mean to throw -stones, you know, but somebody is wanted to take the independent line; -and if I don’t take it, who will?” - -“Who? Why, any upstart who has got neither blood nor position. People -of standing should consume their independent nonsense at home, not hawk -it about. And you! who are going to marry your niece, as good as your -daughter, to one of our best men. Sir James would be cruelly annoyed: -it will be too hard on him if you turn round now and make yourself a -Whig sign-board.” - -Mr. Brooke again winced inwardly, for Dorothea’s engagement had no -sooner been decided, than he had thought of Mrs. Cadwallader’s -prospective taunts. It might have been easy for ignorant observers to -say, “Quarrel with Mrs. Cadwallader;” but where is a country gentleman -to go who quarrels with his oldest neighbors? Who could taste the fine -flavor in the name of Brooke if it were delivered casually, like wine -without a seal? Certainly a man can only be cosmopolitan up to a -certain point. - -“I hope Chettam and I shall always be good friends; but I am sorry to -say there is no prospect of his marrying my niece,” said Mr. Brooke, -much relieved to see through the window that Celia was coming in. - -“Why not?” said Mrs. Cadwallader, with a sharp note of surprise. “It is -hardly a fortnight since you and I were talking about it.” - -“My niece has chosen another suitor—has chosen him, you know. I have -had nothing to do with it. I should have preferred Chettam; and I -should have said Chettam was the man any girl would have chosen. But -there is no accounting for these things. Your sex is capricious, you -know.” - -“Why, whom do you mean to say that you are going to let her marry?” -Mrs. Cadwallader’s mind was rapidly surveying the possibilities of -choice for Dorothea. - -But here Celia entered, blooming from a walk in the garden, and the -greeting with her delivered Mr. Brooke from the necessity of answering -immediately. He got up hastily, and saying, “By the way, I must speak -to Wright about the horses,” shuffled quickly out of the room. - -“My dear child, what is this?—this about your sister’s engagement?” -said Mrs. Cadwallader. - -“She is engaged to marry Mr. Casaubon,” said Celia, resorting, as -usual, to the simplest statement of fact, and enjoying this opportunity -of speaking to the Rector’s wife alone. - -“This is frightful. How long has it been going on?” - -“I only knew of it yesterday. They are to be married in six weeks.” - -“Well, my dear, I wish you joy of your brother-in-law.” - -“I am so sorry for Dorothea.” - -“Sorry! It is her doing, I suppose.” - -“Yes; she says Mr. Casaubon has a great soul.” - -“With all my heart.” - -“Oh, Mrs. Cadwallader, I don’t think it can be nice to marry a man with -a great soul.” - -“Well, my dear, take warning. You know the look of one now; when the -next comes and wants to marry you, don’t you accept him.” - -“I’m sure I never should.” - -“No; one such in a family is enough. So your sister never cared about -Sir James Chettam? What would you have said to _him_ for a -brother-in-law?” - -“I should have liked that very much. I am sure he would have been a -good husband. Only,” Celia added, with a slight blush (she sometimes -seemed to blush as she breathed), “I don’t think he would have suited -Dorothea.” - -“Not high-flown enough?” - -“Dodo is very strict. She thinks so much about everything, and is so -particular about what one says. Sir James never seemed to please her.” - -“She must have encouraged him, I am sure. That is not very creditable.” - -“Please don’t be angry with Dodo; she does not see things. She thought -so much about the cottages, and she was rude to Sir James sometimes; -but he is so kind, he never noticed it.” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, putting on her shawl, and rising, as if -in haste, “I must go straight to Sir James and break this to him. He -will have brought his mother back by this time, and I must call. Your -uncle will never tell him. We are all disappointed, my dear. Young -people should think of their families in marrying. I set a bad -example—married a poor clergyman, and made myself a pitiable object -among the De Bracys—obliged to get my coals by stratagem, and pray to -heaven for my salad oil. However, Casaubon has money enough; I must do -him that justice. As to his blood, I suppose the family quarterings are -three cuttle-fish sable, and a commentator rampant. By the bye, before -I go, my dear, I must speak to your Mrs. Carter about pastry. I want to -send my young cook to learn of her. Poor people with four children, -like us, you know, can’t afford to keep a good cook. I have no doubt -Mrs. Carter will oblige me. Sir James’s cook is a perfect dragon.” - -In less than an hour, Mrs. Cadwallader had circumvented Mrs. Carter and -driven to Freshitt Hall, which was not far from her own parsonage, her -husband being resident in Freshitt and keeping a curate in Tipton. - -Sir James Chettam had returned from the short journey which had kept -him absent for a couple of days, and had changed his dress, intending -to ride over to Tipton Grange. His horse was standing at the door when -Mrs. Cadwallader drove up, and he immediately appeared there himself, -whip in hand. Lady Chettam had not yet returned, but Mrs. Cadwallader’s -errand could not be despatched in the presence of grooms, so she asked -to be taken into the conservatory close by, to look at the new plants; -and on coming to a contemplative stand, she said— - -“I have a great shock for you; I hope you are not so far gone in love -as you pretended to be.” - -It was of no use protesting against Mrs. Cadwallader’s way of putting -things. But Sir James’s countenance changed a little. He felt a vague -alarm. - -“I do believe Brooke is going to expose himself after all. I accused -him of meaning to stand for Middlemarch on the Liberal side, and he -looked silly and never denied it—talked about the independent line, and -the usual nonsense.” - -“Is that all?” said Sir James, much relieved. - -“Why,” rejoined Mrs. Cadwallader, with a sharper note, “you don’t mean -to say that you would like him to turn public man in that way—making a -sort of political Cheap Jack of himself?” - -“He might be dissuaded, I should think. He would not like the expense.” - -“That is what I told him. He is vulnerable to reason there—always a few -grains of common-sense in an ounce of miserliness. Miserliness is a -capital quality to run in families; it’s the safe side for madness to -dip on. And there must be a little crack in the Brooke family, else we -should not see what we are to see.” - -“What? Brooke standing for Middlemarch?” - -“Worse than that. I really feel a little responsible. I always told you -Miss Brooke would be such a fine match. I knew there was a great deal -of nonsense in her—a flighty sort of Methodistical stuff. But these -things wear out of girls. However, I am taken by surprise for once.” - -“What do you mean, Mrs. Cadwallader?” said Sir James. His fear lest -Miss Brooke should have run away to join the Moravian Brethren, or some -preposterous sect unknown to good society, was a little allayed by the -knowledge that Mrs. Cadwallader always made the worst of things. “What -has happened to Miss Brooke? Pray speak out.” - -“Very well. She is engaged to be married.” Mrs. Cadwallader paused a -few moments, observing the deeply hurt expression in her friend’s face, -which he was trying to conceal by a nervous smile, while he whipped his -boot; but she soon added, “Engaged to Casaubon.” - -Sir James let his whip fall and stooped to pick it up. Perhaps his face -had never before gathered so much concentrated disgust as when he -turned to Mrs. Cadwallader and repeated, “Casaubon?” - -“Even so. You know my errand now.” - -“Good God! It is horrible! He is no better than a mummy!” (The point of -view has to be allowed for, as that of a blooming and disappointed -rival.) - -“She says, he is a great soul.—A great bladder for dried peas to rattle -in!” said Mrs. Cadwallader. - -“What business has an old bachelor like that to marry?” said Sir James. -“He has one foot in the grave.” - -“He means to draw it out again, I suppose.” - -“Brooke ought not to allow it: he should insist on its being put off -till she is of age. She would think better of it then. What is a -guardian for?” - -“As if you could ever squeeze a resolution out of Brooke!” - -“Cadwallader might talk to him.” - -“Not he! Humphrey finds everybody charming. I never can get him to -abuse Casaubon. He will even speak well of the bishop, though I tell -him it is unnatural in a beneficed clergyman; what can one do with a -husband who attends so little to the decencies? I hide it as well as I -can by abusing everybody myself. Come, come, cheer up! you are well rid -of Miss Brooke, a girl who would have been requiring you to see the -stars by daylight. Between ourselves, little Celia is worth two of her, -and likely after all to be the better match. For this marriage to -Casaubon is as good as going to a nunnery.” - -“Oh, on my own account—it is for Miss Brooke’s sake I think her friends -should try to use their influence.” - -“Well, Humphrey doesn’t know yet. But when I tell him, you may depend -on it he will say, ‘Why not? Casaubon is a good fellow—and young—young -enough.’ These charitable people never know vinegar from wine till they -have swallowed it and got the colic. However, if I were a man I should -prefer Celia, especially when Dorothea was gone. The truth is, you have -been courting one and have won the other. I can see that she admires -you almost as much as a man expects to be admired. If it were any one -but me who said so, you might think it exaggeration. Good-by!” - -Sir James handed Mrs. Cadwallader to the phaeton, and then jumped on -his horse. He was not going to renounce his ride because of his -friend’s unpleasant news—only to ride the faster in some other -direction than that of Tipton Grange. - -Now, why on earth should Mrs. Cadwallader have been at all busy about -Miss Brooke’s marriage; and why, when one match that she liked to think -she had a hand in was frustrated, should she have straightway contrived -the preliminaries of another? Was there any ingenious plot, any -hide-and-seek course of action, which might be detected by a careful -telescopic watch? Not at all: a telescope might have swept the parishes -of Tipton and Freshitt, the whole area visited by Mrs. Cadwallader in -her phaeton, without witnessing any interview that could excite -suspicion, or any scene from which she did not return with the same -unperturbed keenness of eye and the same high natural color. In fact, -if that convenient vehicle had existed in the days of the Seven Sages, -one of them would doubtless have remarked, that you can know little of -women by following them about in their pony-phaetons. Even with a -microscope directed on a water-drop we find ourselves making -interpretations which turn out to be rather coarse; for whereas under a -weak lens you may seem to see a creature exhibiting an active voracity -into which other smaller creatures actively play as if they were so -many animated tax-pennies, a stronger lens reveals to you certain -tiniest hairlets which make vortices for these victims while the -swallower waits passively at his receipt of custom. In this way, -metaphorically speaking, a strong lens applied to Mrs. Cadwallader’s -match-making will show a play of minute causes producing what may be -called thought and speech vortices to bring her the sort of food she -needed. Her life was rurally simple, quite free from secrets either -foul, dangerous, or otherwise important, and not consciously affected -by the great affairs of the world. All the more did the affairs of the -great world interest her, when communicated in the letters of high-born -relations: the way in which fascinating younger sons had gone to the -dogs by marrying their mistresses; the fine old-blooded idiocy of young -Lord Tapir, and the furious gouty humors of old Lord Megatherium; the -exact crossing of genealogies which had brought a coronet into a new -branch and widened the relations of scandal,—these were topics of which -she retained details with the utmost accuracy, and reproduced them in -an excellent pickle of epigrams, which she herself enjoyed the more -because she believed as unquestionably in birth and no-birth as she did -in game and vermin. She would never have disowned any one on the ground -of poverty: a De Bracy reduced to take his dinner in a basin would have -seemed to her an example of pathos worth exaggerating, and I fear his -aristocratic vices would not have horrified her. But her feeling -towards the vulgar rich was a sort of religious hatred: they had -probably made all their money out of high retail prices, and Mrs. -Cadwallader detested high prices for everything that was not paid in -kind at the Rectory: such people were no part of God’s design in making -the world; and their accent was an affliction to the ears. A town where -such monsters abounded was hardly more than a sort of low comedy, which -could not be taken account of in a well-bred scheme of the universe. -Let any lady who is inclined to be hard on Mrs. Cadwallader inquire -into the comprehensiveness of her own beautiful views, and be quite -sure that they afford accommodation for all the lives which have the -honor to coexist with hers. - -With such a mind, active as phosphorus, biting everything that came -near into the form that suited it, how could Mrs. Cadwallader feel that -the Miss Brookes and their matrimonial prospects were alien to her? -especially as it had been the habit of years for her to scold Mr. -Brooke with the friendliest frankness, and let him know in confidence -that she thought him a poor creature. From the first arrival of the -young ladies in Tipton she had prearranged Dorothea’s marriage with Sir -James, and if it had taken place would have been quite sure that it was -her doing: that it should not take place after she had preconceived it, -caused her an irritation which every thinker will sympathize with. She -was the diplomatist of Tipton and Freshitt, and for anything to happen -in spite of her was an offensive irregularity. As to freaks like this -of Miss Brooke’s, Mrs. Cadwallader had no patience with them, and now -saw that her opinion of this girl had been infected with some of her -husband’s weak charitableness: those Methodistical whims, that air of -being more religious than the rector and curate together, came from a -deeper and more constitutional disease than she had been willing to -believe. - -“However,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, first to herself and afterwards to -her husband, “I throw her over: there was a chance, if she had married -Sir James, of her becoming a sane, sensible woman. He would never have -contradicted her, and when a woman is not contradicted, she has no -motive for obstinacy in her absurdities. But now I wish her joy of her -hair shirt.” - -It followed that Mrs. Cadwallader must decide on another match for Sir -James, and having made up her mind that it was to be the younger Miss -Brooke, there could not have been a more skilful move towards the -success of her plan than her hint to the baronet that he had made an -impression on Celia’s heart. For he was not one of those gentlemen who -languish after the unattainable Sappho’s apple that laughs from the -topmost bough—the charms which - -“Smile like the knot of cowslips on the cliff, -Not to be come at by the willing hand.” - - -He had no sonnets to write, and it could not strike him agreeably that -he was not an object of preference to the woman whom he had preferred. -Already the knowledge that Dorothea had chosen Mr. Casaubon had bruised -his attachment and relaxed its hold. Although Sir James was a -sportsman, he had some other feelings towards women than towards grouse -and foxes, and did not regard his future wife in the light of prey, -valuable chiefly for the excitements of the chase. Neither was he so -well acquainted with the habits of primitive races as to feel that an -ideal combat for her, tomahawk in hand, so to speak, was necessary to -the historical continuity of the marriage-tie. On the contrary, having -the amiable vanity which knits us to those who are fond of us, and -disinclines us to those who are indifferent, and also a good grateful -nature, the mere idea that a woman had a kindness towards him spun -little threads of tenderness from out his heart towards hers. - -Thus it happened, that after Sir James had ridden rather fast for half -an hour in a direction away from Tipton Grange, he slackened his pace, -and at last turned into a road which would lead him back by a shorter -cut. Various feelings wrought in him the determination after all to go -to the Grange to-day as if nothing new had happened. He could not help -rejoicing that he had never made the offer and been rejected; mere -friendly politeness required that he should call to see Dorothea about -the cottages, and now happily Mrs. Cadwallader had prepared him to -offer his congratulations, if necessary, without showing too much -awkwardness. He really did not like it: giving up Dorothea was very -painful to him; but there was something in the resolve to make this -visit forthwith and conquer all show of feeling, which was a sort of -file-biting and counter-irritant. And without his distinctly -recognizing the impulse, there certainly was present in him the sense -that Celia would be there, and that he should pay her more attention -than he had done before. - -We mortals, men and women, devour many a disappointment between -breakfast and dinner-time; keep back the tears and look a little pale -about the lips, and in answer to inquiries say, “Oh, nothing!” Pride -helps us; and pride is not a bad thing when it only urges us to hide -our own hurts—not to hurt others. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -“Piacer e popone -Vuol la sua stagione.” -—_Italian Proverb_. - - -Mr. Casaubon, as might be expected, spent a great deal of his time at -the Grange in these weeks, and the hindrance which courtship occasioned -to the progress of his great work—the Key to all Mythologies—naturally -made him look forward the more eagerly to the happy termination of -courtship. But he had deliberately incurred the hindrance, having made -up his mind that it was now time for him to adorn his life with the -graces of female companionship, to irradiate the gloom which fatigue -was apt to hang over the intervals of studious labor with the play of -female fancy, and to secure in this, his culminating age, the solace of -female tendance for his declining years. Hence he determined to abandon -himself to the stream of feeling, and perhaps was surprised to find -what an exceedingly shallow rill it was. As in droughty regions baptism -by immersion could only be performed symbolically, Mr. Casaubon found -that sprinkling was the utmost approach to a plunge which his stream -would afford him; and he concluded that the poets had much exaggerated -the force of masculine passion. Nevertheless, he observed with pleasure -that Miss Brooke showed an ardent submissive affection which promised -to fulfil his most agreeable previsions of marriage. It had once or -twice crossed his mind that possibly there was some deficiency in -Dorothea to account for the moderation of his abandonment; but he was -unable to discern the deficiency, or to figure to himself a woman who -would have pleased him better; so that there was clearly no reason to -fall back upon but the exaggerations of human tradition. - -“Could I not be preparing myself now to be more useful?” said Dorothea -to him, one morning, early in the time of courtship; “could I not learn -to read Latin and Greek aloud to you, as Milton’s daughters did to -their father, without understanding what they read?” - -“I fear that would be wearisome to you,” said Mr. Casaubon, smiling; -“and, indeed, if I remember rightly, the young women you have mentioned -regarded that exercise in unknown tongues as a ground for rebellion -against the poet.” - -“Yes; but in the first place they were very naughty girls, else they -would have been proud to minister to such a father; and in the second -place they might have studied privately and taught themselves to -understand what they read, and then it would have been interesting. I -hope you don’t expect me to be naughty and stupid?” - -“I expect you to be all that an exquisite young lady can be in every -possible relation of life. Certainly it might be a great advantage if -you were able to copy the Greek character, and to that end it were well -to begin with a little reading.” - -Dorothea seized this as a precious permission. She would not have asked -Mr. Casaubon at once to teach her the languages, dreading of all things -to be tiresome instead of helpful; but it was not entirely out of -devotion to her future husband that she wished to know Latin and Greek. -Those provinces of masculine knowledge seemed to her a standing-ground -from which all truth could be seen more truly. As it was, she -constantly doubted her own conclusions, because she felt her own -ignorance: how could she be confident that one-roomed cottages were not -for the glory of God, when men who knew the classics appeared to -conciliate indifference to the cottages with zeal for the glory? -Perhaps even Hebrew might be necessary—at least the alphabet and a few -roots—in order to arrive at the core of things, and judge soundly on -the social duties of the Christian. And she had not reached that point -of renunciation at which she would have been satisfied with having a -wise husband: she wished, poor child, to be wise herself. Miss Brooke -was certainly very naive with all her alleged cleverness. Celia, whose -mind had never been thought too powerful, saw the emptiness of other -people’s pretensions much more readily. To have in general but little -feeling, seems to be the only security against feeling too much on any -particular occasion. - -However, Mr. Casaubon consented to listen and teach for an hour -together, like a schoolmaster of little boys, or rather like a lover, -to whom a mistress’s elementary ignorance and difficulties have a -touching fitness. Few scholars would have disliked teaching the -alphabet under such circumstances. But Dorothea herself was a little -shocked and discouraged at her own stupidity, and the answers she got -to some timid questions about the value of the Greek accents gave her a -painful suspicion that here indeed there might be secrets not capable -of explanation to a woman’s reason. - -Mr. Brooke had no doubt on that point, and expressed himself with his -usual strength upon it one day that he came into the library while the -reading was going forward. - -“Well, but now, Casaubon, such deep studies, classics, mathematics, -that kind of thing, are too taxing for a woman—too taxing, you know.” - -“Dorothea is learning to read the characters simply,” said Mr. -Casaubon, evading the question. “She had the very considerate thought -of saving my eyes.” - -“Ah, well, without understanding, you know—that may not be so bad. But -there is a lightness about the feminine mind—a touch and go—music, the -fine arts, that kind of thing—they should study those up to a certain -point, women should; but in a light way, you know. A woman should be -able to sit down and play you or sing you a good old English tune. That -is what I like; though I have heard most things—been at the opera in -Vienna: Gluck, Mozart, everything of that sort. But I’m a conservative -in music—it’s not like ideas, you know. I stick to the good old tunes.” - -“Mr. Casaubon is not fond of the piano, and I am very glad he is not,” -said Dorothea, whose slight regard for domestic music and feminine fine -art must be forgiven her, considering the small tinkling and smearing -in which they chiefly consisted at that dark period. She smiled and -looked up at her betrothed with grateful eyes. If he had always been -asking her to play the “Last Rose of Summer,” she would have required -much resignation. “He says there is only an old harpsichord at Lowick, -and it is covered with books.” - -“Ah, there you are behind Celia, my dear. Celia, now, plays very -prettily, and is always ready to play. However, since Casaubon does not -like it, you are all right. But it’s a pity you should not have little -recreations of that sort, Casaubon: the bow always strung—that kind of -thing, you know—will not do.” - -“I never could look on it in the light of a recreation to have my ears -teased with measured noises,” said Mr. Casaubon. “A tune much iterated -has the ridiculous effect of making the words in my mind perform a sort -of minuet to keep time—an effect hardly tolerable, I imagine, after -boyhood. As to the grander forms of music, worthy to accompany solemn -celebrations, and even to serve as an educating influence according to -the ancient conception, I say nothing, for with these we are not -immediately concerned.” - -“No; but music of that sort I should enjoy,” said Dorothea. “When we -were coming home from Lausanne my uncle took us to hear the great organ -at Freiberg, and it made me sob.” - -“That kind of thing is not healthy, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke. -“Casaubon, she will be in your hands now: you must teach my niece to -take things more quietly, eh, Dorothea?” - -He ended with a smile, not wishing to hurt his niece, but really -thinking that it was perhaps better for her to be early married to so -sober a fellow as Casaubon, since she would not hear of Chettam. - -“It is wonderful, though,” he said to himself as he shuffled out of the -room—“it is wonderful that she should have liked him. However, the -match is good. I should have been travelling out of my brief to have -hindered it, let Mrs. Cadwallader say what she will. He is pretty -certain to be a bishop, is Casaubon. That was a very seasonable -pamphlet of his on the Catholic Question:—a deanery at least. They owe -him a deanery.” - -And here I must vindicate a claim to philosophical reflectiveness, by -remarking that Mr. Brooke on this occasion little thought of the -Radical speech which, at a later period, he was led to make on the -incomes of the bishops. What elegant historian would neglect a striking -opportunity for pointing out that his heroes did not foresee the -history of the world, or even their own actions?—For example, that -Henry of Navarre, when a Protestant baby, little thought of being a -Catholic monarch; or that Alfred the Great, when he measured his -laborious nights with burning candles, had no idea of future gentlemen -measuring their idle days with watches. Here is a mine of truth, which, -however vigorously it may be worked, is likely to outlast our coal. - -But of Mr. Brooke I make a further remark perhaps less warranted by -precedent—namely, that if he had foreknown his speech, it might not -have made any great difference. To think with pleasure of his niece’s -husband having a large ecclesiastical income was one thing—to make a -Liberal speech was another thing; and it is a narrow mind which cannot -look at a subject from various points of view. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -“Oh, rescue her! I am her brother now, -And you her father. Every gentle maid -Should have a guardian in each gentleman.” - - -It was wonderful to Sir James Chettam how well he continued to like -going to the Grange after he had once encountered the difficulty of -seeing Dorothea for the first time in the light of a woman who was -engaged to another man. Of course the forked lightning seemed to pass -through him when he first approached her, and he remained conscious -throughout the interview of hiding uneasiness; but, good as he was, it -must be owned that his uneasiness was less than it would have been if -he had thought his rival a brilliant and desirable match. He had no -sense of being eclipsed by Mr. Casaubon; he was only shocked that -Dorothea was under a melancholy illusion, and his mortification lost -some of its bitterness by being mingled with compassion. - -Nevertheless, while Sir James said to himself that he had completely -resigned her, since with the perversity of a Desdemona she had not -affected a proposed match that was clearly suitable and according to -nature; he could not yet be quite passive under the idea of her -engagement to Mr. Casaubon. On the day when he first saw them together -in the light of his present knowledge, it seemed to him that he had not -taken the affair seriously enough. Brooke was really culpable; he ought -to have hindered it. Who could speak to him? Something might be done -perhaps even now, at least to defer the marriage. On his way home he -turned into the Rectory and asked for Mr. Cadwallader. Happily, the -Rector was at home, and his visitor was shown into the study, where all -the fishing tackle hung. But he himself was in a little room adjoining, -at work with his turning apparatus, and he called to the baronet to -join him there. The two were better friends than any other landholder -and clergyman in the county—a significant fact which was in agreement -with the amiable expression of their faces. - -Mr. Cadwallader was a large man, with full lips and a sweet smile; very -plain and rough in his exterior, but with that solid imperturbable ease -and good-humor which is infectious, and like great grassy hills in the -sunshine, quiets even an irritated egoism, and makes it rather ashamed -of itself. “Well, how are you?” he said, showing a hand not quite fit -to be grasped. “Sorry I missed you before. Is there anything -particular? You look vexed.” - -Sir James’s brow had a little crease in it, a little depression of the -eyebrow, which he seemed purposely to exaggerate as he answered. - -“It is only this conduct of Brooke’s. I really think somebody should -speak to him.” - -“What? meaning to stand?” said Mr. Cadwallader, going on with the -arrangement of the reels which he had just been turning. “I hardly -think he means it. But where’s the harm, if he likes it? Any one who -objects to Whiggery should be glad when the Whigs don’t put up the -strongest fellow. They won’t overturn the Constitution with our friend -Brooke’s head for a battering ram.” - -“Oh, I don’t mean that,” said Sir James, who, after putting down his -hat and throwing himself into a chair, had begun to nurse his leg and -examine the sole of his boot with much bitterness. “I mean this -marriage. I mean his letting that blooming young girl marry Casaubon.” - -“What is the matter with Casaubon? I see no harm in him—if the girl -likes him.” - -“She is too young to know what she likes. Her guardian ought to -interfere. He ought not to allow the thing to be done in this headlong -manner. I wonder a man like you, Cadwallader—a man with daughters, can -look at the affair with indifference: and with such a heart as yours! -Do think seriously about it.” - -“I am not joking; I am as serious as possible,” said the Rector, with a -provoking little inward laugh. “You are as bad as Elinor. She has been -wanting me to go and lecture Brooke; and I have reminded her that her -friends had a very poor opinion of the match she made when she married -me.” - -“But look at Casaubon,” said Sir James, indignantly. “He must be fifty, -and I don’t believe he could ever have been much more than the shadow -of a man. Look at his legs!” - -“Confound you handsome young fellows! you think of having it all your -own way in the world. You don’t understand women. They don’t admire you -half so much as you admire yourselves. Elinor used to tell her sisters -that she married me for my ugliness—it was so various and amusing that -it had quite conquered her prudence.” - -“You! it was easy enough for a woman to love you. But this is no -question of beauty. I don’t _like_ Casaubon.” This was Sir James’s -strongest way of implying that he thought ill of a man’s character. - -“Why? what do you know against him?” said the Rector laying down his -reels, and putting his thumbs into his armholes with an air of -attention. - -Sir James paused. He did not usually find it easy to give his reasons: -it seemed to him strange that people should not know them without being -told, since he only felt what was reasonable. At last he said— - -“Now, Cadwallader, has he got any heart?” - -“Well, yes. I don’t mean of the melting sort, but a sound kernel, -_that_ you may be sure of. He is very good to his poor relations: -pensions several of the women, and is educating a young fellow at a -good deal of expense. Casaubon acts up to his sense of justice. His -mother’s sister made a bad match—a Pole, I think—lost herself—at any -rate was disowned by her family. If it had not been for that, Casaubon -would not have had so much money by half. I believe he went himself to -find out his cousins, and see what he could do for them. Every man -would not ring so well as that, if you tried his metal. _You_ would, -Chettam; but not every man.” - -“I don’t know,” said Sir James, coloring. “I am not so sure of myself.” -He paused a moment, and then added, “That was a right thing for -Casaubon to do. But a man may wish to do what is right, and yet be a -sort of parchment code. A woman may not be happy with him. And I think -when a girl is so young as Miss Brooke is, her friends ought to -interfere a little to hinder her from doing anything foolish. You -laugh, because you fancy I have some feeling on my own account. But -upon my honor, it is not that. I should feel just the same if I were -Miss Brooke’s brother or uncle.” - -“Well, but what should you do?” - -“I should say that the marriage must not be decided on until she was of -age. And depend upon it, in that case, it would never come off. I wish -you saw it as I do—I wish you would talk to Brooke about it.” - -Sir James rose as he was finishing his sentence, for he saw Mrs. -Cadwallader entering from the study. She held by the hand her youngest -girl, about five years old, who immediately ran to papa, and was made -comfortable on his knee. - -“I hear what you are talking about,” said the wife. “But you will make -no impression on Humphrey. As long as the fish rise to his bait, -everybody is what he ought to be. Bless you, Casaubon has got a -trout-stream, and does not care about fishing in it himself: could -there be a better fellow?” - -“Well, there is something in that,” said the Rector, with his quiet, -inward laugh. “It is a very good quality in a man to have a -trout-stream.” - -“But seriously,” said Sir James, whose vexation had not yet spent -itself, “don’t you think the Rector might do some good by speaking?” - -“Oh, I told you beforehand what he would say,” answered Mrs. -Cadwallader, lifting up her eyebrows. “I have done what I could: I wash -my hands of the marriage.” - -“In the first place,” said the Rector, looking rather grave, “it would -be nonsensical to expect that I could convince Brooke, and make him act -accordingly. Brooke is a very good fellow, but pulpy; he will run into -any mould, but he won’t keep shape.” - -“He might keep shape long enough to defer the marriage,” said Sir -James. - -“But, my dear Chettam, why should I use my influence to Casaubon’s -disadvantage, unless I were much surer than I am that I should be -acting for the advantage of Miss Brooke? I know no harm of Casaubon. I -don’t care about his Xisuthrus and Fee-fo-fum and the rest; but then he -doesn’t care about my fishing-tackle. As to the line he took on the -Catholic Question, that was unexpected; but he has always been civil to -me, and I don’t see why I should spoil his sport. For anything I can -tell, Miss Brooke may be happier with him than she would be with any -other man.” - -“Humphrey! I have no patience with you. You know you would rather dine -under the hedge than with Casaubon alone. You have nothing to say to -each other.” - -“What has that to do with Miss Brooke’s marrying him? She does not do -it for my amusement.” - -“He has got no good red blood in his body,” said Sir James. - -“No. Somebody put a drop under a magnifying-glass and it was all -semicolons and parentheses,” said Mrs. Cadwallader. - -“Why does he not bring out his book, instead of marrying,” said Sir -James, with a disgust which he held warranted by the sound feeling of -an English layman. - -“Oh, he dreams footnotes, and they run away with all his brains. They -say, when he was a little boy, he made an abstract of ‘Hop o’ my -Thumb,’ and he has been making abstracts ever since. Ugh! And that is -the man Humphrey goes on saying that a woman may be happy with.” - -“Well, he is what Miss Brooke likes,” said the Rector. “I don’t profess -to understand every young lady’s taste.” - -“But if she were your own daughter?” said Sir James. - -“That would be a different affair. She is _not_ my daughter, and I -don’t feel called upon to interfere. Casaubon is as good as most of us. -He is a scholarly clergyman, and creditable to the cloth. Some Radical -fellow speechifying at Middlemarch said Casaubon was the learned -straw-chopping incumbent, and Freke was the brick-and-mortar incumbent, -and I was the angling incumbent. And upon my word, I don’t see that one -is worse or better than the other.” The Rector ended with his silent -laugh. He always saw the joke of any satire against himself. His -conscience was large and easy, like the rest of him: it did only what -it could do without any trouble. - -Clearly, there would be no interference with Miss Brooke’s marriage -through Mr. Cadwallader; and Sir James felt with some sadness that she -was to have perfect liberty of misjudgment. It was a sign of his good -disposition that he did not slacken at all in his intention of carrying -out Dorothea’s design of the cottages. Doubtless this persistence was -the best course for his own dignity: but pride only helps us to be -generous; it never makes us so, any more than vanity makes us witty. -She was now enough aware of Sir James’s position with regard to her, to -appreciate the rectitude of his perseverance in a landlord’s duty, to -which he had at first been urged by a lover’s complaisance, and her -pleasure in it was great enough to count for something even in her -present happiness. Perhaps she gave to Sir James Chettam’s cottages all -the interest she could spare from Mr. Casaubon, or rather from the -symphony of hopeful dreams, admiring trust, and passionate self -devotion which that learned gentleman had set playing in her soul. -Hence it happened that in the good baronet’s succeeding visits, while -he was beginning to pay small attentions to Celia, he found himself -talking with more and more pleasure to Dorothea. She was perfectly -unconstrained and without irritation towards him now, and he was -gradually discovering the delight there is in frank kindness and -companionship between a man and a woman who have no passion to hide or -confess. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -1_st Gent_. An ancient land in ancient oracles - Is called “law-thirsty”: all the struggle there - Was after order and a perfect rule. - Pray, where lie such lands now? . . . - -2_d Gent_. Why, where they lay of old—in human souls. - - -Mr. Casaubon’s behavior about settlements was highly satisfactory to -Mr. Brooke, and the preliminaries of marriage rolled smoothly along, -shortening the weeks of courtship. The betrothed bride must see her -future home, and dictate any changes that she would like to have made -there. A woman dictates before marriage in order that she may have an -appetite for submission afterwards. And certainly, the mistakes that we -male and female mortals make when we have our own way might fairly -raise some wonder that we are so fond of it. - -On a gray but dry November morning Dorothea drove to Lowick in company -with her uncle and Celia. Mr. Casaubon’s home was the manor-house. -Close by, visible from some parts of the garden, was the little church, -with the old parsonage opposite. In the beginning of his career, Mr. -Casaubon had only held the living, but the death of his brother had put -him in possession of the manor also. It had a small park, with a fine -old oak here and there, and an avenue of limes towards the southwest -front, with a sunk fence between park and pleasure-ground, so that from -the drawing-room windows the glance swept uninterruptedly along a slope -of greensward till the limes ended in a level of corn and pastures, -which often seemed to melt into a lake under the setting sun. This was -the happy side of the house, for the south and east looked rather -melancholy even under the brightest morning. The grounds here were more -confined, the flower-beds showed no very careful tendance, and large -clumps of trees, chiefly of sombre yews, had risen high, not ten yards -from the windows. The building, of greenish stone, was in the old -English style, not ugly, but small-windowed and melancholy-looking: the -sort of house that must have children, many flowers, open windows, and -little vistas of bright things, to make it seem a joyous home. In this -latter end of autumn, with a sparse remnant of yellow leaves falling -slowly athwart the dark evergreens in a stillness without sunshine, the -house too had an air of autumnal decline, and Mr. Casaubon, when he -presented himself, had no bloom that could be thrown into relief by -that background. - -“Oh dear!” Celia said to herself, “I am sure Freshitt Hall would have -been pleasanter than this.” She thought of the white freestone, the -pillared portico, and the terrace full of flowers, Sir James smiling -above them like a prince issuing from his enchantment in a rose-bush, -with a handkerchief swiftly metamorphosed from the most delicately -odorous petals—Sir James, who talked so agreeably, always about things -which had common-sense in them, and not about learning! Celia had those -light young feminine tastes which grave and weatherworn gentlemen -sometimes prefer in a wife; but happily Mr. Casaubon’s bias had been -different, for he would have had no chance with Celia. - -Dorothea, on the contrary, found the house and grounds all that she -could wish: the dark book-shelves in the long library, the carpets and -curtains with colors subdued by time, the curious old maps and -bird’s-eye views on the walls of the corridor, with here and there an -old vase below, had no oppression for her, and seemed more cheerful -than the casts and pictures at the Grange, which her uncle had long ago -brought home from his travels—they being probably among the ideas he -had taken in at one time. To poor Dorothea these severe classical -nudities and smirking Renaissance-Correggiosities were painfully -inexplicable, staring into the midst of her Puritanic conceptions: she -had never been taught how she could bring them into any sort of -relevance with her life. But the owners of Lowick apparently had not -been travellers, and Mr. Casaubon’s studies of the past were not -carried on by means of such aids. - -Dorothea walked about the house with delightful emotion. Everything -seemed hallowed to her: this was to be the home of her wifehood, and -she looked up with eyes full of confidence to Mr. Casaubon when he drew -her attention specially to some actual arrangement and asked her if she -would like an alteration. All appeals to her taste she met gratefully, -but saw nothing to alter. His efforts at exact courtesy and formal -tenderness had no defect for her. She filled up all blanks with -unmanifested perfections, interpreting him as she interpreted the works -of Providence, and accounting for seeming discords by her own deafness -to the higher harmonies. And there are many blanks left in the weeks of -courtship which a loving faith fills with happy assurance. - -“Now, my dear Dorothea, I wish you to favor me by pointing out which -room you would like to have as your boudoir,” said Mr. Casaubon, -showing that his views of the womanly nature were sufficiently large to -include that requirement. - -“It is very kind of you to think of that,” said Dorothea, “but I assure -you I would rather have all those matters decided for me. I shall be -much happier to take everything as it is—just as you have been used to -have it, or as you will yourself choose it to be. I have no motive for -wishing anything else.” - -“Oh, Dodo,” said Celia, “will you not have the bow-windowed room -up-stairs?” - -Mr. Casaubon led the way thither. The bow-window looked down the avenue -of limes; the furniture was all of a faded blue, and there were -miniatures of ladies and gentlemen with powdered hair hanging in a -group. A piece of tapestry over a door also showed a blue-green world -with a pale stag in it. The chairs and tables were thin-legged and easy -to upset. It was a room where one might fancy the ghost of a -tight-laced lady revisiting the scene of her embroidery. A light -bookcase contained duodecimo volumes of polite literature in calf, -completing the furniture. - -“Yes,” said Mr. Brooke, “this would be a pretty room with some new -hangings, sofas, and that sort of thing. A little bare now.” - -“No, uncle,” said Dorothea, eagerly. “Pray do not speak of altering -anything. There are so many other things in the world that want -altering—I like to take these things as they are. And you like them as -they are, don’t you?” she added, looking at Mr. Casaubon. “Perhaps this -was your mother’s room when she was young.” - -“It was,” he said, with his slow bend of the head. - -“This is your mother,” said Dorothea, who had turned to examine the -group of miniatures. “It is like the tiny one you brought me; only, I -should think, a better portrait. And this one opposite, who is this?” - -“Her elder sister. They were, like you and your sister, the only two -children of their parents, who hang above them, you see.” - -“The sister is pretty,” said Celia, implying that she thought less -favorably of Mr. Casaubon’s mother. It was a new opening to Celia’s -imagination, that he came of a family who had all been young in their -time—the ladies wearing necklaces. - -“It is a peculiar face,” said Dorothea, looking closely. “Those deep -gray eyes rather near together—and the delicate irregular nose with a -sort of ripple in it—and all the powdered curls hanging backward. -Altogether it seems to me peculiar rather than pretty. There is not -even a family likeness between her and your mother.” - -“No. And they were not alike in their lot.” - -“You did not mention her to me,” said Dorothea. - -“My aunt made an unfortunate marriage. I never saw her.” - -Dorothea wondered a little, but felt that it would be indelicate just -then to ask for any information which Mr. Casaubon did not proffer, and -she turned to the window to admire the view. The sun had lately pierced -the gray, and the avenue of limes cast shadows. - -“Shall we not walk in the garden now?” said Dorothea. - -“And you would like to see the church, you know,” said Mr. Brooke. “It -is a droll little church. And the village. It all lies in a nut-shell. -By the way, it will suit you, Dorothea; for the cottages are like a row -of alms-houses—little gardens, gilly-flowers, that sort of thing.” - -“Yes, please,” said Dorothea, looking at Mr. Casaubon, “I should like -to see all that.” She had got nothing from him more graphic about the -Lowick cottages than that they were “not bad.” - -They were soon on a gravel walk which led chiefly between grassy -borders and clumps of trees, this being the nearest way to the church, -Mr. Casaubon said. At the little gate leading into the churchyard there -was a pause while Mr. Casaubon went to the parsonage close by to fetch -a key. Celia, who had been hanging a little in the rear, came up -presently, when she saw that Mr. Casaubon was gone away, and said in -her easy staccato, which always seemed to contradict the suspicion of -any malicious intent— - -“Do you know, Dorothea, I saw some one quite young coming up one of the -walks.” - -“Is that astonishing, Celia?” - -“There may be a young gardener, you know—why not?” said Mr. Brooke. “I -told Casaubon he should change his gardener.” - -“No, not a gardener,” said Celia; “a gentleman with a sketch-book. He -had light-brown curls. I only saw his back. But he was quite young.” - -“The curate’s son, perhaps,” said Mr. Brooke. “Ah, there is Casaubon -again, and Tucker with him. He is going to introduce Tucker. You don’t -know Tucker yet.” - -Mr. Tucker was the middle-aged curate, one of the “inferior clergy,” -who are usually not wanting in sons. But after the introduction, the -conversation did not lead to any question about his family, and the -startling apparition of youthfulness was forgotten by every one but -Celia. She inwardly declined to believe that the light-brown curls and -slim figure could have any relationship to Mr. Tucker, who was just as -old and musty-looking as she would have expected Mr. Casaubon’s curate -to be; doubtless an excellent man who would go to heaven (for Celia -wished not to be unprincipled), but the corners of his mouth were so -unpleasant. Celia thought with some dismalness of the time she should -have to spend as bridesmaid at Lowick, while the curate had probably no -pretty little children whom she could like, irrespective of principle. - -Mr. Tucker was invaluable in their walk; and perhaps Mr. Casaubon had -not been without foresight on this head, the curate being able to -answer all Dorothea’s questions about the villagers and the other -parishioners. Everybody, he assured her, was well off in Lowick: not a -cottager in those double cottages at a low rent but kept a pig, and the -strips of garden at the back were well tended. The small boys wore -excellent corduroy, the girls went out as tidy servants, or did a -little straw-plaiting at home: no looms here, no Dissent; and though -the public disposition was rather towards laying by money than towards -spirituality, there was not much vice. The speckled fowls were so -numerous that Mr. Brooke observed, “Your farmers leave some barley for -the women to glean, I see. The poor folks here might have a fowl in -their pot, as the good French king used to wish for all his people. The -French eat a good many fowls—skinny fowls, you know.” - -“I think it was a very cheap wish of his,” said Dorothea, indignantly. -“Are kings such monsters that a wish like that must be reckoned a royal -virtue?” - -“And if he wished them a skinny fowl,” said Celia, “that would not be -nice. But perhaps he wished them to have fat fowls.” - -“Yes, but the word has dropped out of the text, or perhaps was -subauditum; that is, present in the king’s mind, but not uttered,” said -Mr. Casaubon, smiling and bending his head towards Celia, who -immediately dropped backward a little, because she could not bear Mr. -Casaubon to blink at her. - -Dorothea sank into silence on the way back to the house. She felt some -disappointment, of which she was yet ashamed, that there was nothing -for her to do in Lowick; and in the next few minutes her mind had -glanced over the possibility, which she would have preferred, of -finding that her home would be in a parish which had a larger share of -the world’s misery, so that she might have had more active duties in -it. Then, recurring to the future actually before her, she made a -picture of more complete devotion to Mr. Casaubon’s aims in which she -would await new duties. Many such might reveal themselves to the higher -knowledge gained by her in that companionship. - -Mr. Tucker soon left them, having some clerical work which would not -allow him to lunch at the Hall; and as they were re-entering the garden -through the little gate, Mr. Casaubon said— - -“You seem a little sad, Dorothea. I trust you are pleased with what you -have seen.” - -“I am feeling something which is perhaps foolish and wrong,” answered -Dorothea, with her usual openness—“almost wishing that the people -wanted more to be done for them here. I have known so few ways of -making my life good for anything. Of course, my notions of usefulness -must be narrow. I must learn new ways of helping people.” - -“Doubtless,” said Mr. Casaubon. “Each position has its corresponding -duties. Yours, I trust, as the mistress of Lowick, will not leave any -yearning unfulfilled.” - -“Indeed, I believe that,” said Dorothea, earnestly. “Do not suppose -that I am sad.” - -“That is well. But, if you are not tired, we will take another way to -the house than that by which we came.” - -Dorothea was not at all tired, and a little circuit was made towards a -fine yew-tree, the chief hereditary glory of the grounds on this side -of the house. As they approached it, a figure, conspicuous on a dark -background of evergreens, was seated on a bench, sketching the old -tree. Mr. Brooke, who was walking in front with Celia, turned his head, -and said— - -“Who is that youngster, Casaubon?” - -They had come very near when Mr. Casaubon answered— - -“That is a young relative of mine, a second cousin: the grandson, in -fact,” he added, looking at Dorothea, “of the lady whose portrait you -have been noticing, my aunt Julia.” - -The young man had laid down his sketch-book and risen. His bushy -light-brown curls, as well as his youthfulness, identified him at once -with Celia’s apparition. - -“Dorothea, let me introduce to you my cousin, Mr. Ladislaw. Will, this -is Miss Brooke.” - -The cousin was so close now, that, when he lifted his hat, Dorothea -could see a pair of gray eyes rather near together, a delicate -irregular nose with a little ripple in it, and hair falling backward; -but there was a mouth and chin of a more prominent, threatening aspect -than belonged to the type of the grandmother’s miniature. Young -Ladislaw did not feel it necessary to smile, as if he were charmed with -this introduction to his future second cousin and her relatives; but -wore rather a pouting air of discontent. - -“You are an artist, I see,” said Mr. Brooke, taking up the sketch-book -and turning it over in his unceremonious fashion. - -“No, I only sketch a little. There is nothing fit to be seen there,” -said young Ladislaw, coloring, perhaps with temper rather than modesty. - -“Oh, come, this is a nice bit, now. I did a little in this way myself -at one time, you know. Look here, now; this is what I call a nice -thing, done with what we used to call _brio_.” Mr. Brooke held out -towards the two girls a large colored sketch of stony ground and trees, -with a pool. - -“I am no judge of these things,” said Dorothea, not coldly, but with an -eager deprecation of the appeal to her. “You know, uncle, I never see -the beauty of those pictures which you say are so much praised. They -are a language I do not understand. I suppose there is some relation -between pictures and nature which I am too ignorant to feel—just as you -see what a Greek sentence stands for which means nothing to me.” -Dorothea looked up at Mr. Casaubon, who bowed his head towards her, -while Mr. Brooke said, smiling nonchalantly— - -“Bless me, now, how different people are! But you had a bad style of -teaching, you know—else this is just the thing for girls—sketching, -fine art and so on. But you took to drawing plans; you don’t understand -_morbidezza_, and that kind of thing. You will come to my house, I -hope, and I will show you what I did in this way,” he continued, -turning to young Ladislaw, who had to be recalled from his -preoccupation in observing Dorothea. Ladislaw had made up his mind that -she must be an unpleasant girl, since she was going to marry Casaubon, -and what she said of her stupidity about pictures would have confirmed -that opinion even if he had believed her. As it was, he took her words -for a covert judgment, and was certain that she thought his sketch -detestable. There was too much cleverness in her apology: she was -laughing both at her uncle and himself. But what a voice! It was like -the voice of a soul that had once lived in an Aeolian harp. This must -be one of Nature’s inconsistencies. There could be no sort of passion -in a girl who would marry Casaubon. But he turned from her, and bowed -his thanks for Mr. Brooke’s invitation. - -“We will turn over my Italian engravings together,” continued that -good-natured man. “I have no end of those things, that I have laid by -for years. One gets rusty in this part of the country, you know. Not -you, Casaubon; you stick to your studies; but my best ideas get -undermost—out of use, you know. You clever young men must guard against -indolence. I was too indolent, you know: else I might have been -anywhere at one time.” - -“That is a seasonable admonition,” said Mr. Casaubon; “but now we will -pass on to the house, lest the young ladies should be tired of -standing.” - -When their backs were turned, young Ladislaw sat down to go on with his -sketching, and as he did so his face broke into an expression of -amusement which increased as he went on drawing, till at last he threw -back his head and laughed aloud. Partly it was the reception of his own -artistic production that tickled him; partly the notion of his grave -cousin as the lover of that girl; and partly Mr. Brooke’s definition of -the place he might have held but for the impediment of indolence. Mr. -Will Ladislaw’s sense of the ludicrous lit up his features very -agreeably: it was the pure enjoyment of comicality, and had no mixture -of sneering and self-exaltation. - -“What is your nephew going to do with himself, Casaubon?” said Mr. -Brooke, as they went on. - -“My cousin, you mean—not my nephew.” - -“Yes, yes, cousin. But in the way of a career, you know.” - -“The answer to that question is painfully doubtful. On leaving Rugby he -declined to go to an English university, where I would gladly have -placed him, and chose what I must consider the anomalous course of -studying at Heidelberg. And now he wants to go abroad again, without -any special object, save the vague purpose of what he calls culture, -preparation for he knows not what. He declines to choose a profession.” - -“He has no means but what you furnish, I suppose.” - -“I have always given him and his friends reason to understand that I -would furnish in moderation what was necessary for providing him with a -scholarly education, and launching him respectably. I am therefore -bound to fulfil the expectation so raised,” said Mr. Casaubon, putting -his conduct in the light of mere rectitude: a trait of delicacy which -Dorothea noticed with admiration. - -“He has a thirst for travelling; perhaps he may turn out a Bruce or a -Mungo Park,” said Mr. Brooke. “I had a notion of that myself at one -time.” - -“No, he has no bent towards exploration, or the enlargement of our -geognosis: that would be a special purpose which I could recognize with -some approbation, though without felicitating him on a career which so -often ends in premature and violent death. But so far is he from having -any desire for a more accurate knowledge of the earth’s surface, that -he said he should prefer not to know the sources of the Nile, and that -there should be some unknown regions preserved as hunting grounds for -the poetic imagination.” - -“Well, there is something in that, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, who had -certainly an impartial mind. - -“It is, I fear, nothing more than a part of his general inaccuracy and -indisposition to thoroughness of all kinds, which would be a bad augury -for him in any profession, civil or sacred, even were he so far -submissive to ordinary rule as to choose one.” - -“Perhaps he has conscientious scruples founded on his own unfitness,” -said Dorothea, who was interesting herself in finding a favorable -explanation. “Because the law and medicine should be very serious -professions to undertake, should they not? People’s lives and fortunes -depend on them.” - -“Doubtless; but I fear that my young relative Will Ladislaw is chiefly -determined in his aversion to these callings by a dislike to steady -application, and to that kind of acquirement which is needful -instrumentally, but is not charming or immediately inviting to -self-indulgent taste. I have insisted to him on what Aristotle has -stated with admirable brevity, that for the achievement of any work -regarded as an end there must be a prior exercise of many energies or -acquired facilities of a secondary order, demanding patience. I have -pointed to my own manuscript volumes, which represent the toil of years -preparatory to a work not yet accomplished. But in vain. To careful -reasoning of this kind he replies by calling himself Pegasus, and every -form of prescribed work ‘harness.’” - -Celia laughed. She was surprised to find that Mr. Casaubon could say -something quite amusing. - -“Well, you know, he may turn out a Byron, a Chatterton, a -Churchill—that sort of thing—there’s no telling,” said Mr. Brooke. -“Shall you let him go to Italy, or wherever else he wants to go?” - -“Yes; I have agreed to furnish him with moderate supplies for a year or -so; he asks no more. I shall let him be tried by the test of freedom.” - -“That is very kind of you,” said Dorothea, looking up at Mr. Casaubon -with delight. “It is noble. After all, people may really have in them -some vocation which is not quite plain to themselves, may they not? -They may seem idle and weak because they are growing. We should be very -patient with each other, I think.” - -“I suppose it is being engaged to be married that has made you think -patience good,” said Celia, as soon as she and Dorothea were alone -together, taking off their wrappings. - -“You mean that I am very impatient, Celia.” - -“Yes; when people don’t do and say just what you like.” Celia had -become less afraid of “saying things” to Dorothea since this -engagement: cleverness seemed to her more pitiable than ever. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -“He had catched a great cold, had he had no other clothes to wear than -the skin of a bear not yet killed.”—FULLER. - - -Young Ladislaw did not pay that visit to which Mr. Brooke had invited -him, and only six days afterwards Mr. Casaubon mentioned that his young -relative had started for the Continent, seeming by this cold vagueness -to waive inquiry. Indeed, Will had declined to fix on any more precise -destination than the entire area of Europe. Genius, he held, is -necessarily intolerant of fetters: on the one hand it must have the -utmost play for its spontaneity; on the other, it may confidently await -those messages from the universe which summon it to its peculiar work, -only placing itself in an attitude of receptivity towards all sublime -chances. The attitudes of receptivity are various, and Will had -sincerely tried many of them. He was not excessively fond of wine, but -he had several times taken too much, simply as an experiment in that -form of ecstasy; he had fasted till he was faint, and then supped on -lobster; he had made himself ill with doses of opium. Nothing greatly -original had resulted from these measures; and the effects of the opium -had convinced him that there was an entire dissimilarity between his -constitution and De Quincey’s. The superadded circumstance which would -evolve the genius had not yet come; the universe had not yet beckoned. -Even Caesar’s fortune at one time was but a grand presentiment. We know -what a masquerade all development is, and what effective shapes may be -disguised in helpless embryos. In fact, the world is full of hopeful -analogies and handsome dubious eggs called possibilities. Will saw -clearly enough the pitiable instances of long incubation producing no -chick, and but for gratitude would have laughed at Casaubon, whose -plodding application, rows of note-books, and small taper of learned -theory exploring the tossed ruins of the world, seemed to enforce a -moral entirely encouraging to Will’s generous reliance on the -intentions of the universe with regard to himself. He held that -reliance to be a mark of genius; and certainly it is no mark to the -contrary; genius consisting neither in self-conceit nor in humility, -but in a power to make or do, not anything in general, but something in -particular. Let him start for the Continent, then, without our -pronouncing on his future. Among all forms of mistake, prophecy is the -most gratuitous. - -But at present this caution against a too hasty judgment interests me -more in relation to Mr. Casaubon than to his young cousin. If to -Dorothea Mr. Casaubon had been the mere occasion which had set alight -the fine inflammable material of her youthful illusions, does it follow -that he was fairly represented in the minds of those less impassioned -personages who have hitherto delivered their judgments concerning him? -I protest against any absolute conclusion, any prejudice derived from -Mrs. Cadwallader’s contempt for a neighboring clergyman’s alleged -greatness of soul, or Sir James Chettam’s poor opinion of his rival’s -legs,—from Mr. Brooke’s failure to elicit a companion’s ideas, or from -Celia’s criticism of a middle-aged scholar’s personal appearance. I am -not sure that the greatest man of his age, if ever that solitary -superlative existed, could escape these unfavorable reflections of -himself in various small mirrors; and even Milton, looking for his -portrait in a spoon, must submit to have the facial angle of a bumpkin. -Moreover, if Mr. Casaubon, speaking for himself, has rather a chilling -rhetoric, it is not therefore certain that there is no good work or -fine feeling in him. Did not an immortal physicist and interpreter of -hieroglyphs write detestable verses? Has the theory of the solar system -been advanced by graceful manners and conversational tact? Suppose we -turn from outside estimates of a man, to wonder, with keener interest, -what is the report of his own consciousness about his doings or -capacity: with what hindrances he is carrying on his daily labors; what -fading of hopes, or what deeper fixity of self-delusion the years are -marking off within him; and with what spirit he wrestles against -universal pressure, which will one day be too heavy for him, and bring -his heart to its final pause. Doubtless his lot is important in his own -eyes; and the chief reason that we think he asks too large a place in -our consideration must be our want of room for him, since we refer him -to the Divine regard with perfect confidence; nay, it is even held -sublime for our neighbor to expect the utmost there, however little he -may have got from us. Mr. Casaubon, too, was the centre of his own -world; if he was liable to think that others were providentially made -for him, and especially to consider them in the light of their fitness -for the author of a “Key to all Mythologies,” this trait is not quite -alien to us, and, like the other mendicant hopes of mortals, claims -some of our pity. - -Certainly this affair of his marriage with Miss Brooke touched him more -nearly than it did any one of the persons who have hitherto shown their -disapproval of it, and in the present stage of things I feel more -tenderly towards his experience of success than towards the -disappointment of the amiable Sir James. For in truth, as the day fixed -for his marriage came nearer, Mr. Casaubon did not find his spirits -rising; nor did the contemplation of that matrimonial garden scene, -where, as all experience showed, the path was to be bordered with -flowers, prove persistently more enchanting to him than the accustomed -vaults where he walked taper in hand. He did not confess to himself, -still less could he have breathed to another, his surprise that though -he had won a lovely and noble-hearted girl he had not won -delight,—which he had also regarded as an object to be found by search. -It is true that he knew all the classical passages implying the -contrary; but knowing classical passages, we find, is a mode of motion, -which explains why they leave so little extra force for their personal -application. - -Poor Mr. Casaubon had imagined that his long studious bachelorhood had -stored up for him a compound interest of enjoyment, and that large -drafts on his affections would not fail to be honored; for we all of -us, grave or light, get our thoughts entangled in metaphors, and act -fatally on the strength of them. And now he was in danger of being -saddened by the very conviction that his circumstances were unusually -happy: there was nothing external by which he could account for a -certain blankness of sensibility which came over him just when his -expectant gladness should have been most lively, just when he exchanged -the accustomed dulness of his Lowick library for his visits to the -Grange. Here was a weary experience in which he was as utterly -condemned to loneliness as in the despair which sometimes threatened -him while toiling in the morass of authorship without seeming nearer to -the goal. And his was that worst loneliness which would shrink from -sympathy. He could not but wish that Dorothea should think him not less -happy than the world would expect her successful suitor to be; and in -relation to his authorship he leaned on her young trust and veneration, -he liked to draw forth her fresh interest in listening, as a means of -encouragement to himself: in talking to her he presented all his -performance and intention with the reflected confidence of the -pedagogue, and rid himself for the time of that chilling ideal audience -which crowded his laborious uncreative hours with the vaporous pressure -of Tartarean shades. - -For to Dorothea, after that toy-box history of the world adapted to -young ladies which had made the chief part of her education, Mr. -Casaubon’s talk about his great book was full of new vistas; and this -sense of revelation, this surprise of a nearer introduction to Stoics -and Alexandrians, as people who had ideas not totally unlike her own, -kept in abeyance for the time her usual eagerness for a binding theory -which could bring her own life and doctrine into strict connection with -that amazing past, and give the remotest sources of knowledge some -bearing on her actions. That more complete teaching would come—Mr. -Casaubon would tell her all that: she was looking forward to higher -initiation in ideas, as she was looking forward to marriage, and -blending her dim conceptions of both. It would be a great mistake to -suppose that Dorothea would have cared about any share in Mr. -Casaubon’s learning as mere accomplishment; for though opinion in the -neighborhood of Freshitt and Tipton had pronounced her clever, that -epithet would not have described her to circles in whose more precise -vocabulary cleverness implies mere aptitude for knowing and doing, -apart from character. All her eagerness for acquirement lay within that -full current of sympathetic motive in which her ideas and impulses were -habitually swept along. She did not want to deck herself with -knowledge—to wear it loose from the nerves and blood that fed her -action; and if she had written a book she must have done it as Saint -Theresa did, under the command of an authority that constrained her -conscience. But something she yearned for by which her life might be -filled with action at once rational and ardent; and since the time was -gone by for guiding visions and spiritual directors, since prayer -heightened yearning but not instruction, what lamp was there but -knowledge? Surely learned men kept the only oil; and who more learned -than Mr. Casaubon? - -Thus in these brief weeks Dorothea’s joyous grateful expectation was -unbroken, and however her lover might occasionally be conscious of -flatness, he could never refer it to any slackening of her affectionate -interest. - -The season was mild enough to encourage the project of extending the -wedding journey as far as Rome, and Mr. Casaubon was anxious for this -because he wished to inspect some manuscripts in the Vatican. - -“I still regret that your sister is not to accompany us,” he said one -morning, some time after it had been ascertained that Celia objected to -go, and that Dorothea did not wish for her companionship. “You will -have many lonely hours, Dorothea, for I shall be constrained to make -the utmost use of my time during our stay in Rome, and I should feel -more at liberty if you had a companion.” - -The words “I should feel more at liberty” grated on Dorothea. For the -first time in speaking to Mr. Casaubon she colored from annoyance. - -“You must have misunderstood me very much,” she said, “if you think I -should not enter into the value of your time—if you think that I should -not willingly give up whatever interfered with your using it to the -best purpose.” - -“That is very amiable in you, my dear Dorothea,” said Mr. Casaubon, not -in the least noticing that she was hurt; “but if you had a lady as your -companion, I could put you both under the care of a cicerone, and we -could thus achieve two purposes in the same space of time.” - -“I beg you will not refer to this again,” said Dorothea, rather -haughtily. But immediately she feared that she was wrong, and turning -towards him she laid her hand on his, adding in a different tone, “Pray -do not be anxious about me. I shall have so much to think of when I am -alone. And Tantripp will be a sufficient companion, just to take care -of me. I could not bear to have Celia: she would be miserable.” - -It was time to dress. There was to be a dinner-party that day, the last -of the parties which were held at the Grange as proper preliminaries to -the wedding, and Dorothea was glad of a reason for moving away at once -on the sound of the bell, as if she needed more than her usual amount -of preparation. She was ashamed of being irritated from some cause she -could not define even to herself; for though she had no intention to be -untruthful, her reply had not touched the real hurt within her. Mr. -Casaubon’s words had been quite reasonable, yet they had brought a -vague instantaneous sense of aloofness on his part. - -“Surely I am in a strangely selfish weak state of mind,” she said to -herself. “How can I have a husband who is so much above me without -knowing that he needs me less than I need him?” - -Having convinced herself that Mr. Casaubon was altogether right, she -recovered her equanimity, and was an agreeable image of serene dignity -when she came into the drawing-room in her silver-gray dress—the simple -lines of her dark-brown hair parted over her brow and coiled massively -behind, in keeping with the entire absence from her manner and -expression of all search after mere effect. Sometimes when Dorothea was -in company, there seemed to be as complete an air of repose about her -as if she had been a picture of Santa Barbara looking out from her -tower into the clear air; but these intervals of quietude made the -energy of her speech and emotion the more remarked when some outward -appeal had touched her. - -She was naturally the subject of many observations this evening, for -the dinner-party was large and rather more miscellaneous as to the male -portion than any which had been held at the Grange since Mr. Brooke’s -nieces had resided with him, so that the talking was done in duos and -trios more or less inharmonious. There was the newly elected mayor of -Middlemarch, who happened to be a manufacturer; the philanthropic -banker his brother-in-law, who predominated so much in the town that -some called him a Methodist, others a hypocrite, according to the -resources of their vocabulary; and there were various professional men. -In fact, Mrs. Cadwallader said that Brooke was beginning to treat the -Middlemarchers, and that she preferred the farmers at the tithe-dinner, -who drank her health unpretentiously, and were not ashamed of their -grandfathers’ furniture. For in that part of the country, before reform -had done its notable part in developing the political consciousness, -there was a clearer distinction of ranks and a dimmer distinction of -parties; so that Mr. Brooke’s miscellaneous invitations seemed to -belong to that general laxity which came from his inordinate travel and -habit of taking too much in the form of ideas. - -Already, as Miss Brooke passed out of the dining-room, opportunity was -found for some interjectional “asides.” - -“A fine woman, Miss Brooke! an uncommonly fine woman, by God!” said Mr. -Standish, the old lawyer, who had been so long concerned with the -landed gentry that he had become landed himself, and used that oath in -a deep-mouthed manner as a sort of armorial bearings, stamping the -speech of a man who held a good position. - -Mr. Bulstrode, the banker, seemed to be addressed, but that gentleman -disliked coarseness and profanity, and merely bowed. The remark was -taken up by Mr. Chichely, a middle-aged bachelor and coursing -celebrity, who had a complexion something like an Easter egg, a few -hairs carefully arranged, and a carriage implying the consciousness of -a distinguished appearance. - -“Yes, but not my style of woman: I like a woman who lays herself out a -little more to please us. There should be a little filigree about a -woman—something of the coquette. A man likes a sort of challenge. The -more of a dead set she makes at you the better.” - -“There’s some truth in that,” said Mr. Standish, disposed to be genial. -“And, by God, it’s usually the way with them. I suppose it answers some -wise ends: Providence made them so, eh, Bulstrode?” - -“I should be disposed to refer coquetry to another source,” said Mr. -Bulstrode. “I should rather refer it to the devil.” - -“Ay, to be sure, there should be a little devil in a woman,” said Mr. -Chichely, whose study of the fair sex seemed to have been detrimental -to his theology. “And I like them blond, with a certain gait, and a -swan neck. Between ourselves, the mayor’s daughter is more to my taste -than Miss Brooke or Miss Celia either. If I were a marrying man I -should choose Miss Vincy before either of them.” - -“Well, make up, make up,” said Mr. Standish, jocosely; “you see the -middle-aged fellows carry the day.” - -Mr. Chichely shook his head with much meaning: he was not going to -incur the certainty of being accepted by the woman he would choose. - -The Miss Vincy who had the honor of being Mr. Chichely’s ideal was of -course not present; for Mr. Brooke, always objecting to go too far, -would not have chosen that his nieces should meet the daughter of a -Middlemarch manufacturer, unless it were on a public occasion. The -feminine part of the company included none whom Lady Chettam or Mrs. -Cadwallader could object to; for Mrs. Renfrew, the colonel’s widow, was -not only unexceptionable in point of breeding, but also interesting on -the ground of her complaint, which puzzled the doctors, and seemed -clearly a case wherein the fulness of professional knowledge might need -the supplement of quackery. Lady Chettam, who attributed her own -remarkable health to home-made bitters united with constant medical -attendance, entered with much exercise of the imagination into Mrs. -Renfrew’s account of symptoms, and into the amazing futility in her -case of all strengthening medicines. - -“Where can all the strength of those medicines go, my dear?” said the -mild but stately dowager, turning to Mrs. Cadwallader reflectively, -when Mrs. Renfrew’s attention was called away. - -“It strengthens the disease,” said the Rector’s wife, much too -well-born not to be an amateur in medicine. “Everything depends on the -constitution: some people make fat, some blood, and some bile—that’s my -view of the matter; and whatever they take is a sort of grist to the -mill.” - -“Then she ought to take medicines that would reduce—reduce the disease, -you know, if you are right, my dear. And I think what you say is -reasonable.” - -“Certainly it is reasonable. You have two sorts of potatoes, fed on the -same soil. One of them grows more and more watery—” - -“Ah! like this poor Mrs. Renfrew—that is what I think. Dropsy! There is -no swelling yet—it is inward. I should say she ought to take drying -medicines, shouldn’t you?—or a dry hot-air bath. Many things might be -tried, of a drying nature.” - -“Let her try a certain person’s pamphlets,” said Mrs. Cadwallader in an -undertone, seeing the gentlemen enter. “He does not want drying.” - -“Who, my dear?” said Lady Chettam, a charming woman, not so quick as to -nullify the pleasure of explanation. - -“The bridegroom—Casaubon. He has certainly been drying up faster since -the engagement: the flame of passion, I suppose.” - -“I should think he is far from having a good constitution,” said Lady -Chettam, with a still deeper undertone. “And then his studies—so very -dry, as you say.” - -“Really, by the side of Sir James, he looks like a death’s head skinned -over for the occasion. Mark my words: in a year from this time that -girl will hate him. She looks up to him as an oracle now, and by-and-by -she will be at the other extreme. All flightiness!” - -“How very shocking! I fear she is headstrong. But tell me—you know all -about him—is there anything very bad? What is the truth?” - -“The truth? he is as bad as the wrong physic—nasty to take, and sure to -disagree.” - -“There could not be anything worse than that,” said Lady Chettam, with -so vivid a conception of the physic that she seemed to have learned -something exact about Mr. Casaubon’s disadvantages. “However, James -will hear nothing against Miss Brooke. He says she is the mirror of -women still.” - -“That is a generous make-believe of his. Depend upon it, he likes -little Celia better, and she appreciates him. I hope you like my little -Celia?” - -“Certainly; she is fonder of geraniums, and seems more docile, though -not so fine a figure. But we were talking of physic. Tell me about this -new young surgeon, Mr. Lydgate. I am told he is wonderfully clever: he -certainly looks it—a fine brow indeed.” - -“He is a gentleman. I heard him talking to Humphrey. He talks well.” - -“Yes. Mr. Brooke says he is one of the Lydgates of Northumberland, -really well connected. One does not expect it in a practitioner of that -kind. For my own part, I like a medical man more on a footing with the -servants; they are often all the cleverer. I assure you I found poor -Hicks’s judgment unfailing; I never knew him wrong. He was coarse and -butcher-like, but he knew my constitution. It was a loss to me his -going off so suddenly. Dear me, what a very animated conversation Miss -Brooke seems to be having with this Mr. Lydgate!” - -“She is talking cottages and hospitals with him,” said Mrs. -Cadwallader, whose ears and power of interpretation were quick. “I -believe he is a sort of philanthropist, so Brooke is sure to take him -up.” - -“James,” said Lady Chettam when her son came near, “bring Mr. Lydgate -and introduce him to me. I want to test him.” - -The affable dowager declared herself delighted with this opportunity of -making Mr. Lydgate’s acquaintance, having heard of his success in -treating fever on a new plan. - -Mr. Lydgate had the medical accomplishment of looking perfectly grave -whatever nonsense was talked to him, and his dark steady eyes gave him -impressiveness as a listener. He was as little as possible like the -lamented Hicks, especially in a certain careless refinement about his -toilet and utterance. Yet Lady Chettam gathered much confidence in him. -He confirmed her view of her own constitution as being peculiar, by -admitting that all constitutions might be called peculiar, and he did -not deny that hers might be more peculiar than others. He did not -approve of a too lowering system, including reckless cupping, nor, on -the other hand, of incessant port wine and bark. He said “I think so” -with an air of so much deference accompanying the insight of agreement, -that she formed the most cordial opinion of his talents. - -“I am quite pleased with your protege,” she said to Mr. Brooke before -going away. - -“My protege?—dear me!—who is that?” said Mr. Brooke. - -“This young Lydgate, the new doctor. He seems to me to understand his -profession admirably.” - -“Oh, Lydgate! he is not my protege, you know; only I knew an uncle of -his who sent me a letter about him. However, I think he is likely to be -first-rate—has studied in Paris, knew Broussais; has ideas, you -know—wants to raise the profession.” - -“Lydgate has lots of ideas, quite new, about ventilation and diet, that -sort of thing,” resumed Mr. Brooke, after he had handed out Lady -Chettam, and had returned to be civil to a group of Middlemarchers. - -“Hang it, do you think that is quite sound?—upsetting the old -treatment, which has made Englishmen what they are?” said Mr. Standish. - -“Medical knowledge is at a low ebb among us,” said Mr. Bulstrode, who -spoke in a subdued tone, and had rather a sickly air. “I, for my part, -hail the advent of Mr. Lydgate. I hope to find good reason for -confiding the new hospital to his management.” - -“That is all very fine,” replied Mr. Standish, who was not fond of Mr. -Bulstrode; “if you like him to try experiments on your hospital -patients, and kill a few people for charity I have no objection. But I -am not going to hand money out of my purse to have experiments tried on -me. I like treatment that has been tested a little.” - -“Well, you know, Standish, every dose you take is an experiment-an -experiment, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, nodding towards the lawyer. - -“Oh, if you talk in that sense!” said Mr. Standish, with as much -disgust at such non-legal quibbling as a man can well betray towards a -valuable client. - -“I should be glad of any treatment that would cure me without reducing -me to a skeleton, like poor Grainger,” said Mr. Vincy, the mayor, a -florid man, who would have served for a study of flesh in striking -contrast with the Franciscan tints of Mr. Bulstrode. “It’s an -uncommonly dangerous thing to be left without any padding against the -shafts of disease, as somebody said,—and I think it a very good -expression myself.” - -Mr. Lydgate, of course, was out of hearing. He had quitted the party -early, and would have thought it altogether tedious but for the novelty -of certain introductions, especially the introduction to Miss Brooke, -whose youthful bloom, with her approaching marriage to that faded -scholar, and her interest in matters socially useful, gave her the -piquancy of an unusual combination. - -“She is a good creature—that fine girl—but a little too earnest,” he -thought. “It is troublesome to talk to such women. They are always -wanting reasons, yet they are too ignorant to understand the merits of -any question, and usually fall back on their moral sense to settle -things after their own taste.” - -Evidently Miss Brooke was not Mr. Lydgate’s style of woman any more -than Mr. Chichely’s. Considered, indeed, in relation to the latter, -whose mind was matured, she was altogether a mistake, and calculated to -shock his trust in final causes, including the adaptation of fine young -women to purplefaced bachelors. But Lydgate was less ripe, and might -possibly have experience before him which would modify his opinion as -to the most excellent things in woman. - -Miss Brooke, however, was not again seen by either of these gentlemen -under her maiden name. Not long after that dinner-party she had become -Mrs. Casaubon, and was on her way to Rome. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -But deeds and language such as men do use, -And persons such as comedy would choose, -When she would show an image of the times, -And sport with human follies, not with crimes. -—BEN JONSON. - - -Lydgate, in fact, was already conscious of being fascinated by a woman -strikingly different from Miss Brooke: he did not in the least suppose -that he had lost his balance and fallen in love, but he had said of -that particular woman, “She is grace itself; she is perfectly lovely -and accomplished. That is what a woman ought to be: she ought to -produce the effect of exquisite music.” Plain women he regarded as he -did the other severe facts of life, to be faced with philosophy and -investigated by science. But Rosamond Vincy seemed to have the true -melodic charm; and when a man has seen the woman whom he would have -chosen if he had intended to marry speedily, his remaining a bachelor -will usually depend on her resolution rather than on his. Lydgate -believed that he should not marry for several years: not marry until he -had trodden out a good clear path for himself away from the broad road -which was quite ready made. He had seen Miss Vincy above his horizon -almost as long as it had taken Mr. Casaubon to become engaged and -married: but this learned gentleman was possessed of a fortune; he had -assembled his voluminous notes, and had made that sort of reputation -which precedes performance,—often the larger part of a man’s fame. He -took a wife, as we have seen, to adorn the remaining quadrant of his -course, and be a little moon that would cause hardly a calculable -perturbation. But Lydgate was young, poor, ambitious. He had his -half-century before him instead of behind him, and he had come to -Middlemarch bent on doing many things that were not directly fitted to -make his fortune or even secure him a good income. To a man under such -circumstances, taking a wife is something more than a question of -adornment, however highly he may rate this; and Lydgate was disposed to -give it the first place among wifely functions. To his taste, guided by -a single conversation, here was the point on which Miss Brooke would be -found wanting, notwithstanding her undeniable beauty. She did not look -at things from the proper feminine angle. The society of such women was -about as relaxing as going from your work to teach the second form, -instead of reclining in a paradise with sweet laughs for bird-notes, -and blue eyes for a heaven. - -Certainly nothing at present could seem much less important to Lydgate -than the turn of Miss Brooke’s mind, or to Miss Brooke than the -qualities of the woman who had attracted this young surgeon. But any -one watching keenly the stealthy convergence of human lots, sees a slow -preparation of effects from one life on another, which tells like a -calculated irony on the indifference or the frozen stare with which we -look at our unintroduced neighbor. Destiny stands by sarcastic with our -dramatis personae folded in her hand. - -Old provincial society had its share of this subtle movement: had not -only its striking downfalls, its brilliant young professional dandies -who ended by living up an entry with a drab and six children for their -establishment, but also those less marked vicissitudes which are -constantly shifting the boundaries of social intercourse, and begetting -new consciousness of interdependence. Some slipped a little downward, -some got higher footing: people denied aspirates, gained wealth, and -fastidious gentlemen stood for boroughs; some were caught in political -currents, some in ecclesiastical, and perhaps found themselves -surprisingly grouped in consequence; while a few personages or families -that stood with rocky firmness amid all this fluctuation, were slowly -presenting new aspects in spite of solidity, and altering with the -double change of self and beholder. Municipal town and rural parish -gradually made fresh threads of connection—gradually, as the old -stocking gave way to the savings-bank, and the worship of the solar -guinea became extinct; while squires and baronets, and even lords who -had once lived blamelessly afar from the civic mind, gathered the -faultiness of closer acquaintanceship. Settlers, too, came from distant -counties, some with an alarming novelty of skill, others with an -offensive advantage in cunning. In fact, much the same sort of movement -and mixture went on in old England as we find in older Herodotus, who -also, in telling what had been, thought it well to take a woman’s lot -for his starting-point; though Io, as a maiden apparently beguiled by -attractive merchandise, was the reverse of Miss Brooke, and in this -respect perhaps bore more resemblance to Rosamond Vincy, who had -excellent taste in costume, with that nymph-like figure and pure -blondness which give the largest range to choice in the flow and color -of drapery. But these things made only part of her charm. She was -admitted to be the flower of Mrs. Lemon’s school, the chief school in -the county, where the teaching included all that was demanded in the -accomplished female—even to extras, such as the getting in and out of a -carriage. Mrs. Lemon herself had always held up Miss Vincy as an -example: no pupil, she said, exceeded that young lady for mental -acquisition and propriety of speech, while her musical execution was -quite exceptional. We cannot help the way in which people speak of us, -and probably if Mrs. Lemon had undertaken to describe Juliet or Imogen, -these heroines would not have seemed poetical. The first vision of -Rosamond would have been enough with most judges to dispel any -prejudice excited by Mrs. Lemon’s praise. - -Lydgate could not be long in Middlemarch without having that agreeable -vision, or even without making the acquaintance of the Vincy family; -for though Mr. Peacock, whose practice he had paid something to enter -on, had not been their doctor (Mrs. Vincy not liking the lowering -system adopted by him), he had many patients among their connections -and acquaintances. For who of any consequence in Middlemarch was not -connected or at least acquainted with the Vincys? They were old -manufacturers, and had kept a good house for three generations, in -which there had naturally been much intermarrying with neighbors more -or less decidedly genteel. Mr. Vincy’s sister had made a wealthy match -in accepting Mr. Bulstrode, who, however, as a man not born in the -town, and altogether of dimly known origin, was considered to have done -well in uniting himself with a real Middlemarch family; on the other -hand, Mr. Vincy had descended a little, having taken an innkeeper’s -daughter. But on this side too there was a cheering sense of money; for -Mrs. Vincy’s sister had been second wife to rich old Mr. Featherstone, -and had died childless years ago, so that her nephews and nieces might -be supposed to touch the affections of the widower. And it happened -that Mr. Bulstrode and Mr. Featherstone, two of Peacock’s most -important patients, had, from different causes, given an especially -good reception to his successor, who had raised some partisanship as -well as discussion. Mr. Wrench, medical attendant to the Vincy family, -very early had grounds for thinking lightly of Lydgate’s professional -discretion, and there was no report about him which was not retailed at -the Vincys’, where visitors were frequent. Mr. Vincy was more inclined -to general good-fellowship than to taking sides, but there was no need -for him to be hasty in making any new man acquaintance. Rosamond -silently wished that her father would invite Mr. Lydgate. She was tired -of the faces and figures she had always been used to—the various -irregular profiles and gaits and turns of phrase distinguishing those -Middlemarch young men whom she had known as boys. She had been at -school with girls of higher position, whose brothers, she felt sure, it -would have been possible for her to be more interested in, than in -these inevitable Middlemarch companions. But she would not have chosen -to mention her wish to her father; and he, for his part, was in no -hurry on the subject. An alderman about to be mayor must by-and-by -enlarge his dinner-parties, but at present there were plenty of guests -at his well-spread table. - -That table often remained covered with the relics of the family -breakfast long after Mr. Vincy had gone with his second son to the -warehouse, and when Miss Morgan was already far on in morning lessons -with the younger girls in the schoolroom. It awaited the family -laggard, who found any sort of inconvenience (to others) less -disagreeable than getting up when he was called. This was the case one -morning of the October in which we have lately seen Mr. Casaubon -visiting the Grange; and though the room was a little overheated with -the fire, which had sent the spaniel panting to a remote corner, -Rosamond, for some reason, continued to sit at her embroidery longer -than usual, now and then giving herself a little shake, and laying her -work on her knee to contemplate it with an air of hesitating weariness. -Her mamma, who had returned from an excursion to the kitchen, sat on -the other side of the small work-table with an air of more entire -placidity, until, the clock again giving notice that it was going to -strike, she looked up from the lace-mending which was occupying her -plump fingers and rang the bell. - -“Knock at Mr. Fred’s door again, Pritchard, and tell him it has struck -half-past ten.” - -This was said without any change in the radiant good-humor of Mrs. -Vincy’s face, in which forty-five years had delved neither angles nor -parallels; and pushing back her pink capstrings, she let her work rest -on her lap, while she looked admiringly at her daughter. - -“Mamma,” said Rosamond, “when Fred comes down I wish you would not let -him have red herrings. I cannot bear the smell of them all over the -house at this hour of the morning.” - -“Oh, my dear, you are so hard on your brothers! It is the only fault I -have to find with you. You are the sweetest temper in the world, but -you are so tetchy with your brothers.” - -“Not tetchy, mamma: you never hear me speak in an unladylike way.” - -“Well, but you want to deny them things.” - -“Brothers are so unpleasant.” - -“Oh, my dear, you must allow for young men. Be thankful if they have -good hearts. A woman must learn to put up with little things. You will -be married some day.” - -“Not to any one who is like Fred.” - -“Don’t decry your own brother, my dear. Few young men have less against -them, although he couldn’t take his degree—I’m sure I can’t understand -why, for he seems to me most clever. And you know yourself he was -thought equal to the best society at college. So particular as you are, -my dear, I wonder you are not glad to have such a gentlemanly young man -for a brother. You are always finding fault with Bob because he is not -Fred.” - -“Oh no, mamma, only because he is Bob.” - -“Well, my dear, you will not find any Middlemarch young man who has not -something against him.” - -“But”—here Rosamond’s face broke into a smile which suddenly revealed -two dimples. She herself thought unfavorably of these dimples and -smiled little in general society. “But I shall not marry any -Middlemarch young man.” - -“So it seems, my love, for you have as good as refused the pick of -them; and if there’s better to be had, I’m sure there’s no girl better -deserves it.” - -“Excuse me, mamma—I wish you would not say, ‘the pick of them.’” - -“Why, what else are they?” - -“I mean, mamma, it is rather a vulgar expression.” - -“Very likely, my dear; I never was a good speaker. What should I say?” - -“The best of them.” - -“Why, that seems just as plain and common. If I had had time to think, -I should have said, ‘the most superior young men.’ But with your -education you must know.” - -“What must Rosy know, mother?” said Mr. Fred, who had slid in -unobserved through the half-open door while the ladies were bending -over their work, and now going up to the fire stood with his back -towards it, warming the soles of his slippers. - -“Whether it’s right to say ‘superior young men,’” said Mrs. Vincy, -ringing the bell. - -“Oh, there are so many superior teas and sugars now. Superior is -getting to be shopkeepers’ slang.” - -“Are you beginning to dislike slang, then?” said Rosamond, with mild -gravity. - -“Only the wrong sort. All choice of words is slang. It marks a class.” - -“There is correct English: that is not slang.” - -“I beg your pardon: correct English is the slang of prigs who write -history and essays. And the strongest slang of all is the slang of -poets.” - -“You will say anything, Fred, to gain your point.” - -“Well, tell me whether it is slang or poetry to call an ox a -_leg-plaiter_.” - -“Of course you can call it poetry if you like.” - -“Aha, Miss Rosy, you don’t know Homer from slang. I shall invent a new -game; I shall write bits of slang and poetry on slips, and give them to -you to separate.” - -“Dear me, how amusing it is to hear young people talk!” said Mrs. -Vincy, with cheerful admiration. - -“Have you got nothing else for my breakfast, Pritchard?” said Fred, to -the servant who brought in coffee and buttered toast; while he walked -round the table surveying the ham, potted beef, and other cold -remnants, with an air of silent rejection, and polite forbearance from -signs of disgust. - -“Should you like eggs, sir?” - -“Eggs, no! Bring me a grilled bone.” - -“Really, Fred,” said Rosamond, when the servant had left the room, “if -you must have hot things for breakfast, I wish you would come down -earlier. You can get up at six o’clock to go out hunting; I cannot -understand why you find it so difficult to get up on other mornings.” - -“That is your want of understanding, Rosy. I can get up to go hunting -because I like it.” - -“What would you think of me if I came down two hours after every one -else and ordered grilled bone?” - -“I should think you were an uncommonly fast young lady,” said Fred, -eating his toast with the utmost composure. - -“I cannot see why brothers are to make themselves disagreeable, any -more than sisters.” - -“I don’t make myself disagreeable; it is you who find me so. -Disagreeable is a word that describes your feelings and not my -actions.” - -“I think it describes the smell of grilled bone.” - -“Not at all. It describes a sensation in your little nose associated -with certain finicking notions which are the classics of Mrs. Lemon’s -school. Look at my mother; you don’t see her objecting to everything -except what she does herself. She is my notion of a pleasant woman.” - -“Bless you both, my dears, and don’t quarrel,” said Mrs. Vincy, with -motherly cordiality. “Come, Fred, tell us all about the new doctor. How -is your uncle pleased with him?” - -“Pretty well, I think. He asks Lydgate all sorts of questions and then -screws up his face while he hears the answers, as if they were pinching -his toes. That’s his way. Ah, here comes my grilled bone.” - -“But how came you to stay out so late, my dear? You only said you were -going to your uncle’s.” - -“Oh, I dined at Plymdale’s. We had whist. Lydgate was there too.” - -“And what do you think of him? He is very gentlemanly, I suppose. They -say he is of excellent family—his relations quite county people.” - -“Yes,” said Fred. “There was a Lydgate at John’s who spent no end of -money. I find this man is a second cousin of his. But rich men may have -very poor devils for second cousins.” - -“It always makes a difference, though, to be of good family,” said -Rosamond, with a tone of decision which showed that she had thought on -this subject. Rosamond felt that she might have been happier if she had -not been the daughter of a Middlemarch manufacturer. She disliked -anything which reminded her that her mother’s father had been an -innkeeper. Certainly any one remembering the fact might think that Mrs. -Vincy had the air of a very handsome good-humored landlady, accustomed -to the most capricious orders of gentlemen. - -“I thought it was odd his name was Tertius,” said the bright-faced -matron, “but of course it’s a name in the family. But now, tell us -exactly what sort of man he is.” - -“Oh, tallish, dark, clever—talks well—rather a prig, I think.” - -“I never can make out what you mean by a prig,” said Rosamond. - -“A fellow who wants to show that he has opinions.” - -“Why, my dear, doctors must have opinions,” said Mrs. Vincy. “What are -they there for else?” - -“Yes, mother, the opinions they are paid for. But a prig is a fellow -who is always making you a present of his opinions.” - -“I suppose Mary Garth admires Mr. Lydgate,” said Rosamond, not without -a touch of innuendo. - -“Really, I can’t say.” said Fred, rather glumly, as he left the table, -and taking up a novel which he had brought down with him, threw himself -into an arm-chair. “If you are jealous of her, go oftener to Stone -Court yourself and eclipse her.” - -“I wish you would not be so vulgar, Fred. If you have finished, pray -ring the bell.” - -“It is true, though—what your brother says, Rosamond,” Mrs. Vincy -began, when the servant had cleared the table. “It is a thousand pities -you haven’t patience to go and see your uncle more, so proud of you as -he is, and wanted you to live with him. There’s no knowing what he -might have done for you as well as for Fred. God knows, I’m fond of -having you at home with me, but I can part with my children for their -good. And now it stands to reason that your uncle Featherstone will do -something for Mary Garth.” - -“Mary Garth can bear being at Stone Court, because she likes that -better than being a governess,” said Rosamond, folding up her work. “I -would rather not have anything left to me if I must earn it by enduring -much of my uncle’s cough and his ugly relations.” - -“He can’t be long for this world, my dear; I wouldn’t hasten his end, -but what with asthma and that inward complaint, let us hope there is -something better for him in another. And I have no ill-will towards -Mary Garth, but there’s justice to be thought of. And Mr. -Featherstone’s first wife brought him no money, as my sister did. Her -nieces and nephews can’t have so much claim as my sister’s. And I must -say I think Mary Garth a dreadful plain girl—more fit for a governess.” - -“Every one would not agree with you there, mother,” said Fred, who -seemed to be able to read and listen too. - -“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Vincy, wheeling skilfully, “if she _had_ -some fortune left her,—a man marries his wife’s relations, and the -Garths are so poor, and live in such a small way. But I shall leave you -to your studies, my dear; for I must go and do some shopping.” - -“Fred’s studies are not very deep,” said Rosamond, rising with her -mamma, “he is only reading a novel.” - -“Well, well, by-and-by he’ll go to his Latin and things,” said Mrs. -Vincy, soothingly, stroking her son’s head. “There’s a fire in the -smoking-room on purpose. It’s your father’s wish, you know—Fred, my -dear—and I always tell him you will be good, and go to college again to -take your degree.” - -Fred drew his mother’s hand down to his lips, but said nothing. - -“I suppose you are not going out riding to-day?” said Rosamond, -lingering a little after her mamma was gone. - -“No; why?” - -“Papa says I may have the chestnut to ride now.” - -“You can go with me to-morrow, if you like. Only I am going to Stone -Court, remember.” - -“I want to ride so much, it is indifferent to me where we go.” Rosamond -really wished to go to Stone Court, of all other places. - -“Oh, I say, Rosy,” said Fred, as she was passing out of the room, “if -you are going to the piano, let me come and play some airs with you.” - -“Pray do not ask me this morning.” - -“Why not this morning?” - -“Really, Fred, I wish you would leave off playing the flute. A man -looks very silly playing the flute. And you play so out of tune.” - -“When next any one makes love to you, Miss Rosamond, I will tell him -how obliging you are.” - -“Why should you expect me to oblige you by hearing you play the flute, -any more than I should expect you to oblige me by not playing it?” - -“And why should you expect me to take you out riding?” - -This question led to an adjustment, for Rosamond had set her mind on -that particular ride. - -So Fred was gratified with nearly an hour’s practice of “Ar hyd y nos,” -“Ye banks and braes,” and other favorite airs from his “Instructor on -the Flute;” a wheezy performance, into which he threw much ambition and -an irrepressible hopefulness. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -He had more tow on his distaffe -Than Gerveis knew. -—CHAUCER. - - -The ride to Stone Court, which Fred and Rosamond took the next morning, -lay through a pretty bit of midland landscape, almost all meadows and -pastures, with hedgerows still allowed to grow in bushy beauty and to -spread out coral fruit for the birds. Little details gave each field a -particular physiognomy, dear to the eyes that have looked on them from -childhood: the pool in the corner where the grasses were dank and trees -leaned whisperingly; the great oak shadowing a bare place in -mid-pasture; the high bank where the ash-trees grew; the sudden slope -of the old marl-pit making a red background for the burdock; the -huddled roofs and ricks of the homestead without a traceable way of -approach; the gray gate and fences against the depths of the bordering -wood; and the stray hovel, its old, old thatch full of mossy hills and -valleys with wondrous modulations of light and shadow such as we travel -far to see in later life, and see larger, but not more beautiful. These -are the things that make the gamut of joy in landscape to midland-bred -souls—the things they toddled among, or perhaps learned by heart -standing between their father’s knees while he drove leisurely. - -But the road, even the byroad, was excellent; for Lowick, as we have -seen, was not a parish of muddy lanes and poor tenants; and it was into -Lowick parish that Fred and Rosamond entered after a couple of miles’ -riding. Another mile would bring them to Stone Court, and at the end of -the first half, the house was already visible, looking as if it had -been arrested in its growth toward a stone mansion by an unexpected -budding of farm-buildings on its left flank, which had hindered it from -becoming anything more than the substantial dwelling of a gentleman -farmer. It was not the less agreeable an object in the distance for the -cluster of pinnacled corn-ricks which balanced the fine row of walnuts -on the right. - -Presently it was possible to discern something that might be a gig on -the circular drive before the front door. - -“Dear me,” said Rosamond, “I hope none of my uncle’s horrible relations -are there.” - -“They are, though. That is Mrs. Waule’s gig—the last yellow gig left, I -should think. When I see Mrs. Waule in it, I understand how yellow can -have been worn for mourning. That gig seems to me more funereal than a -hearse. But then Mrs. Waule always has black crape on. How does she -manage it, Rosy? Her friends can’t always be dying.” - -“I don’t know at all. And she is not in the least evangelical,” said -Rosamond, reflectively, as if that religious point of view would have -fully accounted for perpetual crape. “And, not poor,” she added, after -a moment’s pause. - -“No, by George! They are as rich as Jews, those Waules and -Featherstones; I mean, for people like them, who don’t want to spend -anything. And yet they hang about my uncle like vultures, and are -afraid of a farthing going away from their side of the family. But I -believe he hates them all.” - -The Mrs. Waule who was so far from being admirable in the eyes of these -distant connections, had happened to say this very morning (not at all -with a defiant air, but in a low, muffled, neutral tone, as of a voice -heard through cotton wool) that she did not wish “to enjoy their good -opinion.” She was seated, as she observed, on her own brother’s hearth, -and had been Jane Featherstone five-and-twenty years before she had -been Jane Waule, which entitled her to speak when her own brother’s -name had been made free with by those who had no right to it. - -“What are you driving at there?” said Mr. Featherstone, holding his -stick between his knees and settling his wig, while he gave her a -momentary sharp glance, which seemed to react on him like a draught of -cold air and set him coughing. - -Mrs. Waule had to defer her answer till he was quiet again, till Mary -Garth had supplied him with fresh syrup, and he had begun to rub the -gold knob of his stick, looking bitterly at the fire. It was a bright -fire, but it made no difference to the chill-looking purplish tint of -Mrs. Waule’s face, which was as neutral as her voice; having mere -chinks for eyes, and lips that hardly moved in speaking. - -“The doctors can’t master that cough, brother. It’s just like what I -have; for I’m your own sister, constitution and everything. But, as I -was saying, it’s a pity Mrs. Vincy’s family can’t be better conducted.” - -“Tchah! you said nothing o’ the sort. You said somebody had made free -with my name.” - -“And no more than can be proved, if what everybody says is true. My -brother Solomon tells me it’s the talk up and down in Middlemarch how -unsteady young Vincy is, and has been forever gambling at billiards -since home he came.” - -“Nonsense! What’s a game at billiards? It’s a good gentlemanly game; -and young Vincy is not a clodhopper. If your son John took to -billiards, now, he’d make a fool of himself.” - -“Your nephew John never took to billiards or any other game, brother, -and is far from losing hundreds of pounds, which, if what everybody -says is true, must be found somewhere else than out of Mr. Vincy the -father’s pocket. For they say he’s been losing money for years, though -nobody would think so, to see him go coursing and keeping open house as -they do. And I’ve heard say Mr. Bulstrode condemns Mrs. Vincy beyond -anything for her flightiness, and spoiling her children so.” - -“What’s Bulstrode to me? I don’t bank with him.” - -“Well, Mrs. Bulstrode is Mr. Vincy’s own sister, and they do say that -Mr. Vincy mostly trades on the Bank money; and you may see yourself, -brother, when a woman past forty has pink strings always flying, and -that light way of laughing at everything, it’s very unbecoming. But -indulging your children is one thing, and finding money to pay their -debts is another. And it’s openly said that young Vincy has raised -money on his expectations. I don’t say what expectations. Miss Garth -hears me, and is welcome to tell again. I know young people hang -together.” - -“No, thank you, Mrs. Waule,” said Mary Garth. “I dislike hearing -scandal too much to wish to repeat it.” - -Mr. Featherstone rubbed the knob of his stick and made a brief -convulsive show of laughter, which had much the same genuineness as an -old whist-player’s chuckle over a bad hand. Still looking at the fire, -he said— - -“And who pretends to say Fred Vincy hasn’t got expectations? Such a -fine, spirited fellow is like enough to have ’em.” - -There was a slight pause before Mrs. Waule replied, and when she did -so, her voice seemed to be slightly moistened with tears, though her -face was still dry. - -“Whether or no, brother, it is naturally painful to me and my brother -Solomon to hear your name made free with, and your complaint being such -as may carry you off sudden, and people who are no more Featherstones -than the Merry-Andrew at the fair, openly reckoning on your property -coming to _them_. And me your own sister, and Solomon your own brother! -And if that’s to be it, what has it pleased the Almighty to make -families for?” Here Mrs. Waule’s tears fell, but with moderation. - -“Come, out with it, Jane!” said Mr. Featherstone, looking at her. “You -mean to say, Fred Vincy has been getting somebody to advance him money -on what he says he knows about my will, eh?” - -“I never said so, brother” (Mrs. Waule’s voice had again become dry and -unshaken). “It was told me by my brother Solomon last night when he -called coming from market to give me advice about the old wheat, me -being a widow, and my son John only three-and-twenty, though steady -beyond anything. And he had it from most undeniable authority, and not -one, but many.” - -“Stuff and nonsense! I don’t believe a word of it. It’s all a got-up -story. Go to the window, missy; I thought I heard a horse. See if the -doctor’s coming.” - -“Not got up by me, brother, nor yet by Solomon, who, whatever else he -may be—and I don’t deny he has oddities—has made his will and parted -his property equal between such kin as he’s friends with; though, for -my part, I think there are times when some should be considered more -than others. But Solomon makes it no secret what he means to do.” - -“The more fool he!” said Mr. Featherstone, with some difficulty; -breaking into a severe fit of coughing that required Mary Garth to -stand near him, so that she did not find out whose horses they were -which presently paused stamping on the gravel before the door. - -Before Mr. Featherstone’s cough was quiet, Rosamond entered, bearing up -her riding-habit with much grace. She bowed ceremoniously to Mrs. -Waule, who said stiffly, “How do you do, miss?” smiled and nodded -silently to Mary, and remained standing till the coughing should cease, -and allow her uncle to notice her. - -“Heyday, miss!” he said at last, “you have a fine color. Where’s Fred?” - -“Seeing about the horses. He will be in presently.” - -“Sit down, sit down. Mrs. Waule, you’d better go.” - -Even those neighbors who had called Peter Featherstone an old fox, had -never accused him of being insincerely polite, and his sister was quite -used to the peculiar absence of ceremony with which he marked his sense -of blood-relationship. Indeed, she herself was accustomed to think that -entire freedom from the necessity of behaving agreeably was included in -the Almighty’s intentions about families. She rose slowly without any -sign of resentment, and said in her usual muffled monotone, “Brother, I -hope the new doctor will be able to do something for you. Solomon says -there’s great talk of his cleverness. I’m sure it’s my wish you should -be spared. And there’s none more ready to nurse you than your own -sister and your own nieces, if you’d only say the word. There’s -Rebecca, and Joanna, and Elizabeth, you know.” - -“Ay, ay, I remember—you’ll see I’ve remembered ’em all—all dark and -ugly. They’d need have some money, eh? There never was any beauty in -the women of our family; but the Featherstones have always had some -money, and the Waules too. Waule had money too. A warm man was Waule. -Ay, ay; money’s a good egg; and if you’ve got money to leave behind -you, lay it in a warm nest. Good-by, Mrs. Waule.” Here Mr. Featherstone -pulled at both sides of his wig as if he wanted to deafen himself, and -his sister went away ruminating on this oracular speech of his. -Notwithstanding her jealousy of the Vincys and of Mary Garth, there -remained as the nethermost sediment in her mental shallows a persuasion -that her brother Peter Featherstone could never leave his chief -property away from his blood-relations:—else, why had the Almighty -carried off his two wives both childless, after he had gained so much -by manganese and things, turning up when nobody expected it?—and why -was there a Lowick parish church, and the Waules and Powderells all -sitting in the same pew for generations, and the Featherstone pew next -to them, if, the Sunday after her brother Peter’s death, everybody was -to know that the property was gone out of the family? The human mind -has at no period accepted a moral chaos; and so preposterous a result -was not strictly conceivable. But we are frightened at much that is not -strictly conceivable. - -When Fred came in the old man eyed him with a peculiar twinkle, which -the younger had often had reason to interpret as pride in the -satisfactory details of his appearance. - -“You two misses go away,” said Mr. Featherstone. “I want to speak to -Fred.” - -“Come into my room, Rosamond, you will not mind the cold for a little -while,” said Mary. The two girls had not only known each other in -childhood, but had been at the same provincial school together (Mary as -an articled pupil), so that they had many memories in common, and liked -very well to talk in private. Indeed, this _tête-à-tête_ was one of -Rosamond’s objects in coming to Stone Court. - -Old Featherstone would not begin the dialogue till the door had been -closed. He continued to look at Fred with the same twinkle and with one -of his habitual grimaces, alternately screwing and widening his mouth; -and when he spoke, it was in a low tone, which might be taken for that -of an informer ready to be bought off, rather than for the tone of an -offended senior. He was not a man to feel any strong moral indignation -even on account of trespasses against himself. It was natural that -others should want to get an advantage over him, but then, he was a -little too cunning for them. - -“So, sir, you’ve been paying ten per cent for money which you’ve -promised to pay off by mortgaging my land when I’m dead and gone, eh? -You put my life at a twelvemonth, say. But I can alter my will yet.” - -Fred blushed. He had not borrowed money in that way, for excellent -reasons. But he was conscious of having spoken with some confidence -(perhaps with more than he exactly remembered) about his prospect of -getting Featherstone’s land as a future means of paying present debts. - -“I don’t know what you refer to, sir. I have certainly never borrowed -any money on such an insecurity. Please do explain.” - -“No, sir, it’s you must explain. I can alter my will yet, let me tell -you. I’m of sound mind—can reckon compound interest in my head, and -remember every fool’s name as well as I could twenty years ago. What -the deuce? I’m under eighty. I say, you must contradict this story.” - -“I have contradicted it, sir,” Fred answered, with a touch of -impatience, not remembering that his uncle did not verbally -discriminate contradicting from disproving, though no one was further -from confounding the two ideas than old Featherstone, who often -wondered that so many fools took his own assertions for proofs. “But I -contradict it again. The story is a silly lie.” - -“Nonsense! you must bring dockiments. It comes from authority.” - -“Name the authority, and make him name the man of whom I borrowed the -money, and then I can disprove the story.” - -“It’s pretty good authority, I think—a man who knows most of what goes -on in Middlemarch. It’s that fine, religious, charitable uncle o’ -yours. Come now!” Here Mr. Featherstone had his peculiar inward shake -which signified merriment. - -“Mr. Bulstrode?” - -“Who else, eh?” - -“Then the story has grown into this lie out of some sermonizing words -he may have let fall about me. Do they pretend that he named the man -who lent me the money?” - -“If there is such a man, depend upon it Bulstrode knows him. But, -supposing you only tried to get the money lent, and didn’t get -it—Bulstrode ’ud know that too. You bring me a writing from Bulstrode -to say he doesn’t believe you’ve ever promised to pay your debts out o’ -my land. Come now!” - -Mr. Featherstone’s face required its whole scale of grimaces as a -muscular outlet to his silent triumph in the soundness of his -faculties. - -Fred felt himself to be in a disgusting dilemma. - -“You must be joking, sir. Mr. Bulstrode, like other men, believes -scores of things that are not true, and he has a prejudice against me. -I could easily get him to write that he knew no facts in proof of the -report you speak of, though it might lead to unpleasantness. But I -could hardly ask him to write down what he believes or does not believe -about me.” Fred paused an instant, and then added, in politic appeal to -his uncle’s vanity, “That is hardly a thing for a gentleman to ask.” -But he was disappointed in the result. - -“Ay, I know what you mean. You’d sooner offend me than Bulstrode. And -what’s he?—he’s got no land hereabout that ever I heard tell of. A -speckilating fellow! He may come down any day, when the devil leaves -off backing him. And that’s what his religion means: he wants God -A’mighty to come in. That’s nonsense! There’s one thing I made out -pretty clear when I used to go to church—and it’s this: God A’mighty -sticks to the land. He promises land, and He gives land, and He makes -chaps rich with corn and cattle. But you take the other side. You like -Bulstrode and speckilation better than Featherstone and land.” - -“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Fred, rising, standing with his back to -the fire and beating his boot with his whip. “I like neither Bulstrode -nor speculation.” He spoke rather sulkily, feeling himself stalemated. - -“Well, well, you can do without me, that’s pretty clear,” said old -Featherstone, secretly disliking the possibility that Fred would show -himself at all independent. “You neither want a bit of land to make a -squire of you instead of a starving parson, nor a lift of a hundred -pound by the way. It’s all one to me. I can make five codicils if I -like, and I shall keep my bank-notes for a nest-egg. It’s all one to -me.” - -Fred colored again. Featherstone had rarely given him presents of -money, and at this moment it seemed almost harder to part with the -immediate prospect of bank-notes than with the more distant prospect of -the land. - -“I am not ungrateful, sir. I never meant to show disregard for any kind -intentions you might have towards me. On the contrary.” - -“Very good. Then prove it. You bring me a letter from Bulstrode saying -he doesn’t believe you’ve been cracking and promising to pay your debts -out o’ my land, and then, if there’s any scrape you’ve got into, we’ll -see if I can’t back you a bit. Come now! That’s a bargain. Here, give -me your arm. I’ll try and walk round the room.” - -Fred, in spite of his irritation, had kindness enough in him to be a -little sorry for the unloved, unvenerated old man, who with his -dropsical legs looked more than usually pitiable in walking. While -giving his arm, he thought that he should not himself like to be an old -fellow with his constitution breaking up; and he waited -good-temperedly, first before the window to hear the wonted remarks -about the guinea-fowls and the weather-cock, and then before the scanty -book-shelves, of which the chief glories in dark calf were Josephus, -Culpepper, Klopstock’s “Messiah,” and several volumes of the -“Gentleman’s Magazine.” - -“Read me the names o’ the books. Come now! you’re a college man.” - -Fred gave him the titles. - -“What did missy want with more books? What must you be bringing her -more books for?” - -“They amuse her, sir. She is very fond of reading.” - -“A little too fond,” said Mr. Featherstone, captiously. “She was for -reading when she sat with me. But I put a stop to that. She’s got the -newspaper to read out loud. That’s enough for one day, I should think. -I can’t abide to see her reading to herself. You mind and not bring her -any more books, do you hear?” - -“Yes, sir, I hear.” Fred had received this order before, and had -secretly disobeyed it. He intended to disobey it again. - -“Ring the bell,” said Mr. Featherstone; “I want missy to come down.” - -Rosamond and Mary had been talking faster than their male friends. They -did not think of sitting down, but stood at the toilet-table near the -window while Rosamond took off her hat, adjusted her veil, and applied -little touches of her finger-tips to her hair—hair of infantine -fairness, neither flaxen nor yellow. Mary Garth seemed all the plainer -standing at an angle between the two nymphs—the one in the glass, and -the one out of it, who looked at each other with eyes of heavenly blue, -deep enough to hold the most exquisite meanings an ingenious beholder -could put into them, and deep enough to hide the meanings of the owner -if these should happen to be less exquisite. Only a few children in -Middlemarch looked blond by the side of Rosamond, and the slim figure -displayed by her riding-habit had delicate undulations. In fact, most -men in Middlemarch, except her brothers, held that Miss Vincy was the -best girl in the world, and some called her an angel. Mary Garth, on -the contrary, had the aspect of an ordinary sinner: she was brown; her -curly dark hair was rough and stubborn; her stature was low; and it -would not be true to declare, in satisfactory antithesis, that she had -all the virtues. Plainness has its peculiar temptations and vices quite -as much as beauty; it is apt either to feign amiability, or, not -feigning it, to show all the repulsiveness of discontent: at any rate, -to be called an ugly thing in contrast with that lovely creature your -companion, is apt to produce some effect beyond a sense of fine -veracity and fitness in the phrase. At the age of two-and-twenty Mary -had certainly not attained that perfect good sense and good principle -which are usually recommended to the less fortunate girl, as if they -were to be obtained in quantities ready mixed, with a flavor of -resignation as required. Her shrewdness had a streak of satiric -bitterness continually renewed and never carried utterly out of sight, -except by a strong current of gratitude towards those who, instead of -telling her that she ought to be contented, did something to make her -so. Advancing womanhood had tempered her plainness, which was of a good -human sort, such as the mothers of our race have very commonly worn in -all latitudes under a more or less becoming headgear. Rembrandt would -have painted her with pleasure, and would have made her broad features -look out of the canvas with intelligent honesty. For honesty, -truth-telling fairness, was Mary’s reigning virtue: she neither tried -to create illusions, nor indulged in them for her own behoof, and when -she was in a good mood she had humor enough in her to laugh at herself. -When she and Rosamond happened both to be reflected in the glass, she -said, laughingly— - -“What a brown patch I am by the side of you, Rosy! You are the most -unbecoming companion.” - -“Oh no! No one thinks of your appearance, you are so sensible and -useful, Mary. Beauty is of very little consequence in reality,” said -Rosamond, turning her head towards Mary, but with eyes swerving towards -the new view of her neck in the glass. - -“You mean _my_ beauty,” said Mary, rather sardonically. - -Rosamond thought, “Poor Mary, she takes the kindest things ill.” Aloud -she said, “What have you been doing lately?” - -“I? Oh, minding the house—pouring out syrup—pretending to be amiable -and contented—learning to have a bad opinion of everybody.” - -“It is a wretched life for you.” - -“No,” said Mary, curtly, with a little toss of her head. “I think my -life is pleasanter than your Miss Morgan’s.” - -“Yes; but Miss Morgan is so uninteresting, and not young.” - -“She is interesting to herself, I suppose; and I am not at all sure -that everything gets easier as one gets older.” - -“No,” said Rosamond, reflectively; “one wonders what such people do, -without any prospect. To be sure, there is religion as a support. But,” -she added, dimpling, “it is very different with you, Mary. You may have -an offer.” - -“Has any one told you he means to make me one?” - -“Of course not. I mean, there is a gentleman who may fall in love with -you, seeing you almost every day.” - -A certain change in Mary’s face was chiefly determined by the resolve -not to show any change. - -“Does that always make people fall in love?” she answered, carelessly; -“it seems to me quite as often a reason for detesting each other.” - -“Not when they are interesting and agreeable. I hear that Mr. Lydgate -is both.” - -“Oh, Mr. Lydgate!” said Mary, with an unmistakable lapse into -indifference. “You want to know something about him,” she added, not -choosing to indulge Rosamond’s indirectness. - -“Merely, how you like him.” - -“There is no question of liking at present. My liking always wants some -little kindness to kindle it. I am not magnanimous enough to like -people who speak to me without seeming to see me.” - -“Is he so haughty?” said Rosamond, with heightened satisfaction. “You -know that he is of good family?” - -“No; he did not give that as a reason.” - -“Mary! you are the oddest girl. But what sort of looking man is he? -Describe him to me.” - -“How can one describe a man? I can give you an inventory: heavy -eyebrows, dark eyes, a straight nose, thick dark hair, large solid -white hands—and—let me see—oh, an exquisite cambric -pocket-handkerchief. But you will see him. You know this is about the -time of his visits.” - -Rosamond blushed a little, but said, meditatively, “I rather like a -haughty manner. I cannot endure a rattling young man.” - -“I did not tell you that Mr. Lydgate was haughty; but _il y en a pour -tous les goûts_, as little Mamselle used to say, and if any girl can -choose the particular sort of conceit she would like, I should think it -is you, Rosy.” - -“Haughtiness is not conceit; I call Fred conceited.” - -“I wish no one said any worse of him. He should be more careful. Mrs. -Waule has been telling uncle that Fred is very unsteady.” Mary spoke -from a girlish impulse which got the better of her judgment. There was -a vague uneasiness associated with the word “unsteady” which she hoped -Rosamond might say something to dissipate. But she purposely abstained -from mentioning Mrs. Waule’s more special insinuation. - -“Oh, Fred is horrid!” said Rosamond. She would not have allowed herself -so unsuitable a word to any one but Mary. - -“What do you mean by horrid?” - -“He is so idle, and makes papa so angry, and says he will not take -orders.” - -“I think Fred is quite right.” - -“How can you say he is quite right, Mary? I thought you had more sense -of religion.” - -“He is not fit to be a clergyman.” - -“But he ought to be fit.”—“Well, then, he is not what he ought to be. I -know some other people who are in the same case.” - -“But no one approves of them. I should not like to marry a clergyman; -but there must be clergymen.” - -“It does not follow that Fred must be one.” - -“But when papa has been at the expense of educating him for it! And -only suppose, if he should have no fortune left him?” - -“I can suppose that very well,” said Mary, dryly. - -“Then I wonder you can defend Fred,” said Rosamond, inclined to push -this point. - -“I don’t defend him,” said Mary, laughing; “I would defend any parish -from having him for a clergyman.” - -“But of course if he were a clergyman, he must be different.” - -“Yes, he would be a great hypocrite; and he is not that yet.” - -“It is of no use saying anything to you, Mary. You always take Fred’s -part.” - -“Why should I not take his part?” said Mary, lighting up. “He would -take mine. He is the only person who takes the least trouble to oblige -me.” - -“You make me feel very uncomfortable, Mary,” said Rosamond, with her -gravest mildness; “I would not tell mamma for the world.” - -“What would you not tell her?” said Mary, angrily. - -“Pray do not go into a rage, Mary,” said Rosamond, mildly as ever. - -“If your mamma is afraid that Fred will make me an offer, tell her that -I would not marry him if he asked me. But he is not going to do so, -that I am aware. He certainly never has asked me.” - -“Mary, you are always so violent.” - -“And you are always so exasperating.” - -“I? What can you blame me for?” - -“Oh, blameless people are always the most exasperating. There is the -bell—I think we must go down.” - -“I did not mean to quarrel,” said Rosamond, putting on her hat. - -“Quarrel? Nonsense; we have not quarrelled. If one is not to get into a -rage sometimes, what is the good of being friends?” - -“Am I to repeat what you have said?” - -“Just as you please. I never say what I am afraid of having repeated. -But let us go down.” - -Mr. Lydgate was rather late this morning, but the visitors stayed long -enough to see him; for Mr. Featherstone asked Rosamond to sing to him, -and she herself was so kind as to propose a second favorite song of -his—“Flow on, thou shining river”—after she had sung “Home, sweet home” -(which she detested). This hard-headed old Overreach approved of the -sentimental song, as the suitable garnish for girls, and also as -fundamentally fine, sentiment being the right thing for a song. - -Mr. Featherstone was still applauding the last performance, and -assuring missy that her voice was as clear as a blackbird’s, when Mr. -Lydgate’s horse passed the window. - -His dull expectation of the usual disagreeable routine with an aged -patient—who can hardly believe that medicine would not “set him up” if -the doctor were only clever enough—added to his general disbelief in -Middlemarch charms, made a doubly effective background to this vision -of Rosamond, whom old Featherstone made haste ostentatiously to -introduce as his niece, though he had never thought it worth while to -speak of Mary Garth in that light. Nothing escaped Lydgate in -Rosamond’s graceful behavior: how delicately she waived the notice -which the old man’s want of taste had thrust upon her by a quiet -gravity, not showing her dimples on the wrong occasion, but showing -them afterwards in speaking to Mary, to whom she addressed herself with -so much good-natured interest, that Lydgate, after quickly examining -Mary more fully than he had done before, saw an adorable kindness in -Rosamond’s eyes. But Mary from some cause looked rather out of temper. - -“Miss Rosy has been singing me a song—you’ve nothing to say against -that, eh, doctor?” said Mr. Featherstone. “I like it better than your -physic.” - -“That has made me forget how the time was going,” said Rosamond, rising -to reach her hat, which she had laid aside before singing, so that her -flower-like head on its white stem was seen in perfection above her -riding-habit. “Fred, we must really go.” - -“Very good,” said Fred, who had his own reasons for not being in the -best spirits, and wanted to get away. - -“Miss Vincy is a musician?” said Lydgate, following her with his eyes. -(Every nerve and muscle in Rosamond was adjusted to the consciousness -that she was being looked at. She was by nature an actress of parts -that entered into her _physique:_ she even acted her own character, and -so well, that she did not know it to be precisely her own.) - -“The best in Middlemarch, I’ll be bound,” said Mr. Featherstone, “let -the next be who she will. Eh, Fred? Speak up for your sister.” - -“I’m afraid I’m out of court, sir. My evidence would be good for -nothing.” - -“Middlemarch has not a very high standard, uncle,” said Rosamond, with -a pretty lightness, going towards her whip, which lay at a distance. - -Lydgate was quick in anticipating her. He reached the whip before she -did, and turned to present it to her. She bowed and looked at him: he -of course was looking at her, and their eyes met with that peculiar -meeting which is never arrived at by effort, but seems like a sudden -divine clearance of haze. I think Lydgate turned a little paler than -usual, but Rosamond blushed deeply and felt a certain astonishment. -After that, she was really anxious to go, and did not know what sort of -stupidity her uncle was talking of when she went to shake hands with -him. - -Yet this result, which she took to be a mutual impression, called -falling in love, was just what Rosamond had contemplated beforehand. -Ever since that important new arrival in Middlemarch she had woven a -little future, of which something like this scene was the necessary -beginning. Strangers, whether wrecked and clinging to a raft, or duly -escorted and accompanied by portmanteaus, have always had a -circumstantial fascination for the virgin mind, against which native -merit has urged itself in vain. And a stranger was absolutely necessary -to Rosamond’s social romance, which had always turned on a lover and -bridegroom who was not a Middlemarcher, and who had no connections at -all like her own: of late, indeed, the construction seemed to demand -that he should somehow be related to a baronet. Now that she and the -stranger had met, reality proved much more moving than anticipation, -and Rosamond could not doubt that this was the great epoch of her life. -She judged of her own symptoms as those of awakening love, and she held -it still more natural that Mr. Lydgate should have fallen in love at -first sight of her. These things happened so often at balls, and why -not by the morning light, when the complexion showed all the better for -it? Rosamond, though no older than Mary, was rather used to being -fallen in love with; but she, for her part, had remained indifferent -and fastidiously critical towards both fresh sprig and faded bachelor. -And here was Mr. Lydgate suddenly corresponding to her ideal, being -altogether foreign to Middlemarch, carrying a certain air of -distinction congruous with good family, and possessing connections -which offered vistas of that middle-class heaven, rank; a man of -talent, also, whom it would be especially delightful to enslave: in -fact, a man who had touched her nature quite newly, and brought a vivid -interest into her life which was better than any fancied “might-be” -such as she was in the habit of opposing to the actual. - -Thus, in riding home, both the brother and the sister were preoccupied -and inclined to be silent. Rosamond, whose basis for her structure had -the usual airy slightness, was of remarkably detailed and realistic -imagination when the foundation had been once presupposed; and before -they had ridden a mile she was far on in the costume and introductions -of her wedded life, having determined on her house in Middlemarch, and -foreseen the visits she would pay to her husband’s high-bred relatives -at a distance, whose finished manners she could appropriate as -thoroughly as she had done her school accomplishments, preparing -herself thus for vaguer elevations which might ultimately come. There -was nothing financial, still less sordid, in her previsions: she cared -about what were considered refinements, and not about the money that -was to pay for them. - -Fred’s mind, on the other hand, was busy with an anxiety which even his -ready hopefulness could not immediately quell. He saw no way of eluding -Featherstone’s stupid demand without incurring consequences which he -liked less even than the task of fulfilling it. His father was already -out of humor with him, and would be still more so if he were the -occasion of any additional coolness between his own family and the -Bulstrodes. Then, he himself hated having to go and speak to his uncle -Bulstrode, and perhaps after drinking wine he had said many foolish -things about Featherstone’s property, and these had been magnified by -report. Fred felt that he made a wretched figure as a fellow who -bragged about expectations from a queer old miser like Featherstone, -and went to beg for certificates at his bidding. But—those -expectations! He really had them, and he saw no agreeable alternative -if he gave them up; besides, he had lately made a debt which galled him -extremely, and old Featherstone had almost bargained to pay it off. The -whole affair was miserably small: his debts were small, even his -expectations were not anything so very magnificent. Fred had known men -to whom he would have been ashamed of confessing the smallness of his -scrapes. Such ruminations naturally produced a streak of misanthropic -bitterness. To be born the son of a Middlemarch manufacturer, and -inevitable heir to nothing in particular, while such men as Mainwaring -and Vyan—certainly life was a poor business, when a spirited young -fellow, with a good appetite for the best of everything, had so poor an -outlook. - -It had not occurred to Fred that the introduction of Bulstrode’s name -in the matter was a fiction of old Featherstone’s; nor could this have -made any difference to his position. He saw plainly enough that the old -man wanted to exercise his power by tormenting him a little, and also -probably to get some satisfaction out of seeing him on unpleasant terms -with Bulstrode. Fred fancied that he saw to the bottom of his uncle -Featherstone’s soul, though in reality half what he saw there was no -more than the reflex of his own inclinations. The difficult task of -knowing another soul is not for young gentlemen whose consciousness is -chiefly made up of their own wishes. - -Fred’s main point of debate with himself was, whether he should tell -his father, or try to get through the affair without his father’s -knowledge. It was probably Mrs. Waule who had been talking about him; -and if Mary Garth had repeated Mrs. Waule’s report to Rosamond, it -would be sure to reach his father, who would as surely question him -about it. He said to Rosamond, as they slackened their pace— - -“Rosy, did Mary tell you that Mrs. Waule had said anything about me?” - -“Yes, indeed, she did.” - -“What?” - -“That you were very unsteady.” - -“Was that all?” - -“I should think that was enough, Fred.” - -“You are sure she said no more?” - -“Mary mentioned nothing else. But really, Fred, I think you ought to be -ashamed.” - -“Oh, fudge! Don’t lecture me. What did Mary say about it?” - -“I am not obliged to tell you. You care so very much what Mary says, -and you are too rude to allow me to speak.” - -“Of course I care what Mary says. She is the best girl I know.” - -“I should never have thought she was a girl to fall in love with.” - -“How do you know what men would fall in love with? Girls never know.” - -“At least, Fred, let me advise _you_ not to fall in love with her, for -she says she would not marry you if you asked her.” - -“She might have waited till I did ask her.” - -“I knew it would nettle you, Fred.” - -“Not at all. She would not have said so if you had not provoked her.” -Before reaching home, Fred concluded that he would tell the whole -affair as simply as possible to his father, who might perhaps take on -himself the unpleasant business of speaking to Bulstrode. - - - - -BOOK II. -OLD AND YOUNG. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -1_st Gent_. How class your man?—as better than the most, - Or, seeming better, worse beneath that cloak? - As saint or knave, pilgrim or hypocrite? - -2_d Gent_. Nay, tell me how you class your wealth of books - The drifted relics of all time. - As well sort them at once by size and livery: - Vellum, tall copies, and the common calf - Will hardly cover more diversity - Than all your labels cunningly devised - To class your unread authors. - - -In consequence of what he had heard from Fred, Mr. Vincy determined to -speak with Mr. Bulstrode in his private room at the Bank at half-past -one, when he was usually free from other callers. But a visitor had -come in at one o’clock, and Mr. Bulstrode had so much to say to him, -that there was little chance of the interview being over in half an -hour. The banker’s speech was fluent, but it was also copious, and he -used up an appreciable amount of time in brief meditative pauses. Do -not imagine his sickly aspect to have been of the yellow, black-haired -sort: he had a pale blond skin, thin gray-besprinkled brown hair, -light-gray eyes, and a large forehead. Loud men called his subdued tone -an undertone, and sometimes implied that it was inconsistent with -openness; though there seems to be no reason why a loud man should not -be given to concealment of anything except his own voice, unless it can -be shown that Holy Writ has placed the seat of candor in the lungs. Mr. -Bulstrode had also a deferential bending attitude in listening, and an -apparently fixed attentiveness in his eyes which made those persons who -thought themselves worth hearing infer that he was seeking the utmost -improvement from their discourse. Others, who expected to make no great -figure, disliked this kind of moral lantern turned on them. If you are -not proud of your cellar, there is no thrill of satisfaction in seeing -your guest hold up his wine-glass to the light and look judicial. Such -joys are reserved for conscious merit. Hence Mr. Bulstrode’s close -attention was not agreeable to the publicans and sinners in -Middlemarch; it was attributed by some to his being a Pharisee, and by -others to his being Evangelical. Less superficial reasoners among them -wished to know who his father and grandfather were, observing that -five-and-twenty years ago nobody had ever heard of a Bulstrode in -Middlemarch. To his present visitor, Lydgate, the scrutinizing look was -a matter of indifference: he simply formed an unfavorable opinion of -the banker’s constitution, and concluded that he had an eager inward -life with little enjoyment of tangible things. - -“I shall be exceedingly obliged if you will look in on me here -occasionally, Mr. Lydgate,” the banker observed, after a brief pause. -“If, as I dare to hope, I have the privilege of finding you a valuable -coadjutor in the interesting matter of hospital management, there will -be many questions which we shall need to discuss in private. As to the -new hospital, which is nearly finished, I shall consider what you have -said about the advantages of the special destination for fevers. The -decision will rest with me, for though Lord Medlicote has given the -land and timber for the building, he is not disposed to give his -personal attention to the object.” - -“There are few things better worth the pains in a provincial town like -this,” said Lydgate. “A fine fever hospital in addition to the old -infirmary might be the nucleus of a medical school here, when once we -get our medical reforms; and what would do more for medical education -than the spread of such schools over the country? A born provincial man -who has a grain of public spirit as well as a few ideas, should do what -he can to resist the rush of everything that is a little better than -common towards London. Any valid professional aims may often find a -freer, if not a richer field, in the provinces.” - -One of Lydgate’s gifts was a voice habitually deep and sonorous, yet -capable of becoming very low and gentle at the right moment. About his -ordinary bearing there was a certain fling, a fearless expectation of -success, a confidence in his own powers and integrity much fortified by -contempt for petty obstacles or seductions of which he had had no -experience. But this proud openness was made lovable by an expression -of unaffected good-will. Mr. Bulstrode perhaps liked him the better for -the difference between them in pitch and manners; he certainly liked -him the better, as Rosamond did, for being a stranger in Middlemarch. -One can begin so many things with a new person!—even begin to be a -better man. - -“I shall rejoice to furnish your zeal with fuller opportunities,” Mr. -Bulstrode answered; “I mean, by confiding to you the superintendence of -my new hospital, should a maturer knowledge favor that issue, for I am -determined that so great an object shall not be shackled by our two -physicians. Indeed, I am encouraged to consider your advent to this -town as a gracious indication that a more manifest blessing is now to -be awarded to my efforts, which have hitherto been much withstood. With -regard to the old infirmary, we have gained the initial point—I mean -your election. And now I hope you will not shrink from incurring a -certain amount of jealousy and dislike from your professional brethren -by presenting yourself as a reformer.” - -“I will not profess bravery,” said Lydgate, smiling, “but I acknowledge -a good deal of pleasure in fighting, and I should not care for my -profession, if I did not believe that better methods were to be found -and enforced there as well as everywhere else.” - -“The standard of that profession is low in Middlemarch, my dear sir,” -said the banker. “I mean in knowledge and skill; not in social status, -for our medical men are most of them connected with respectable -townspeople here. My own imperfect health has induced me to give some -attention to those palliative resources which the divine mercy has -placed within our reach. I have consulted eminent men in the -metropolis, and I am painfully aware of the backwardness under which -medical treatment labors in our provincial districts.” - -“Yes;—with our present medical rules and education, one must be -satisfied now and then to meet with a fair practitioner. As to all the -higher questions which determine the starting-point of a diagnosis—as -to the philosophy of medical evidence—any glimmering of these can only -come from a scientific culture of which country practitioners have -usually no more notion than the man in the moon.” - -Mr. Bulstrode, bending and looking intently, found the form which -Lydgate had given to his agreement not quite suited to his -comprehension. Under such circumstances a judicious man changes the -topic and enters on ground where his own gifts may be more useful. - -“I am aware,” he said, “that the peculiar bias of medical ability is -towards material means. Nevertheless, Mr. Lydgate, I hope we shall not -vary in sentiment as to a measure in which you are not likely to be -actively concerned, but in which your sympathetic concurrence may be an -aid to me. You recognize, I hope; the existence of spiritual interests -in your patients?” - -“Certainly I do. But those words are apt to cover different meanings to -different minds.” - -“Precisely. And on such subjects wrong teaching is as fatal as no -teaching. Now a point which I have much at heart to secure is a new -regulation as to clerical attendance at the old infirmary. The building -stands in Mr. Farebrother’s parish. You know Mr. Farebrother?” - -“I have seen him. He gave me his vote. I must call to thank him. He -seems a very bright pleasant little fellow. And I understand he is a -naturalist.” - -“Mr. Farebrother, my dear sir, is a man deeply painful to contemplate. -I suppose there is not a clergyman in this country who has greater -talents.” Mr. Bulstrode paused and looked meditative. - -“I have not yet been pained by finding any excessive talent in -Middlemarch,” said Lydgate, bluntly. - -“What I desire,” Mr. Bulstrode continued, looking still more serious, -“is that Mr. Farebrother’s attendance at the hospital should be -superseded by the appointment of a chaplain—of Mr. Tyke, in fact—and -that no other spiritual aid should be called in.” - -“As a medical man I could have no opinion on such a point unless I knew -Mr. Tyke, and even then I should require to know the cases in which he -was applied.” Lydgate smiled, but he was bent on being circumspect. - -“Of course you cannot enter fully into the merits of this measure at -present. But”—here Mr. Bulstrode began to speak with a more chiselled -emphasis—“the subject is likely to be referred to the medical board of -the infirmary, and what I trust I may ask of you is, that in virtue of -the cooperation between us which I now look forward to, you will not, -so far as you are concerned, be influenced by my opponents in this -matter.” - -“I hope I shall have nothing to do with clerical disputes,” said -Lydgate. “The path I have chosen is to work well in my own profession.” - -“My responsibility, Mr. Lydgate, is of a broader kind. With me, indeed, -this question is one of sacred accountableness; whereas with my -opponents, I have good reason to say that it is an occasion for -gratifying a spirit of worldly opposition. But I shall not therefore -drop one iota of my convictions, or cease to identify myself with that -truth which an evil generation hates. I have devoted myself to this -object of hospital-improvement, but I will boldly confess to you, Mr. -Lydgate, that I should have no interest in hospitals if I believed that -nothing more was concerned therein than the cure of mortal diseases. I -have another ground of action, and in the face of persecution I will -not conceal it.” - -Mr. Bulstrode’s voice had become a loud and agitated whisper as he said -the last words. - -“There we certainly differ,” said Lydgate. But he was not sorry that -the door was now opened, and Mr. Vincy was announced. That florid -sociable personage was become more interesting to him since he had seen -Rosamond. Not that, like her, he had been weaving any future in which -their lots were united; but a man naturally remembers a charming girl -with pleasure, and is willing to dine where he may see her again. -Before he took leave, Mr. Vincy had given that invitation which he had -been “in no hurry about,” for Rosamond at breakfast had mentioned that -she thought her uncle Featherstone had taken the new doctor into great -favor. - -Mr. Bulstrode, alone with his brother-in-law, poured himself out a -glass of water, and opened a sandwich-box. - -“I cannot persuade you to adopt my regimen, Vincy?” - -“No, no; I’ve no opinion of that system. Life wants padding,” said Mr. -Vincy, unable to omit his portable theory. “However,” he went on, -accenting the word, as if to dismiss all irrelevance, “what I came here -to talk about was a little affair of my young scapegrace, Fred’s.” - -“That is a subject on which you and I are likely to take quite as -different views as on diet, Vincy.” - -“I hope not this time.” (Mr. Vincy was resolved to be good-humored.) -“The fact is, it’s about a whim of old Featherstone’s. Somebody has -been cooking up a story out of spite, and telling it to the old man, to -try to set him against Fred. He’s very fond of Fred, and is likely to -do something handsome for him; indeed he has as good as told Fred that -he means to leave him his land, and that makes other people jealous.” - -“Vincy, I must repeat, that you will not get any concurrence from me as -to the course you have pursued with your eldest son. It was entirely -from worldly vanity that you destined him for the Church: with a family -of three sons and four daughters, you were not warranted in devoting -money to an expensive education which has succeeded in nothing but in -giving him extravagant idle habits. You are now reaping the -consequences.” - -To point out other people’s errors was a duty that Mr. Bulstrode rarely -shrank from, but Mr. Vincy was not equally prepared to be patient. When -a man has the immediate prospect of being mayor, and is ready, in the -interests of commerce, to take up a firm attitude on politics -generally, he has naturally a sense of his importance to the framework -of things which seems to throw questions of private conduct into the -background. And this particular reproof irritated him more than any -other. It was eminently superfluous to him to be told that he was -reaping the consequences. But he felt his neck under Bulstrode’s yoke; -and though he usually enjoyed kicking, he was anxious to refrain from -that relief. - -“As to that, Bulstrode, it’s no use going back. I’m not one of your -pattern men, and I don’t pretend to be. I couldn’t foresee everything -in the trade; there wasn’t a finer business in Middlemarch than ours, -and the lad was clever. My poor brother was in the Church, and would -have done well—had got preferment already, but that stomach fever took -him off: else he might have been a dean by this time. I think I was -justified in what I tried to do for Fred. If you come to religion, it -seems to me a man shouldn’t want to carve out his meat to an ounce -beforehand:—one must trust a little to Providence and be generous. It’s -a good British feeling to try and raise your family a little: in my -opinion, it’s a father’s duty to give his sons a fine chance.” - -“I don’t wish to act otherwise than as your best friend, Vincy, when I -say that what you have been uttering just now is one mass of -worldliness and inconsistent folly.” - -“Very well,” said Mr. Vincy, kicking in spite of resolutions, “I never -professed to be anything but worldly; and, what’s more, I don’t see -anybody else who is not worldly. I suppose you don’t conduct business -on what you call unworldly principles. The only difference I see is -that one worldliness is a little bit honester than another.” - -“This kind of discussion is unfruitful, Vincy,” said Mr. Bulstrode, -who, finishing his sandwich, had thrown himself back in his chair, and -shaded his eyes as if weary. “You had some more particular business.” - -“Yes, yes. The long and short of it is, somebody has told old -Featherstone, giving you as the authority, that Fred has been borrowing -or trying to borrow money on the prospect of his land. Of course you -never said any such nonsense. But the old fellow will insist on it that -Fred should bring him a denial in your handwriting; that is, just a bit -of a note saying you don’t believe a word of such stuff, either of his -having borrowed or tried to borrow in such a fool’s way. I suppose you -can have no objection to do that.” - -“Pardon me. I have an objection. I am by no means sure that your son, -in his recklessness and ignorance—I will use no severer word—has not -tried to raise money by holding out his future prospects, or even that -some one may not have been foolish enough to supply him on so vague a -presumption: there is plenty of such lax money-lending as of other -folly in the world.” - -“But Fred gives me his honor that he has never borrowed money on the -pretence of any understanding about his uncle’s land. He is not a liar. -I don’t want to make him better than he is. I have blown him up -well—nobody can say I wink at what he does. But he is not a liar. And I -should have thought—but I may be wrong—that there was no religion to -hinder a man from believing the best of a young fellow, when you don’t -know worse. It seems to me it would be a poor sort of religion to put a -spoke in his wheel by refusing to say you don’t believe such harm of -him as you’ve got no good reason to believe.” - -“I am not at all sure that I should be befriending your son by -smoothing his way to the future possession of Featherstone’s property. -I cannot regard wealth as a blessing to those who use it simply as a -harvest for this world. You do not like to hear these things, Vincy, -but on this occasion I feel called upon to tell you that I have no -motive for furthering such a disposition of property as that which you -refer to. I do not shrink from saying that it will not tend to your -son’s eternal welfare or to the glory of God. Why then should you -expect me to pen this kind of affidavit, which has no object but to -keep up a foolish partiality and secure a foolish bequest?” - -“If you mean to hinder everybody from having money but saints and -evangelists, you must give up some profitable partnerships, that’s all -I can say,” Mr. Vincy burst out very bluntly. “It may be for the glory -of God, but it is not for the glory of the Middlemarch trade, that -Plymdale’s house uses those blue and green dyes it gets from the -Brassing manufactory; they rot the silk, that’s all I know about it. -Perhaps if other people knew so much of the profit went to the glory of -God, they might like it better. But I don’t mind so much about that—I -could get up a pretty row, if I chose.” - -Mr. Bulstrode paused a little before he answered. “You pain me very -much by speaking in this way, Vincy. I do not expect you to understand -my grounds of action—it is not an easy thing even to thread a path for -principles in the intricacies of the world—still less to make the -thread clear for the careless and the scoffing. You must remember, if -you please, that I stretch my tolerance towards you as my wife’s -brother, and that it little becomes you to complain of me as -withholding material help towards the worldly position of your family. -I must remind you that it is not your own prudence or judgment that has -enabled you to keep your place in the trade.” - -“Very likely not; but you have been no loser by my trade yet,” said Mr. -Vincy, thoroughly nettled (a result which was seldom much retarded by -previous resolutions). “And when you married Harriet, I don’t see how -you could expect that our families should not hang by the same nail. If -you’ve changed your mind, and want my family to come down in the world, -you’d better say so. I’ve never changed; I’m a plain Churchman now, -just as I used to be before doctrines came up. I take the world as I -find it, in trade and everything else. I’m contented to be no worse -than my neighbors. But if you want us to come down in the world, say -so. I shall know better what to do then.” - -“You talk unreasonably. Shall you come down in the world for want of -this letter about your son?” - -“Well, whether or not, I consider it very unhandsome of you to refuse -it. Such doings may be lined with religion, but outside they have a -nasty, dog-in-the-manger look. You might as well slander Fred: it comes -pretty near to it when you refuse to say you didn’t set a slander -going. It’s this sort of thing—this tyrannical spirit, wanting to play -bishop and banker everywhere—it’s this sort of thing makes a man’s name -stink.” - -“Vincy, if you insist on quarrelling with me, it will be exceedingly -painful to Harriet as well as myself,” said Mr. Bulstrode, with a -trifle more eagerness and paleness than usual. - -“I don’t want to quarrel. It’s for my interest—and perhaps for yours -too—that we should be friends. I bear you no grudge; I think no worse -of you than I do of other people. A man who half starves himself, and -goes the length in family prayers, and so on, that you do, believes in -his religion whatever it may be: you could turn over your capital just -as fast with cursing and swearing:—plenty of fellows do. You like to be -master, there’s no denying that; you must be first chop in heaven, else -you won’t like it much. But you’re my sister’s husband, and we ought to -stick together; and if I know Harriet, she’ll consider it your fault if -we quarrel because you strain at a gnat in this way, and refuse to do -Fred a good turn. And I don’t mean to say I shall bear it well. I -consider it unhandsome.” - -Mr. Vincy rose, began to button his great-coat, and looked steadily at -his brother-in-law, meaning to imply a demand for a decisive answer. - -This was not the first time that Mr. Bulstrode had begun by admonishing -Mr. Vincy, and had ended by seeing a very unsatisfactory reflection of -himself in the coarse unflattering mirror which that manufacturer’s -mind presented to the subtler lights and shadows of his fellow-men; and -perhaps his experience ought to have warned him how the scene would -end. But a full-fed fountain will be generous with its waters even in -the rain, when they are worse than useless; and a fine fount of -admonition is apt to be equally irrepressible. - -It was not in Mr. Bulstrode’s nature to comply directly in consequence -of uncomfortable suggestions. Before changing his course, he always -needed to shape his motives and bring them into accordance with his -habitual standard. He said, at last— - -“I will reflect a little, Vincy. I will mention the subject to Harriet. -I shall probably send you a letter.” - -“Very well. As soon as you can, please. I hope it will all be settled -before I see you to-morrow.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -“Follows here the strict receipt -For that sauce to dainty meat, -Named Idleness, which many eat -By preference, and call it sweet: -_First watch for morsels, like a hound -Mix well with buffets, stir them round -With good thick oil of flatteries, And froth with mean self-lauding -lies. -Serve warm: the vessels you must choose -To keep it in are dead men’s shoes._” - - -Mr. Bulstrode’s consultation of Harriet seemed to have had the effect -desired by Mr. Vincy, for early the next morning a letter came which -Fred could carry to Mr. Featherstone as the required testimony. - -The old gentleman was staying in bed on account of the cold weather, -and as Mary Garth was not to be seen in the sitting-room, Fred went -up-stairs immediately and presented the letter to his uncle, who, -propped up comfortably on a bed-rest, was not less able than usual to -enjoy his consciousness of wisdom in distrusting and frustrating -mankind. He put on his spectacles to read the letter, pursing up his -lips and drawing down their corners. - -“_Under the circumstances I will not decline to state my -conviction_—tchah! what fine words the fellow puts! He’s as fine as an -auctioneer—_that your son Frederic has not obtained any advance of -money on bequests promised by Mr. Featherstone_—promised? who said I -had ever promised? I promise nothing—I shall make codicils as long as I -like—_and that considering the nature of such a proceeding, it is -unreasonable to presume that a young man of sense and character would -attempt it_—ah, but the gentleman doesn’t say you are a young man of -sense and character, mark you that, sir!—_As to my own concern with any -report of such a nature, I distinctly affirm that I never made any -statement to the effect that your son had borrowed money on any -property that might accrue to him on Mr. Featherstone’s demise_—bless -my heart! ‘property’—accrue—demise! Lawyer Standish is nothing to him. -He couldn’t speak finer if he wanted to borrow. Well,” Mr. Featherstone -here looked over his spectacles at Fred, while he handed back the -letter to him with a contemptuous gesture, “you don’t suppose I believe -a thing because Bulstrode writes it out fine, eh?” - -Fred colored. “You wished to have the letter, sir. I should think it -very likely that Mr. Bulstrode’s denial is as good as the authority -which told you what he denies.” - -“Every bit. I never said I believed either one or the other. And now -what d’ you expect?” said Mr. Featherstone, curtly, keeping on his -spectacles, but withdrawing his hands under his wraps. - -“I expect nothing, sir.” Fred with difficulty restrained himself from -venting his irritation. “I came to bring you the letter. If you like I -will bid you good morning.” - -“Not yet, not yet. Ring the bell; I want missy to come.” - -It was a servant who came in answer to the bell. - -“Tell missy to come!” said Mr. Featherstone, impatiently. “What -business had she to go away?” He spoke in the same tone when Mary came. - -“Why couldn’t you sit still here till I told you to go? I want my -waistcoat now. I told you always to put it on the bed.” - -Mary’s eyes looked rather red, as if she had been crying. It was clear -that Mr. Featherstone was in one of his most snappish humors this -morning, and though Fred had now the prospect of receiving the -much-needed present of money, he would have preferred being free to -turn round on the old tyrant and tell him that Mary Garth was too good -to be at his beck. Though Fred had risen as she entered the room, she -had barely noticed him, and looked as if her nerves were quivering with -the expectation that something would be thrown at her. But she never -had anything worse than words to dread. When she went to reach the -waistcoat from a peg, Fred went up to her and said, “Allow me.” - -“Let it alone! You bring it, missy, and lay it down here,” said Mr. -Featherstone. “Now you go away again till I call you,” he added, when -the waistcoat was laid down by him. It was usual with him to season his -pleasure in showing favor to one person by being especially -disagreeable to another, and Mary was always at hand to furnish the -condiment. When his own relatives came she was treated better. Slowly -he took out a bunch of keys from the waistcoat pocket, and slowly he -drew forth a tin box which was under the bed-clothes. - -“You expect I am going to give you a little fortune, eh?” he said, -looking above his spectacles and pausing in the act of opening the lid. - -“Not at all, sir. You were good enough to speak of making me a present -the other day, else, of course, I should not have thought of the -matter.” But Fred was of a hopeful disposition, and a vision had -presented itself of a sum just large enough to deliver him from a -certain anxiety. When Fred got into debt, it always seemed to him -highly probable that something or other—he did not necessarily conceive -what—would come to pass enabling him to pay in due time. And now that -the providential occurrence was apparently close at hand, it would have -been sheer absurdity to think that the supply would be short of the -need: as absurd as a faith that believed in half a miracle for want of -strength to believe in a whole one. - -The deep-veined hands fingered many bank-notes one after the other, -laying them down flat again, while Fred leaned back in his chair, -scorning to look eager. He held himself to be a gentleman at heart, and -did not like courting an old fellow for his money. At last, Mr. -Featherstone eyed him again over his spectacles and presented him with -a little sheaf of notes: Fred could see distinctly that there were but -five, as the less significant edges gaped towards him. But then, each -might mean fifty pounds. He took them, saying— - -“I am very much obliged to you, sir,” and was going to roll them up -without seeming to think of their value. But this did not suit Mr. -Featherstone, who was eying him intently. - -“Come, don’t you think it worth your while to count ’em? You take money -like a lord; I suppose you lose it like one.” - -“I thought I was not to look a gift-horse in the mouth, sir. But I -shall be very happy to count them.” - -Fred was not so happy, however, after he had counted them. For they -actually presented the absurdity of being less than his hopefulness had -decided that they must be. What can the fitness of things mean, if not -their fitness to a man’s expectations? Failing this, absurdity and -atheism gape behind him. The collapse for Fred was severe when he found -that he held no more than five twenties, and his share in the higher -education of this country did not seem to help him. Nevertheless he -said, with rapid changes in his fair complexion— - -“It is very handsome of you, sir.” - -“I should think it is,” said Mr. Featherstone, locking his box and -replacing it, then taking off his spectacles deliberately, and at -length, as if his inward meditation had more deeply convinced him, -repeating, “I should think it handsome.” - -“I assure you, sir, I am very grateful,” said Fred, who had had time to -recover his cheerful air. - -“So you ought to be. You want to cut a figure in the world, and I -reckon Peter Featherstone is the only one you’ve got to trust to.” Here -the old man’s eyes gleamed with a curiously mingled satisfaction in the -consciousness that this smart young fellow relied upon him, and that -the smart young fellow was rather a fool for doing so. - -“Yes, indeed: I was not born to very splendid chances. Few men have -been more cramped than I have been,” said Fred, with some sense of -surprise at his own virtue, considering how hardly he was dealt with. -“It really seems a little too bad to have to ride a broken-winded -hunter, and see men, who, are not half such good judges as yourself, -able to throw away any amount of money on buying bad bargains.” - -“Well, you can buy yourself a fine hunter now. Eighty pound is enough -for that, I reckon—and you’ll have twenty pound over to get yourself -out of any little scrape,” said Mr. Featherstone, chuckling slightly. - -“You are very good, sir,” said Fred, with a fine sense of contrast -between the words and his feeling. - -“Ay, rather a better uncle than your fine uncle Bulstrode. You won’t -get much out of his spekilations, I think. He’s got a pretty strong -string round your father’s leg, by what I hear, eh?” - -“My father never tells me anything about his affairs, sir.” - -“Well, he shows some sense there. But other people find ’em out without -his telling. _He’ll_ never have much to leave you: he’ll most-like die -without a will—he’s the sort of man to do it—let ’em make him mayor of -Middlemarch as much as they like. But you won’t get much by his dying -without a will, though you _are_ the eldest son.” - -Fred thought that Mr. Featherstone had never been so disagreeable -before. True, he had never before given him quite so much money at -once. - -“Shall I destroy this letter of Mr. Bulstrode’s, sir?” said Fred, -rising with the letter as if he would put it in the fire. - -“Ay, ay, I don’t want it. It’s worth no money to me.” - -Fred carried the letter to the fire, and thrust the poker through it -with much zest. He longed to get out of the room, but he was a little -ashamed before his inner self, as well as before his uncle, to run away -immediately after pocketing the money. Presently, the farm-bailiff came -up to give his master a report, and Fred, to his unspeakable relief, -was dismissed with the injunction to come again soon. - -He had longed not only to be set free from his uncle, but also to find -Mary Garth. She was now in her usual place by the fire, with sewing in -her hands and a book open on the little table by her side. Her eyelids -had lost some of their redness now, and she had her usual air of -self-command. - -“Am I wanted up-stairs?” she said, half rising as Fred entered. - -“No; I am only dismissed, because Simmons is gone up.” - -Mary sat down again, and resumed her work. She was certainly treating -him with more indifference than usual: she did not know how -affectionately indignant he had felt on her behalf up-stairs. - -“May I stay here a little, Mary, or shall I bore you?” - -“Pray sit down,” said Mary; “you will not be so heavy a bore as Mr. -John Waule, who was here yesterday, and he sat down without asking my -leave.” - -“Poor fellow! I think he is in love with you.” - -“I am not aware of it. And to me it is one of the most odious things in -a girl’s life, that there must always be some supposition of falling in -love coming between her and any man who is kind to her, and to whom she -is grateful. I should have thought that I, at least, might have been -safe from all that. I have no ground for the nonsensical vanity of -fancying everybody who comes near me is in love with me.” - -Mary did not mean to betray any feeling, but in spite of herself she -ended in a tremulous tone of vexation. - -“Confound John Waule! I did not mean to make you angry. I didn’t know -you had any reason for being grateful to me. I forgot what a great -service you think it if any one snuffs a candle for you.” Fred also had -his pride, and was not going to show that he knew what had called forth -this outburst of Mary’s. - -“Oh, I am not angry, except with the ways of the world. I do like to be -spoken to as if I had common-sense. I really often feel as if I could -understand a little more than I ever hear even from young gentlemen who -have been to college.” Mary had recovered, and she spoke with a -suppressed rippling under-current of laughter pleasant to hear. - -“I don’t care how merry you are at my expense this morning,” said Fred, -“I thought you looked so sad when you came up-stairs. It is a shame you -should stay here to be bullied in that way.” - -“Oh, I have an easy life—by comparison. I have tried being a teacher, -and I am not fit for that: my mind is too fond of wandering on its own -way. I think any hardship is better than pretending to do what one is -paid for, and never really doing it. Everything here I can do as well -as any one else could; perhaps better than some—Rosy, for example. -Though she is just the sort of beautiful creature that is imprisoned -with ogres in fairy tales.” - -“_Rosy!_” cried Fred, in a tone of profound brotherly scepticism. - -“Come, Fred!” said Mary, emphatically; “you have no right to be so -critical.” - -“Do you mean anything particular—just now?” - -“No, I mean something general—always.” - -“Oh, that I am idle and extravagant. Well, I am not fit to be a poor -man. I should not have made a bad fellow if I had been rich.” - -“You would have done your duty in that state of life to which it has -not pleased God to call you,” said Mary, laughing. - -“Well, I couldn’t do my duty as a clergyman, any more than you could do -yours as a governess. You ought to have a little fellow-feeling there, -Mary.” - -“I never said you ought to be a clergyman. There are other sorts of -work. It seems to me very miserable not to resolve on some course and -act accordingly.” - -“So I could, if—” Fred broke off, and stood up, leaning against the -mantel-piece. - -“If you were sure you should not have a fortune?” - -“I did not say that. You want to quarrel with me. It is too bad of you -to be guided by what other people say about me.” - -“How can I want to quarrel with you? I should be quarrelling with all -my new books,” said Mary, lifting the volume on the table. “However -naughty you may be to other people, you are good to me.” - -“Because I like you better than any one else. But I know you despise -me.” - -“Yes, I do—a little,” said Mary, nodding, with a smile. - -“You would admire a stupendous fellow, who would have wise opinions -about everything.” - -“Yes, I should.” Mary was sewing swiftly, and seemed provokingly -mistress of the situation. When a conversation has taken a wrong turn -for us, we only get farther and farther into the swamp of awkwardness. -This was what Fred Vincy felt. - -“I suppose a woman is never in love with any one she has always -known—ever since she can remember; as a man often is. It is always some -new fellow who strikes a girl.” - -“Let me see,” said Mary, the corners of her mouth curling archly; “I -must go back on my experience. There is Juliet—she seems an example of -what you say. But then Ophelia had probably known Hamlet a long while; -and Brenda Troil—she had known Mordaunt Merton ever since they were -children; but then he seems to have been an estimable young man; and -Minna was still more deeply in love with Cleveland, who was a stranger. -Waverley was new to Flora MacIvor; but then she did not fall in love -with him. And there are Olivia and Sophia Primrose, and Corinne—they -may be said to have fallen in love with new men. Altogether, my -experience is rather mixed.” - -Mary looked up with some roguishness at Fred, and that look of hers was -very dear to him, though the eyes were nothing more than clear windows -where observation sat laughingly. He was certainly an affectionate -fellow, and as he had grown from boy to man, he had grown in love with -his old playmate, notwithstanding that share in the higher education of -the country which had exalted his views of rank and income. - -“When a man is not loved, it is no use for him to say that he could be -a better fellow—could do anything—I mean, if he were sure of being -loved in return.” - -“Not of the least use in the world for him to say he _could_ be better. -Might, could, would—they are contemptible auxiliaries.” - -“I don’t see how a man is to be good for much unless he has some one -woman to love him dearly.” - -“I think the goodness should come before he expects that.” - -“You know better, Mary. Women don’t love men for their goodness.” - -“Perhaps not. But if they love them, they never think them bad.” - -“It is hardly fair to say I am bad.” - -“I said nothing at all about you.” - -“I never shall be good for anything, Mary, if you will not say that you -love me—if you will not promise to marry me—I mean, when I am able to -marry.” - -“If I did love you, I would not marry you: I would certainly not -promise ever to marry you.” - -“I think that is quite wicked, Mary. If you love me, you ought to -promise to marry me.” - -“On the contrary, I think it would be wicked in me to marry you even if -I did love you.” - -“You mean, just as I am, without any means of maintaining a wife. Of -course: I am but three-and-twenty.” - -“In that last point you will alter. But I am not so sure of any other -alteration. My father says an idle man ought not to exist, much less, -be married.” - -“Then I am to blow my brains out?” - -“No; on the whole I should think you would do better to pass your -examination. I have heard Mr. Farebrother say it is disgracefully -easy.” - -“That is all very fine. Anything is easy to him. Not that cleverness -has anything to do with it. I am ten times cleverer than many men who -pass.” - -“Dear me!” said Mary, unable to repress her sarcasm; “that accounts for -the curates like Mr. Crowse. Divide your cleverness by ten, and the -quotient—dear me!—is able to take a degree. But that only shows you are -ten times more idle than the others.” - -“Well, if I did pass, you would not want me to go into the Church?” - -“That is not the question—what I want you to do. You have a conscience -of your own, I suppose. There! there is Mr. Lydgate. I must go and tell -my uncle.” - -“Mary,” said Fred, seizing her hand as she rose; “if you will not give -me some encouragement, I shall get worse instead of better.” - -“I will not give you any encouragement,” said Mary, reddening. “Your -friends would dislike it, and so would mine. My father would think it a -disgrace to me if I accepted a man who got into debt, and would not -work!” - -Fred was stung, and released her hand. She walked to the door, but -there she turned and said: “Fred, you have always been so good, so -generous to me. I am not ungrateful. But never speak to me in that way -again.” - -“Very well,” said Fred, sulkily, taking up his hat and whip. His -complexion showed patches of pale pink and dead white. Like many a -plucked idle young gentleman, he was thoroughly in love, and with a -plain girl, who had no money! But having Mr. Featherstone’s land in the -background, and a persuasion that, let Mary say what she would, she -really did care for him, Fred was not utterly in despair. - -When he got home, he gave four of the twenties to his mother, asking -her to keep them for him. “I don’t want to spend that money, mother. I -want it to pay a debt with. So keep it safe away from my fingers.” - -“Bless you, my dear,” said Mrs. Vincy. She doted on her eldest son and -her youngest girl (a child of six), whom others thought her two -naughtiest children. The mother’s eyes are not always deceived in their -partiality: she at least can best judge who is the tender, -filial-hearted child. And Fred was certainly very fond of his mother. -Perhaps it was his fondness for another person also that made him -particularly anxious to take some security against his own liability to -spend the hundred pounds. For the creditor to whom he owed a hundred -and sixty held a firmer security in the shape of a bill signed by -Mary’s father. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -“Black eyes you have left, you say, - Blue eyes fail to draw you; -Yet you seem more rapt to-day, - Than of old we saw you. - -“Oh, I track the fairest fair - Through new haunts of pleasure; -Footprints here and echoes there - Guide me to my treasure: - -“Lo! she turns—immortal youth - Wrought to mortal stature, -Fresh as starlight’s aged truth— - Many-namèd Nature!” - - -A great historian, as he insisted on calling himself, who had the -happiness to be dead a hundred and twenty years ago, and so to take his -place among the colossi whose huge legs our living pettiness is -observed to walk under, glories in his copious remarks and digressions -as the least imitable part of his work, and especially in those initial -chapters to the successive books of his history, where he seems to -bring his armchair to the proscenium and chat with us in all the lusty -ease of his fine English. But Fielding lived when the days were longer -(for time, like money, is measured by our needs), when summer -afternoons were spacious, and the clock ticked slowly in the winter -evenings. We belated historians must not linger after his example; and -if we did so, it is probable that our chat would be thin and eager, as -if delivered from a campstool in a parrot-house. I at least have so -much to do in unraveling certain human lots, and seeing how they were -woven and interwoven, that all the light I can command must be -concentrated on this particular web, and not dispersed over that -tempting range of relevancies called the universe. - -At present I have to make the new settler Lydgate better known to any -one interested in him than he could possibly be even to those who had -seen the most of him since his arrival in Middlemarch. For surely all -must admit that a man may be puffed and belauded, envied, ridiculed, -counted upon as a tool and fallen in love with, or at least selected as -a future husband, and yet remain virtually unknown—known merely as a -cluster of signs for his neighbors’ false suppositions. There was a -general impression, however, that Lydgate was not altogether a common -country doctor, and in Middlemarch at that time such an impression was -significant of great things being expected from him. For everybody’s -family doctor was remarkably clever, and was understood to have -immeasurable skill in the management and training of the most skittish -or vicious diseases. The evidence of his cleverness was of the higher -intuitive order, lying in his lady-patients’ immovable conviction, and -was unassailable by any objection except that their intuitions were -opposed by others equally strong; each lady who saw medical truth in -Wrench and “the strengthening treatment” regarding Toller and “the -lowering system” as medical perdition. For the heroic times of copious -bleeding and blistering had not yet departed, still less the times of -thorough-going theory, when disease in general was called by some bad -name, and treated accordingly without shilly-shally—as if, for example, -it were to be called insurrection, which must not be fired on with -blank-cartridge, but have its blood drawn at once. The strengtheners -and the lowerers were all “clever” men in somebody’s opinion, which is -really as much as can be said for any living talents. Nobody’s -imagination had gone so far as to conjecture that Mr. Lydgate could -know as much as Dr. Sprague and Dr. Minchin, the two physicians, who -alone could offer any hope when danger was extreme, and when the -smallest hope was worth a guinea. Still, I repeat, there was a general -impression that Lydgate was something rather more uncommon than any -general practitioner in Middlemarch. And this was true. He was but -seven-and-twenty, an age at which many men are not quite common—at -which they are hopeful of achievement, resolute in avoidance, thinking -that Mammon shall never put a bit in their mouths and get astride their -backs, but rather that Mammon, if they have anything to do with him, -shall draw their chariot. - -He had been left an orphan when he was fresh from a public school. His -father, a military man, had made but little provision for three -children, and when the boy Tertius asked to have a medical education, -it seemed easier to his guardians to grant his request by apprenticing -him to a country practitioner than to make any objections on the score -of family dignity. He was one of the rarer lads who early get a decided -bent and make up their minds that there is something particular in life -which they would like to do for its own sake, and not because their -fathers did it. Most of us who turn to any subject with love remember -some morning or evening hour when we got on a high stool to reach down -an untried volume, or sat with parted lips listening to a new talker, -or for very lack of books began to listen to the voices within, as the -first traceable beginning of our love. Something of that sort happened -to Lydgate. He was a quick fellow, and when hot from play, would toss -himself in a corner, and in five minutes be deep in any sort of book -that he could lay his hands on: if it were Rasselas or Gulliver, so -much the better, but Bailey’s Dictionary would do, or the Bible with -the Apocrypha in it. Something he must read, when he was not riding the -pony, or running and hunting, or listening to the talk of men. All this -was true of him at ten years of age; he had then read through “Chrysal, -or the Adventures of a Guinea,” which was neither milk for babes, nor -any chalky mixture meant to pass for milk, and it had already occurred -to him that books were stuff, and that life was stupid. His school -studies had not much modified that opinion, for though he “did” his -classics and mathematics, he was not pre-eminent in them. It was said -of him, that Lydgate could do anything he liked, but he had certainly -not yet liked to do anything remarkable. He was a vigorous animal with -a ready understanding, but no spark had yet kindled in him an -intellectual passion; knowledge seemed to him a very superficial -affair, easily mastered: judging from the conversation of his elders, -he had apparently got already more than was necessary for mature life. -Probably this was not an exceptional result of expensive teaching at -that period of short-waisted coats, and other fashions which have not -yet recurred. But, one vacation, a wet day sent him to the small home -library to hunt once more for a book which might have some freshness -for him: in vain! unless, indeed, he took down a dusty row of volumes -with gray-paper backs and dingy labels—the volumes of an old -Cyclopaedia which he had never disturbed. It would at least be a -novelty to disturb them. They were on the highest shelf, and he stood -on a chair to get them down. But he opened the volume which he first -took from the shelf: somehow, one is apt to read in a makeshift -attitude, just where it might seem inconvenient to do so. The page he -opened on was under the head of Anatomy, and the first passage that -drew his eyes was on the valves of the heart. He was not much -acquainted with valves of any sort, but he knew that valvae were -folding-doors, and through this crevice came a sudden light startling -him with his first vivid notion of finely adjusted mechanism in the -human frame. A liberal education had of course left him free to read -the indecent passages in the school classics, but beyond a general -sense of secrecy and obscenity in connection with his internal -structure, had left his imagination quite unbiassed, so that for -anything he knew his brains lay in small bags at his temples, and he -had no more thought of representing to himself how his blood circulated -than how paper served instead of gold. But the moment of vocation had -come, and before he got down from his chair, the world was made new to -him by a presentiment of endless processes filling the vast spaces -planked out of his sight by that wordy ignorance which he had supposed -to be knowledge. From that hour Lydgate felt the growth of an -intellectual passion. - -We are not afraid of telling over and over again how a man comes to -fall in love with a woman and be wedded to her, or else be fatally -parted from her. Is it due to excess of poetry or of stupidity that we -are never weary of describing what King James called a woman’s “makdom -and her fairnesse,” never weary of listening to the twanging of the old -Troubadour strings, and are comparatively uninterested in that other -kind of “makdom and fairnesse” which must be wooed with industrious -thought and patient renunciation of small desires? In the story of this -passion, too, the development varies: sometimes it is the glorious -marriage, sometimes frustration and final parting. And not seldom the -catastrophe is bound up with the other passion, sung by the -Troubadours. For in the multitude of middle-aged men who go about their -vocations in a daily course determined for them much in the same way as -the tie of their cravats, there is always a good number who once meant -to shape their own deeds and alter the world a little. The story of -their coming to be shapen after the average and fit to be packed by the -gross, is hardly ever told even in their consciousness; for perhaps -their ardor in generous unpaid toil cooled as imperceptibly as the -ardor of other youthful loves, till one day their earlier self walked -like a ghost in its old home and made the new furniture ghastly. -Nothing in the world more subtle than the process of their gradual -change! In the beginning they inhaled it unknowingly: you and I may -have sent some of our breath towards infecting them, when we uttered -our conforming falsities or drew our silly conclusions: or perhaps it -came with the vibrations from a woman’s glance. - -Lydgate did not mean to be one of those failures, and there was the -better hope of him because his scientific interest soon took the form -of a professional enthusiasm: he had a youthful belief in his -bread-winning work, not to be stifled by that initiation in makeshift -called his ’prentice days; and he carried to his studies in London, -Edinburgh, and Paris, the conviction that the medical profession as it -might be was the finest in the world; presenting the most perfect -interchange between science and art; offering the most direct alliance -between intellectual conquest and the social good. Lydgate’s nature -demanded this combination: he was an emotional creature, with a -flesh-and-blood sense of fellowship which withstood all the -abstractions of special study. He cared not only for “cases,” but for -John and Elizabeth, especially Elizabeth. - -There was another attraction in his profession: it wanted reform, and -gave a man an opportunity for some indignant resolve to reject its -venal decorations and other humbug, and to be the possessor of genuine -though undemanded qualifications. He went to study in Paris with the -determination that when he came home again he would settle in some -provincial town as a general practitioner, and resist the irrational -severance between medical and surgical knowledge in the interest of his -own scientific pursuits, as well as of the general advance: he would -keep away from the range of London intrigues, jealousies, and social -truckling, and win celebrity, however slowly, as Jenner had done, by -the independent value of his work. For it must be remembered that this -was a dark period; and in spite of venerable colleges which used great -efforts to secure purity of knowledge by making it scarce, and to -exclude error by a rigid exclusiveness in relation to fees and -appointments, it happened that very ignorant young gentlemen were -promoted in town, and many more got a legal right to practise over -large areas in the country. Also, the high standard held up to the -public mind by the College of Physicians, which gave its peculiar -sanction to the expensive and highly rarefied medical instruction -obtained by graduates of Oxford and Cambridge, did not hinder quackery -from having an excellent time of it; for since professional practice -chiefly consisted in giving a great many drugs, the public inferred -that it might be better off with more drugs still, if they could only -be got cheaply, and hence swallowed large cubic measures of physic -prescribed by unscrupulous ignorance which had taken no degrees. -Considering that statistics had not yet embraced a calculation as to -the number of ignorant or canting doctors which absolutely must exist -in the teeth of all changes, it seemed to Lydgate that a change in the -units was the most direct mode of changing the numbers. He meant to be -a unit who would make a certain amount of difference towards that -spreading change which would one day tell appreciably upon the -averages, and in the mean time have the pleasure of making an -advantageous difference to the viscera of his own patients. But he did -not simply aim at a more genuine kind of practice than was common. He -was ambitious of a wider effect: he was fired with the possibility that -he might work out the proof of an anatomical conception and make a link -in the chain of discovery. - -Does it seem incongruous to you that a Middlemarch surgeon should dream -of himself as a discoverer? Most of us, indeed, know little of the -great originators until they have been lifted up among the -constellations and already rule our fates. But that Herschel, for -example, who “broke the barriers of the heavens”—did he not once play a -provincial church-organ, and give music-lessons to stumbling pianists? -Each of those Shining Ones had to walk on the earth among neighbors who -perhaps thought much more of his gait and his garments than of anything -which was to give him a title to everlasting fame: each of them had his -little local personal history sprinkled with small temptations and -sordid cares, which made the retarding friction of his course towards -final companionship with the immortals. Lydgate was not blind to the -dangers of such friction, but he had plenty of confidence in his -resolution to avoid it as far as possible: being seven-and-twenty, he -felt himself experienced. And he was not going to have his vanities -provoked by contact with the showy worldly successes of the capital, -but to live among people who could hold no rivalry with that pursuit of -a great idea which was to be a twin object with the assiduous practice -of his profession. There was fascination in the hope that the two -purposes would illuminate each other: the careful observation and -inference which was his daily work, the use of the lens to further his -judgment in special cases, would further his thought as an instrument -of larger inquiry. Was not this the typical pre-eminence of his -profession? He would be a good Middlemarch doctor, and by that very -means keep himself in the track of far-reaching investigation. On one -point he may fairly claim approval at this particular stage of his -career: he did not mean to imitate those philanthropic models who make -a profit out of poisonous pickles to support themselves while they are -exposing adulteration, or hold shares in a gambling-hell that they may -have leisure to represent the cause of public morality. He intended to -begin in his own case some particular reforms which were quite -certainly within his reach, and much less of a problem than the -demonstrating of an anatomical conception. One of these reforms was to -act stoutly on the strength of a recent legal decision, and simply -prescribe, without dispensing drugs or taking percentage from -druggists. This was an innovation for one who had chosen to adopt the -style of general practitioner in a country town, and would be felt as -offensive criticism by his professional brethren. But Lydgate meant to -innovate in his treatment also, and he was wise enough to see that the -best security for his practising honestly according to his belief was -to get rid of systematic temptations to the contrary. - -Perhaps that was a more cheerful time for observers and theorizers than -the present; we are apt to think it the finest era of the world when -America was beginning to be discovered, when a bold sailor, even if he -were wrecked, might alight on a new kingdom; and about 1829 the dark -territories of Pathology were a fine America for a spirited young -adventurer. Lydgate was ambitious above all to contribute towards -enlarging the scientific, rational basis of his profession. The more he -became interested in special questions of disease, such as the nature -of fever or fevers, the more keenly he felt the need for that -fundamental knowledge of structure which just at the beginning of the -century had been illuminated by the brief and glorious career of -Bichat, who died when he was only one-and-thirty, but, like another -Alexander, left a realm large enough for many heirs. That great -Frenchman first carried out the conception that living bodies, -fundamentally considered, are not associations of organs which can be -understood by studying them first apart, and then as it were federally; -but must be regarded as consisting of certain primary webs or tissues, -out of which the various organs—brain, heart, lungs, and so on—are -compacted, as the various accommodations of a house are built up in -various proportions of wood, iron, stone, brick, zinc, and the rest, -each material having its peculiar composition and proportions. No man, -one sees, can understand and estimate the entire structure or its -parts—what are its frailties and what its repairs, without knowing the -nature of the materials. And the conception wrought out by Bichat, with -his detailed study of the different tissues, acted necessarily on -medical questions as the turning of gas-light would act on a dim, -oil-lit street, showing new connections and hitherto hidden facts of -structure which must be taken into account in considering the symptoms -of maladies and the action of medicaments. But results which depend on -human conscience and intelligence work slowly, and now at the end of -1829, most medical practice was still strutting or shambling along the -old paths, and there was still scientific work to be done which might -have seemed to be a direct sequence of Bichat’s. This great seer did -not go beyond the consideration of the tissues as ultimate facts in the -living organism, marking the limit of anatomical analysis; but it was -open to another mind to say, have not these structures some common -basis from which they have all started, as your sarsnet, gauze, net, -satin, and velvet from the raw cocoon? Here would be another light, as -of oxy-hydrogen, showing the very grain of things, and revising all -former explanations. Of this sequence to Bichat’s work, already -vibrating along many currents of the European mind, Lydgate was -enamoured; he longed to demonstrate the more intimate relations of -living structure, and help to define men’s thought more accurately -after the true order. The work had not yet been done, but only prepared -for those who knew how to use the preparation. What was the primitive -tissue? In that way Lydgate put the question—not quite in the way -required by the awaiting answer; but such missing of the right word -befalls many seekers. And he counted on quiet intervals to be -watchfully seized, for taking up the threads of investigation—on many -hints to be won from diligent application, not only of the scalpel, but -of the microscope, which research had begun to use again with new -enthusiasm of reliance. Such was Lydgate’s plan of his future: to do -good small work for Middlemarch, and great work for the world. - -He was certainly a happy fellow at this time: to be seven-and-twenty, -without any fixed vices, with a generous resolution that his action -should be beneficent, and with ideas in his brain that made life -interesting quite apart from the cultus of horseflesh and other mystic -rites of costly observance, which the eight hundred pounds left him -after buying his practice would certainly not have gone far in paying -for. He was at a starting-point which makes many a man’s career a fine -subject for betting, if there were any gentlemen given to that -amusement who could appreciate the complicated probabilities of an -arduous purpose, with all the possible thwartings and furtherings of -circumstance, all the niceties of inward balance, by which a man swims -and makes his point or else is carried headlong. The risk would remain -even with close knowledge of Lydgate’s character; for character too is -a process and an unfolding. The man was still in the making, as much as -the Middlemarch doctor and immortal discoverer, and there were both -virtues and faults capable of shrinking or expanding. The faults will -not, I hope, be a reason for the withdrawal of your interest in him. -Among our valued friends is there not some one or other who is a little -too self-confident and disdainful; whose distinguished mind is a little -spotted with commonness; who is a little pinched here and protuberant -there with native prejudices; or whose better energies are liable to -lapse down the wrong channel under the influence of transient -solicitations? All these things might be alleged against Lydgate, but -then, they are the periphrases of a polite preacher, who talks of Adam, -and would not like to mention anything painful to the pew-renters. The -particular faults from which these delicate generalities are distilled -have distinguishable physiognomies, diction, accent, and grimaces; -filling up parts in very various dramas. Our vanities differ as our -noses do: all conceit is not the same conceit, but varies in -correspondence with the minutiae of mental make in which one of us -differs from another. Lydgate’s conceit was of the arrogant sort, never -simpering, never impertinent, but massive in its claims and -benevolently contemptuous. He would do a great deal for noodles, being -sorry for them, and feeling quite sure that they could have no power -over him: he had thought of joining the Saint Simonians when he was in -Paris, in order to turn them against some of their own doctrines. All -his faults were marked by kindred traits, and were those of a man who -had a fine baritone, whose clothes hung well upon him, and who even in -his ordinary gestures had an air of inbred distinction. Where then lay -the spots of commonness? says a young lady enamoured of that careless -grace. How could there be any commonness in a man so well-bred, so -ambitious of social distinction, so generous and unusual in his views -of social duty? As easily as there may be stupidity in a man of genius -if you take him unawares on the wrong subject, or as many a man who has -the best will to advance the social millennium might be ill-inspired in -imagining its lighter pleasures; unable to go beyond Offenbach’s music, -or the brilliant punning in the last burlesque. Lydgate’s spots of -commonness lay in the complexion of his prejudices, which, in spite of -noble intention and sympathy, were half of them such as are found in -ordinary men of the world: that distinction of mind which belonged to -his intellectual ardor, did not penetrate his feeling and judgment -about furniture, or women, or the desirability of its being known -(without his telling) that he was better born than other country -surgeons. He did not mean to think of furniture at present; but -whenever he did so it was to be feared that neither biology nor schemes -of reform would lift him above the vulgarity of feeling that there -would be an incompatibility in his furniture not being of the best. - -As to women, he had once already been drawn headlong by impetuous -folly, which he meant to be final, since marriage at some distant -period would of course not be impetuous. For those who want to be -acquainted with Lydgate it will be good to know what was that case of -impetuous folly, for it may stand as an example of the fitful swerving -of passion to which he was prone, together with the chivalrous kindness -which helped to make him morally lovable. The story can be told without -many words. It happened when he was studying in Paris, and just at the -time when, over and above his other work, he was occupied with some -galvanic experiments. One evening, tired with his experimenting, and -not being able to elicit the facts he needed, he left his frogs and -rabbits to some repose under their trying and mysterious dispensation -of unexplained shocks, and went to finish his evening at the theatre of -the Porte Saint Martin, where there was a melodrama which he had -already seen several times; attracted, not by the ingenious work of the -collaborating authors, but by an actress whose part it was to stab her -lover, mistaking him for the evil-designing duke of the piece. Lydgate -was in love with this actress, as a man is in love with a woman whom he -never expects to speak to. She was a Provencale, with dark eyes, a -Greek profile, and rounded majestic form, having that sort of beauty -which carries a sweet matronliness even in youth, and her voice was a -soft cooing. She had but lately come to Paris, and bore a virtuous -reputation, her husband acting with her as the unfortunate lover. It -was her acting which was “no better than it should be,” but the public -was satisfied. Lydgate’s only relaxation now was to go and look at this -woman, just as he might have thrown himself under the breath of the -sweet south on a bank of violets for a while, without prejudice to his -galvanism, to which he would presently return. But this evening the old -drama had a new catastrophe. At the moment when the heroine was to act -the stabbing of her lover, and he was to fall gracefully, the wife -veritably stabbed her husband, who fell as death willed. A wild shriek -pierced the house, and the Provencale fell swooning: a shriek and a -swoon were demanded by the play, but the swooning too was real this -time. Lydgate leaped and climbed, he hardly knew how, on to the stage, -and was active in help, making the acquaintance of his heroine by -finding a contusion on her head and lifting her gently in his arms. -Paris rang with the story of this death:—was it a murder? Some of the -actress’s warmest admirers were inclined to believe in her guilt, and -liked her the better for it (such was the taste of those times); but -Lydgate was not one of these. He vehemently contended for her -innocence, and the remote impersonal passion for her beauty which he -had felt before, had passed now into personal devotion, and tender -thought of her lot. The notion of murder was absurd: no motive was -discoverable, the young couple being understood to dote on each other; -and it was not unprecedented that an accidental slip of the foot should -have brought these grave consequences. The legal investigation ended in -Madame Laure’s release. Lydgate by this time had had many interviews -with her, and found her more and more adorable. She talked little; but -that was an additional charm. She was melancholy, and seemed grateful; -her presence was enough, like that of the evening light. Lydgate was -madly anxious about her affection, and jealous lest any other man than -himself should win it and ask her to marry him. But instead of -reopening her engagement at the Porte Saint Martin, where she would -have been all the more popular for the fatal episode, she left Paris -without warning, forsaking her little court of admirers. Perhaps no one -carried inquiry far except Lydgate, who felt that all science had come -to a stand-still while he imagined the unhappy Laure, stricken by -ever-wandering sorrow, herself wandering, and finding no faithful -comforter. Hidden actresses, however, are not so difficult to find as -some other hidden facts, and it was not long before Lydgate gathered -indications that Laure had taken the route to Lyons. He found her at -last acting with great success at Avignon under the same name, looking -more majestic than ever as a forsaken wife carrying her child in her -arms. He spoke to her after the play, was received with the usual -quietude which seemed to him beautiful as clear depths of water, and -obtained leave to visit her the next day; when he was bent on telling -her that he adored her, and on asking her to marry him. He knew that -this was like the sudden impulse of a madman—incongruous even with his -habitual foibles. No matter! It was the one thing which he was resolved -to do. He had two selves within him apparently, and they must learn to -accommodate each other and bear reciprocal impediments. Strange, that -some of us, with quick alternate vision, see beyond our infatuations, -and even while we rave on the heights, behold the wide plain where our -persistent self pauses and awaits us. - -To have approached Laure with any suit that was not reverentially -tender would have been simply a contradiction of his whole feeling -towards her. - -“You have come all the way from Paris to find me?” she said to him the -next day, sitting before him with folded arms, and looking at him with -eyes that seemed to wonder as an untamed ruminating animal wonders. -“Are all Englishmen like that?” - -“I came because I could not live without trying to see you. You are -lonely; I love you; I want you to consent to be my wife; I will wait, -but I want you to promise that you will marry me—no one else.” - -Laure looked at him in silence with a melancholy radiance from under -her grand eyelids, until he was full of rapturous certainty, and knelt -close to her knees. - -“I will tell you something,” she said, in her cooing way, keeping her -arms folded. “My foot really slipped.” - -“I know, I know,” said Lydgate, deprecatingly. “It was a fatal -accident—a dreadful stroke of calamity that bound me to you the more.” - -Again Laure paused a little and then said, slowly, “_I meant to do -it._” - -Lydgate, strong man as he was, turned pale and trembled: moments seemed -to pass before he rose and stood at a distance from her. - -“There was a secret, then,” he said at last, even vehemently. “He was -brutal to you: you hated him.” - -“No! he wearied me; he was too fond: he would live in Paris, and not in -my country; that was not agreeable to me.” - -“Great God!” said Lydgate, in a groan of horror. “And you planned to -murder him?” - -“I did not plan: it came to me in the play—_I meant to do it._” - -Lydgate stood mute, and unconsciously pressed his hat on while he -looked at her. He saw this woman—the first to whom he had given his -young adoration—amid the throng of stupid criminals. - -“You are a good young man,” she said. “But I do not like husbands. I -will never have another.” - -Three days afterwards Lydgate was at his galvanism again in his Paris -chambers, believing that illusions were at an end for him. He was saved -from hardening effects by the abundant kindness of his heart and his -belief that human life might be made better. But he had more reason -than ever for trusting his judgment, now that it was so experienced; -and henceforth he would take a strictly scientific view of woman, -entertaining no expectations but such as were justified beforehand. - -No one in Middlemarch was likely to have such a notion of Lydgate’s -past as has here been faintly shadowed, and indeed the respectable -townsfolk there were not more given than mortals generally to any eager -attempt at exactness in the representation to themselves of what did -not come under their own senses. Not only young virgins of that town, -but gray-bearded men also, were often in haste to conjecture how a new -acquaintance might be wrought into their purposes, contented with very -vague knowledge as to the way in which life had been shaping him for -that instrumentality. Middlemarch, in fact, counted on swallowing -Lydgate and assimilating him very comfortably. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -“All that in woman is adored - In thy fair self I find— -For the whole sex can but afford - The handsome and the kind.” -—SIR CHARLES SEDLEY. - - -The question whether Mr. Tyke should be appointed as salaried chaplain -to the hospital was an exciting topic to the Middlemarchers; and -Lydgate heard it discussed in a way that threw much light on the power -exercised in the town by Mr. Bulstrode. The banker was evidently a -ruler, but there was an opposition party, and even among his supporters -there were some who allowed it to be seen that their support was a -compromise, and who frankly stated their impression that the general -scheme of things, and especially the casualties of trade, required you -to hold a candle to the devil. - -Mr. Bulstrode’s power was not due simply to his being a country banker, -who knew the financial secrets of most traders in the town and could -touch the springs of their credit; it was fortified by a beneficence -that was at once ready and severe—ready to confer obligations, and -severe in watching the result. He had gathered, as an industrious man -always at his post, a chief share in administering the town charities, -and his private charities were both minute and abundant. He would take -a great deal of pains about apprenticing Tegg the shoemaker’s son, and -he would watch over Tegg’s church-going; he would defend Mrs. Strype -the washerwoman against Stubbs’s unjust exaction on the score of her -drying-ground, and he would himself scrutinize a calumny against Mrs. -Strype. His private minor loans were numerous, but he would inquire -strictly into the circumstances both before and after. In this way a -man gathers a domain in his neighbors’ hope and fear as well as -gratitude; and power, when once it has got into that subtle region, -propagates itself, spreading out of all proportion to its external -means. It was a principle with Mr. Bulstrode to gain as much power as -possible, that he might use it for the glory of God. He went through a -great deal of spiritual conflict and inward argument in order to adjust -his motives, and make clear to himself what God’s glory required. But, -as we have seen, his motives were not always rightly appreciated. There -were many crass minds in Middlemarch whose reflective scales could only -weigh things in the lump; and they had a strong suspicion that since -Mr. Bulstrode could not enjoy life in their fashion, eating and -drinking so little as he did, and worreting himself about everything, -he must have a sort of vampire’s feast in the sense of mastery. - -The subject of the chaplaincy came up at Mr. Vincy’s table when Lydgate -was dining there, and the family connection with Mr. Bulstrode did not, -he observed, prevent some freedom of remark even on the part of the -host himself, though his reasons against the proposed arrangement -turned entirely on his objection to Mr. Tyke’s sermons, which were all -doctrine, and his preference for Mr. Farebrother, whose sermons were -free from that taint. Mr. Vincy liked well enough the notion of the -chaplain’s having a salary, supposing it were given to Farebrother, who -was as good a little fellow as ever breathed, and the best preacher -anywhere, and companionable too. - -“What line shall you take, then?” said Mr. Chichely, the coroner, a -great coursing comrade of Mr. Vincy’s. - -“Oh, I’m precious glad I’m not one of the Directors now. I shall vote -for referring the matter to the Directors and the Medical Board -together. I shall roll some of my responsibility on your shoulders, -Doctor,” said Mr. Vincy, glancing first at Dr. Sprague, the senior -physician of the town, and then at Lydgate who sat opposite. “You -medical gentlemen must consult which sort of black draught you will -prescribe, eh, Mr. Lydgate?” - -“I know little of either,” said Lydgate; “but in general, appointments -are apt to be made too much a question of personal liking. The fittest -man for a particular post is not always the best fellow or the most -agreeable. Sometimes, if you wanted to get a reform, your only way -would be to pension off the good fellows whom everybody is fond of, and -put them out of the question.” - -Dr. Sprague, who was considered the physician of most “weight,” though -Dr. Minchin was usually said to have more “penetration,” divested his -large heavy face of all expression, and looked at his wine-glass while -Lydgate was speaking. Whatever was not problematical and suspected -about this young man—for example, a certain showiness as to foreign -ideas, and a disposition to unsettle what had been settled and -forgotten by his elders—was positively unwelcome to a physician whose -standing had been fixed thirty years before by a treatise on -Meningitis, of which at least one copy marked “own” was bound in calf. -For my part I have some fellow-feeling with Dr. Sprague: one’s -self-satisfaction is an untaxed kind of property which it is very -unpleasant to find deprecated. - -Lydgate’s remark, however, did not meet the sense of the company. Mr. -Vincy said, that if he could have _his_ way, he would not put -disagreeable fellows anywhere. - -“Hang your reforms!” said Mr. Chichely. “There’s no greater humbug in -the world. You never hear of a reform, but it means some trick to put -in new men. I hope you are not one of the ‘Lancet’s’ men, Mr. -Lydgate—wanting to take the coronership out of the hands of the legal -profession: your words appear to point that way.” - -“I disapprove of Wakley,” interposed Dr. Sprague, “no man more: he is -an ill-intentioned fellow, who would sacrifice the respectability of -the profession, which everybody knows depends on the London Colleges, -for the sake of getting some notoriety for himself. There are men who -don’t mind about being kicked blue if they can only get talked about. -But Wakley is right sometimes,” the Doctor added, judicially. “I could -mention one or two points in which Wakley is in the right.” - -“Oh, well,” said Mr. Chichely, “I blame no man for standing up in favor -of his own cloth; but, coming to argument, I should like to know how a -coroner is to judge of evidence if he has not had a legal training?” - -“In my opinion,” said Lydgate, “legal training only makes a man more -incompetent in questions that require knowledge of another kind. People -talk about evidence as if it could really be weighed in scales by a -blind Justice. No man can judge what is good evidence on any particular -subject, unless he knows that subject well. A lawyer is no better than -an old woman at a post-mortem examination. How is he to know the action -of a poison? You might as well say that scanning verse will teach you -to scan the potato crops.” - -“You are aware, I suppose, that it is not the coroner’s business to -conduct the _post-mortem_, but only to take the evidence of the medical -witness?” said Mr. Chichely, with some scorn. - -“Who is often almost as ignorant as the coroner himself,” said Lydgate. -“Questions of medical jurisprudence ought not to be left to the chance -of decent knowledge in a medical witness, and the coroner ought not to -be a man who will believe that strychnine will destroy the coats of the -stomach if an ignorant practitioner happens to tell him so.” - -Lydgate had really lost sight of the fact that Mr. Chichely was his -Majesty’s coroner, and ended innocently with the question, “Don’t you -agree with me, Dr. Sprague?” - -“To a certain extent—with regard to populous districts, and in the -metropolis,” said the Doctor. “But I hope it will be long before this -part of the country loses the services of my friend Chichely, even -though it might get the best man in our profession to succeed him. I am -sure Vincy will agree with me.” - -“Yes, yes, give me a coroner who is a good coursing man,” said Mr. -Vincy, jovially. “And in my opinion, you’re safest with a lawyer. -Nobody can know everything. Most things are ‘visitation of God.’ And as -to poisoning, why, what you want to know is the law. Come, shall we -join the ladies?” - -Lydgate’s private opinion was that Mr. Chichely might be the very -coroner without bias as to the coats of the stomach, but he had not -meant to be personal. This was one of the difficulties of moving in -good Middlemarch society: it was dangerous to insist on knowledge as a -qualification for any salaried office. Fred Vincy had called Lydgate a -prig, and now Mr. Chichely was inclined to call him prick-eared; -especially when, in the drawing-room, he seemed to be making himself -eminently agreeable to Rosamond, whom he had easily monopolized in a -_tête-à-tête_, since Mrs. Vincy herself sat at the tea-table. She -resigned no domestic function to her daughter; and the matron’s -blooming good-natured face, with the two volatile pink strings floating -from her fine throat, and her cheery manners to husband and children, -was certainly among the great attractions of the Vincy -house—attractions which made it all the easier to fall in love with the -daughter. The tinge of unpretentious, inoffensive vulgarity in Mrs. -Vincy gave more effect to Rosamond’s refinement, which was beyond what -Lydgate had expected. - -Certainly, small feet and perfectly turned shoulders aid the impression -of refined manners, and the right thing said seems quite astonishingly -right when it is accompanied with exquisite curves of lip and eyelid. -And Rosamond could say the right thing; for she was clever with that -sort of cleverness which catches every tone except the humorous. -Happily she never attempted to joke, and this perhaps was the most -decisive mark of her cleverness. - -She and Lydgate readily got into conversation. He regretted that he had -not heard her sing the other day at Stone Court. The only pleasure he -allowed himself during the latter part of his stay in Paris was to go -and hear music. - -“You have studied music, probably?” said Rosamond. - -“No, I know the notes of many birds, and I know many melodies by ear; -but the music that I don’t know at all, and have no notion about, -delights me—affects me. How stupid the world is that it does not make -more use of such a pleasure within its reach!” - -“Yes, and you will find Middlemarch very tuneless. There are hardly any -good musicians. I only know two gentlemen who sing at all well.” - -“I suppose it is the fashion to sing comic songs in a rhythmic way, -leaving you to fancy the tune—very much as if it were tapped on a -drum?” - -“Ah, you have heard Mr. Bowyer,” said Rosamond, with one of her rare -smiles. “But we are speaking very ill of our neighbors.” - -Lydgate was almost forgetting that he must carry on the conversation, -in thinking how lovely this creature was, her garment seeming to be -made out of the faintest blue sky, herself so immaculately blond, as if -the petals of some gigantic flower had just opened and disclosed her; -and yet with this infantine blondness showing so much ready, -self-possessed grace. Since he had had the memory of Laure, Lydgate had -lost all taste for large-eyed silence: the divine cow no longer -attracted him, and Rosamond was her very opposite. But he recalled -himself. - -“You will let me hear some music to-night, I hope.” - -“I will let you hear my attempts, if you like,” said Rosamond. “Papa is -sure to insist on my singing. But I shall tremble before you, who have -heard the best singers in Paris. I have heard very little: I have only -once been to London. But our organist at St. Peter’s is a good -musician, and I go on studying with him.” - -“Tell me what you saw in London.” - -“Very little.” (A more naive girl would have said, “Oh, everything!” -But Rosamond knew better.) “A few of the ordinary sights, such as raw -country girls are always taken to.” - -“Do you call yourself a raw country girl?” said Lydgate, looking at her -with an involuntary emphasis of admiration, which made Rosamond blush -with pleasure. But she remained simply serious, turned her long neck a -little, and put up her hand to touch her wondrous hair-plaits—an -habitual gesture with her as pretty as any movements of a kitten’s paw. -Not that Rosamond was in the least like a kitten: she was a sylph -caught young and educated at Mrs. Lemon’s. - -“I assure you my mind is raw,” she said immediately; “I pass at -Middlemarch. I am not afraid of talking to our old neighbors. But I am -really afraid of you.” - -“An accomplished woman almost always knows more than we men, though her -knowledge is of a different sort. I am sure you could teach me a -thousand things—as an exquisite bird could teach a bear if there were -any common language between them. Happily, there is a common language -between women and men, and so the bears can get taught.” - -“Ah, there is Fred beginning to strum! I must go and hinder him from -jarring all your nerves,” said Rosamond, moving to the other side of -the room, where Fred having opened the piano, at his father’s desire, -that Rosamond might give them some music, was parenthetically -performing “Cherry Ripe!” with one hand. Able men who have passed their -examinations will do these things sometimes, not less than the plucked -Fred. - -“Fred, pray defer your practising till to-morrow; you will make Mr. -Lydgate ill,” said Rosamond. “He has an ear.” - -Fred laughed, and went on with his tune to the end. - -Rosamond turned to Lydgate, smiling gently, and said, “You perceive, -the bears will not always be taught.” - -“Now then, Rosy!” said Fred, springing from the stool and twisting it -upward for her, with a hearty expectation of enjoyment. “Some good -rousing tunes first.” - -Rosamond played admirably. Her master at Mrs. Lemon’s school (close to -a county town with a memorable history that had its relics in church -and castle) was one of those excellent musicians here and there to be -found in our provinces, worthy to compare with many a noted -Kapellmeister in a country which offers more plentiful conditions of -musical celebrity. Rosamond, with the executant’s instinct, had seized -his manner of playing, and gave forth his large rendering of noble -music with the precision of an echo. It was almost startling, heard for -the first time. A hidden soul seemed to be flowing forth from -Rosamond’s fingers; and so indeed it was, since souls live on in -perpetual echoes, and to all fine expression there goes somewhere an -originating activity, if it be only that of an interpreter. Lydgate was -taken possession of, and began to believe in her as something -exceptional. After all, he thought, one need not be surprised to find -the rare conjunctions of nature under circumstances apparently -unfavorable: come where they may, they always depend on conditions that -are not obvious. He sat looking at her, and did not rise to pay her any -compliments, leaving that to others, now that his admiration was -deepened. - -Her singing was less remarkable, but also well trained, and sweet to -hear as a chime perfectly in tune. It is true she sang “Meet me by -moonlight,” and “I’ve been roaming”; for mortals must share the -fashions of their time, and none but the ancients can be always -classical. But Rosamond could also sing “Black-eyed Susan” with effect, -or Haydn’s canzonets, or “Voi, che sapete,” or “Batti, batti”—she only -wanted to know what her audience liked. - -Her father looked round at the company, delighting in their admiration. -Her mother sat, like a Niobe before her troubles, with her youngest -little girl on her lap, softly beating the child’s hand up and down in -time to the music. And Fred, notwithstanding his general scepticism -about Rosy, listened to her music with perfect allegiance, wishing he -could do the same thing on his flute. It was the pleasantest family -party that Lydgate had seen since he came to Middlemarch. The Vincys -had the readiness to enjoy, the rejection of all anxiety, and the -belief in life as a merry lot, which made a house exceptional in most -county towns at that time, when Evangelicalism had cast a certain -suspicion as of plague-infection over the few amusements which survived -in the provinces. At the Vincys’ there was always whist, and the -card-tables stood ready now, making some of the company secretly -impatient of the music. Before it ceased Mr. Farebrother came in—a -handsome, broad-chested but otherwise small man, about forty, whose -black was very threadbare: the brilliancy was all in his quick gray -eyes. He came like a pleasant change in the light, arresting little -Louisa with fatherly nonsense as she was being led out of the room by -Miss Morgan, greeting everybody with some special word, and seeming to -condense more talk into ten minutes than had been held all through the -evening. He claimed from Lydgate the fulfilment of a promise to come -and see him. “I can’t let you off, you know, because I have some -beetles to show you. We collectors feel an interest in every new man -till he has seen all we have to show him.” - -But soon he swerved to the whist-table, rubbing his hands and saying, -“Come now, let us be serious! Mr. Lydgate? not play? Ah! you are too -young and light for this kind of thing.” - -Lydgate said to himself that the clergyman whose abilities were so -painful to Mr. Bulstrode, appeared to have found an agreeable resort in -this certainly not erudite household. He could half understand it: the -good-humor, the good looks of elder and younger, and the provision for -passing the time without any labor of intelligence, might make the -house beguiling to people who had no particular use for their odd -hours. - -Everything looked blooming and joyous except Miss Morgan, who was -brown, dull, and resigned, and altogether, as Mrs. Vincy often said, -just the sort of person for a governess. Lydgate did not mean to pay -many such visits himself. They were a wretched waste of the evenings; -and now, when he had talked a little more to Rosamond, he meant to -excuse himself and go. - -“You will not like us at Middlemarch, I feel sure,” she said, when the -whist-players were settled. “We are very stupid, and you have been used -to something quite different.” - -“I suppose all country towns are pretty much alike,” said Lydgate. “But -I have noticed that one always believes one’s own town to be more -stupid than any other. I have made up my mind to take Middlemarch as it -comes, and shall be much obliged if the town will take me in the same -way. I have certainly found some charms in it which are much greater -than I had expected.” - -“You mean the rides towards Tipton and Lowick; every one is pleased -with those,” said Rosamond, with simplicity. - -“No, I mean something much nearer to me.” - -Rosamond rose and reached her netting, and then said, “Do you care -about dancing at all? I am not quite sure whether clever men ever -dance.” - -“I would dance with you if you would allow me.” - -“Oh!” said Rosamond, with a slight deprecatory laugh. “I was only going -to say that we sometimes have dancing, and I wanted to know whether you -would feel insulted if you were asked to come.” - -“Not on the condition I mentioned.” - -After this chat Lydgate thought that he was going, but on moving -towards the whist-tables, he got interested in watching Mr. -Farebrother’s play, which was masterly, and also his face, which was a -striking mixture of the shrewd and the mild. At ten o’clock supper was -brought in (such were the customs of Middlemarch) and there was -punch-drinking; but Mr. Farebrother had only a glass of water. He was -winning, but there seemed to be no reason why the renewal of rubbers -should end, and Lydgate at last took his leave. - -But as it was not eleven o’clock, he chose to walk in the brisk air -towards the tower of St. Botolph’s, Mr. Farebrother’s church, which -stood out dark, square, and massive against the starlight. It was the -oldest church in Middlemarch; the living, however, was but a vicarage -worth barely four hundred a-year. Lydgate had heard that, and he -wondered now whether Mr. Farebrother cared about the money he won at -cards; thinking, “He seems a very pleasant fellow, but Bulstrode may -have his good reasons.” Many things would be easier to Lydgate if it -should turn out that Mr. Bulstrode was generally justifiable. “What is -his religious doctrine to me, if he carries some good notions along -with it? One must use such brains as are to be found.” - -These were actually Lydgate’s first meditations as he walked away from -Mr. Vincy’s, and on this ground I fear that many ladies will consider -him hardly worthy of their attention. He thought of Rosamond and her -music only in the second place; and though, when her turn came, he -dwelt on the image of her for the rest of his walk, he felt no -agitation, and had no sense that any new current had set into his life. -He could not marry yet; he wished not to marry for several years; and -therefore he was not ready to entertain the notion of being in love -with a girl whom he happened to admire. He did admire Rosamond -exceedingly; but that madness which had once beset him about Laure was -not, he thought, likely to recur in relation to any other woman. -Certainly, if falling in love had been at all in question, it would -have been quite safe with a creature like this Miss Vincy, who had just -the kind of intelligence one would desire in a woman—polished, refined, -docile, lending itself to finish in all the delicacies of life, and -enshrined in a body which expressed this with a force of demonstration -that excluded the need for other evidence. Lydgate felt sure that if -ever he married, his wife would have that feminine radiance, that -distinctive womanhood which must be classed with flowers and music, -that sort of beauty which by its very nature was virtuous, being -moulded only for pure and delicate joys. - -But since he did not mean to marry for the next five years—his more -pressing business was to look into Louis’ new book on Fever, which he -was specially interested in, because he had known Louis in Paris, and -had followed many anatomical demonstrations in order to ascertain the -specific differences of typhus and typhoid. He went home and read far -into the smallest hour, bringing a much more testing vision of details -and relations into this pathological study than he had ever thought it -necessary to apply to the complexities of love and marriage, these -being subjects on which he felt himself amply informed by literature, -and that traditional wisdom which is handed down in the genial -conversation of men. Whereas Fever had obscure conditions, and gave him -that delightful labor of the imagination which is not mere -arbitrariness, but the exercise of disciplined power—combining and -constructing with the clearest eye for probabilities and the fullest -obedience to knowledge; and then, in yet more energetic alliance with -impartial Nature, standing aloof to invent tests by which to try its -own work. - -Many men have been praised as vividly imaginative on the strength of -their profuseness in indifferent drawing or cheap narration:—reports of -very poor talk going on in distant orbs; or portraits of Lucifer coming -down on his bad errands as a large ugly man with bat’s wings and spurts -of phosphorescence; or exaggerations of wantonness that seem to reflect -life in a diseased dream. But these kinds of inspiration Lydgate -regarded as rather vulgar and vinous compared with the imagination that -reveals subtle actions inaccessible by any sort of lens, but tracked in -that outer darkness through long pathways of necessary sequence by the -inward light which is the last refinement of Energy, capable of bathing -even the ethereal atoms in its ideally illuminated space. He for his -part had tossed away all cheap inventions where ignorance finds itself -able and at ease: he was enamoured of that arduous invention which is -the very eye of research, provisionally framing its object and -correcting it to more and more exactness of relation; he wanted to -pierce the obscurity of those minute processes which prepare human -misery and joy, those invisible thoroughfares which are the first -lurking-places of anguish, mania, and crime, that delicate poise and -transition which determine the growth of happy or unhappy -consciousness. - -As he threw down his book, stretched his legs towards the embers in the -grate, and clasped his hands at the back of his head, in that agreeable -afterglow of excitement when thought lapses from examination of a -specific object into a suffusive sense of its connections with all the -rest of our existence—seems, as it were, to throw itself on its back -after vigorous swimming and float with the repose of unexhausted -strength—Lydgate felt a triumphant delight in his studies, and -something like pity for those less lucky men who were not of his -profession. - -“If I had not taken that turn when I was a lad,” he thought, “I might -have got into some stupid draught-horse work or other, and lived always -in blinkers. I should never have been happy in any profession that did -not call forth the highest intellectual strain, and yet keep me in good -warm contact with my neighbors. There is nothing like the medical -profession for that: one can have the exclusive scientific life that -touches the distance and befriend the old fogies in the parish too. It -is rather harder for a clergyman: Farebrother seems to be an anomaly.” - -This last thought brought back the Vincys and all the pictures of the -evening. They floated in his mind agreeably enough, and as he took up -his bed-candle his lips were curled with that incipient smile which is -apt to accompany agreeable recollections. He was an ardent fellow, but -at present his ardor was absorbed in love of his work and in the -ambition of making his life recognized as a factor in the better life -of mankind—like other heroes of science who had nothing but an obscure -country practice to begin with. - -Poor Lydgate! or shall I say, Poor Rosamond! Each lived in a world of -which the other knew nothing. It had not occurred to Lydgate that he -had been a subject of eager meditation to Rosamond, who had neither any -reason for throwing her marriage into distant perspective, nor any -pathological studies to divert her mind from that ruminating habit, -that inward repetition of looks, words, and phrases, which makes a -large part in the lives of most girls. He had not meant to look at her -or speak to her with more than the inevitable amount of admiration and -compliment which a man must give to a beautiful girl; indeed, it seemed -to him that his enjoyment of her music had remained almost silent, for -he feared falling into the rudeness of telling her his great surprise -at her possession of such accomplishment. But Rosamond had registered -every look and word, and estimated them as the opening incidents of a -preconceived romance—incidents which gather value from the foreseen -development and climax. In Rosamond’s romance it was not necessary to -imagine much about the inward life of the hero, or of his serious -business in the world: of course, he had a profession and was clever, -as well as sufficiently handsome; but the piquant fact about Lydgate -was his good birth, which distinguished him from all Middlemarch -admirers, and presented marriage as a prospect of rising in rank and -getting a little nearer to that celestial condition on earth in which -she would have nothing to do with vulgar people, and perhaps at last -associate with relatives quite equal to the county people who looked -down on the Middlemarchers. It was part of Rosamond’s cleverness to -discern very subtly the faintest aroma of rank, and once when she had -seen the Miss Brookes accompanying their uncle at the county assizes, -and seated among the aristocracy, she had envied them, notwithstanding -their plain dress. - -If you think it incredible that to imagine Lydgate as a man of family -could cause thrills of satisfaction which had anything to do with the -sense that she was in love with him, I will ask you to use your power -of comparison a little more effectively, and consider whether red cloth -and epaulets have never had an influence of that sort. Our passions do -not live apart in locked chambers, but, dressed in their small wardrobe -of notions, bring their provisions to a common table and mess together, -feeding out of the common store according to their appetite. - -Rosamond, in fact, was entirely occupied not exactly with Tertius -Lydgate as he was in himself, but with his relation to her; and it was -excusable in a girl who was accustomed to hear that all young men -might, could, would be, or actually were in love with her, to believe -at once that Lydgate could be no exception. His looks and words meant -more to her than other men’s, because she cared more for them: she -thought of them diligently, and diligently attended to that perfection -of appearance, behavior, sentiments, and all other elegancies, which -would find in Lydgate a more adequate admirer than she had yet been -conscious of. - -For Rosamond, though she would never do anything that was disagreeable -to her, was industrious; and now more than ever she was active in -sketching her landscapes and market-carts and portraits of friends, in -practising her music, and in being from morning till night her own -standard of a perfect lady, having always an audience in her own -consciousness, with sometimes the not unwelcome addition of a more -variable external audience in the numerous visitors of the house. She -found time also to read the best novels, and even the second best, and -she knew much poetry by heart. Her favorite poem was “Lalla Rookh.” - -“The best girl in the world! He will be a happy fellow who gets her!” -was the sentiment of the elderly gentlemen who visited the Vincys; and -the rejected young men thought of trying again, as is the fashion in -country towns where the horizon is not thick with coming rivals. But -Mrs. Plymdale thought that Rosamond had been educated to a ridiculous -pitch, for what was the use of accomplishments which would be all laid -aside as soon as she was married? While her aunt Bulstrode, who had a -sisterly faithfulness towards her brother’s family, had two sincere -wishes for Rosamond—that she might show a more serious turn of mind, -and that she might meet with a husband whose wealth corresponded to her -habits. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -“The clerkly person smiled and said -Promise was a pretty maid, -But being poor she died unwed.” - - -The Rev. Camden Farebrother, whom Lydgate went to see the next evening, -lived in an old parsonage, built of stone, venerable enough to match -the church which it looked out upon. All the furniture too in the house -was old, but with another grade of age—that of Mr. Farebrother’s father -and grandfather. There were painted white chairs, with gilding and -wreaths on them, and some lingering red silk damask with slits in it. -There were engraved portraits of Lord Chancellors and other celebrated -lawyers of the last century; and there were old pier-glasses to reflect -them, as well as the little satin-wood tables and the sofas resembling -a prolongation of uneasy chairs, all standing in relief against the -dark wainscot. This was the physiognomy of the drawing-room into which -Lydgate was shown; and there were three ladies to receive him, who were -also old-fashioned, and of a faded but genuine respectability: Mrs. -Farebrother, the Vicar’s white-haired mother, befrilled and kerchiefed -with dainty cleanliness, upright, quick-eyed, and still under seventy; -Miss Noble, her sister, a tiny old lady of meeker aspect, with frills -and kerchief decidedly more worn and mended; and Miss Winifred -Farebrother, the Vicar’s elder sister, well-looking like himself, but -nipped and subdued as single women are apt to be who spend their lives -in uninterrupted subjection to their elders. Lydgate had not expected -to see so quaint a group: knowing simply that Mr. Farebrother was a -bachelor, he had thought of being ushered into a snuggery where the -chief furniture would probably be books and collections of natural -objects. The Vicar himself seemed to wear rather a changed aspect, as -most men do when acquaintances made elsewhere see them for the first -time in their own homes; some indeed showing like an actor of genial -parts disadvantageously cast for the curmudgeon in a new piece. This -was not the case with Mr. Farebrother: he seemed a trifle milder and -more silent, the chief talker being his mother, while he only put in a -good-humored moderating remark here and there. The old lady was -evidently accustomed to tell her company what they ought to think, and -to regard no subject as quite safe without her steering. She was -afforded leisure for this function by having all her little wants -attended to by Miss Winifred. Meanwhile tiny Miss Noble carried on her -arm a small basket, into which she diverted a bit of sugar, which she -had first dropped in her saucer as if by mistake; looking round -furtively afterwards, and reverting to her teacup with a small innocent -noise as of a tiny timid quadruped. Pray think no ill of Miss Noble. -That basket held small savings from her more portable food, destined -for the children of her poor friends among whom she trotted on fine -mornings; fostering and petting all needy creatures being so -spontaneous a delight to her, that she regarded it much as if it had -been a pleasant vice that she was addicted to. Perhaps she was -conscious of being tempted to steal from those who had much that she -might give to those who had nothing, and carried in her conscience the -guilt of that repressed desire. One must be poor to know the luxury of -giving! - -Mrs. Farebrother welcomed the guest with a lively formality and -precision. She presently informed him that they were not often in want -of medical aid in that house. She had brought up her children to wear -flannel and not to over-eat themselves, which last habit she considered -the chief reason why people needed doctors. Lydgate pleaded for those -whose fathers and mothers had over-eaten themselves, but Mrs. -Farebrother held that view of things dangerous: Nature was more just -than that; it would be easy for any felon to say that his ancestors -ought to have been hanged instead of him. If those who had bad fathers -and mothers were bad themselves, they were hanged for that. There was -no need to go back on what you couldn’t see. - -“My mother is like old George the Third,” said the Vicar, “she objects -to metaphysics.” - -“I object to what is wrong, Camden. I say, keep hold of a few plain -truths, and make everything square with them. When I was young, Mr. -Lydgate, there never was any question about right and wrong. We knew -our catechism, and that was enough; we learned our creed and our duty. -Every respectable Church person had the same opinions. But now, if you -speak out of the Prayer-book itself, you are liable to be -contradicted.” - -“That makes rather a pleasant time of it for those who like to maintain -their own point,” said Lydgate. - -“But my mother always gives way,” said the Vicar, slyly. - -“No, no, Camden, you must not lead Mr. Lydgate into a mistake about -_me_. I shall never show that disrespect to my parents, to give up what -they taught me. Any one may see what comes of turning. If you change -once, why not twenty times?” - -“A man might see good arguments for changing once, and not see them for -changing again,” said Lydgate, amused with the decisive old lady. - -“Excuse me there. If you go upon arguments, they are never wanting, -when a man has no constancy of mind. My father never changed, and he -preached plain moral sermons without arguments, and was a good man—few -better. When you get me a good man made out of arguments, I will get -you a good dinner with reading you the cookery-book. That’s my opinion, -and I think anybody’s stomach will bear me out.” - -“About the dinner certainly, mother,” said Mr. Farebrother. - -“It is the same thing, the dinner or the man. I am nearly seventy, Mr. -Lydgate, and I go upon experience. I am not likely to follow new -lights, though there are plenty of them here as elsewhere. I say, they -came in with the mixed stuffs that will neither wash nor wear. It was -not so in my youth: a Churchman was a Churchman, and a clergyman, you -might be pretty sure, was a gentleman, if nothing else. But now he may -be no better than a Dissenter, and want to push aside my son on -pretence of doctrine. But whoever may wish to push him aside, I am -proud to say, Mr. Lydgate, that he will compare with any preacher in -this kingdom, not to speak of this town, which is but a low standard to -go by; at least, to my thinking, for I was born and bred at Exeter.” - -“A mother is never partial,” said Mr. Farebrother, smiling. “What do -you think Tyke’s mother says about him?” - -“Ah, poor creature! what indeed?” said Mrs. Farebrother, her sharpness -blunted for the moment by her confidence in maternal judgments. “She -says the truth to herself, depend upon it.” - -“And what is the truth?” said Lydgate. “I am curious to know.” - -“Oh, nothing bad at all,” said Mr. Farebrother. “He is a zealous -fellow: not very learned, and not very wise, I think—because I don’t -agree with him.” - -“Why, Camden!” said Miss Winifred, “Griffin and his wife told me only -to-day, that Mr. Tyke said they should have no more coals if they came -to hear you preach.” - -Mrs. Farebrother laid down her knitting, which she had resumed after -her small allowance of tea and toast, and looked at her son as if to -say “You hear that?” Miss Noble said, “Oh poor things! poor things!” in -reference, probably, to the double loss of preaching and coal. But the -Vicar answered quietly— - -“That is because they are not my parishioners. And I don’t think my -sermons are worth a load of coals to them.” - -“Mr. Lydgate,” said Mrs. Farebrother, who could not let this pass, “you -don’t know my son: he always undervalues himself. I tell him he is -undervaluing the God who made him, and made him a most excellent -preacher.” - -“That must be a hint for me to take Mr. Lydgate away to my study, -mother,” said the Vicar, laughing. “I promised to show you my -collection,” he added, turning to Lydgate; “shall we go?” - -All three ladies remonstrated. Mr. Lydgate ought not to be hurried away -without being allowed to accept another cup of tea: Miss Winifred had -abundance of good tea in the pot. Why was Camden in such haste to take -a visitor to his den? There was nothing but pickled vermin, and drawers -full of blue-bottles and moths, with no carpet on the floor. Mr. -Lydgate must excuse it. A game at cribbage would be far better. In -short, it was plain that a vicar might be adored by his womankind as -the king of men and preachers, and yet be held by them to stand in much -need of their direction. Lydgate, with the usual shallowness of a young -bachelor, wondered that Mr. Farebrother had not taught them better. - -“My mother is not used to my having visitors who can take any interest -in my hobbies,” said the Vicar, as he opened the door of his study, -which was indeed as bare of luxuries for the body as the ladies had -implied, unless a short porcelain pipe and a tobacco-box were to be -excepted. - -“Men of your profession don’t generally smoke,” he said. Lydgate smiled -and shook his head. “Nor of mine either, properly, I suppose. You will -hear that pipe alleged against me by Bulstrode and Company. They don’t -know how pleased the devil would be if I gave it up.” - -“I understand. You are of an excitable temper and want a sedative. I am -heavier, and should get idle with it. I should rush into idleness, and -stagnate there with all my might.” - -“And you mean to give it all to your work. I am some ten or twelve -years older than you, and have come to a compromise. I feed a weakness -or two lest they should get clamorous. See,” continued the Vicar, -opening several small drawers, “I fancy I have made an exhaustive study -of the entomology of this district. I am going on both with the fauna -and flora; but I have at least done my insects well. We are singularly -rich in orthoptera: I don’t know whether—Ah! you have got hold of that -glass jar—you are looking into that instead of my drawers. You don’t -really care about these things?” - -“Not by the side of this lovely anencephalous monster. I have never had -time to give myself much to natural history. I was early bitten with an -interest in structure, and it is what lies most directly in my -profession. I have no hobby besides. I have the sea to swim in there.” - -“Ah! you are a happy fellow,” said Mr. Farebrother, turning on his heel -and beginning to fill his pipe. “You don’t know what it is to want -spiritual tobacco—bad emendations of old texts, or small items about a -variety of Aphis Brassicae, with the well-known signature of -Philomicron, for the ‘Twaddler’s Magazine;’ or a learned treatise on -the entomology of the Pentateuch, including all the insects not -mentioned, but probably met with by the Israelites in their passage -through the desert; with a monograph on the Ant, as treated by Solomon, -showing the harmony of the Book of Proverbs with the results of modern -research. You don’t mind my fumigating you?” - -Lydgate was more surprised at the openness of this talk than at its -implied meaning—that the Vicar felt himself not altogether in the right -vocation. The neat fitting-up of drawers and shelves, and the bookcase -filled with expensive illustrated books on Natural History, made him -think again of the winnings at cards and their destination. But he was -beginning to wish that the very best construction of everything that -Mr. Farebrother did should be the true one. The Vicar’s frankness -seemed not of the repulsive sort that comes from an uneasy -consciousness seeking to forestall the judgment of others, but simply -the relief of a desire to do with as little pretence as possible. -Apparently he was not without a sense that his freedom of speech might -seem premature, for he presently said— - -“I have not yet told you that I have the advantage of you, Mr. Lydgate, -and know you better than you know me. You remember Trawley who shared -your apartment at Paris for some time? I was a correspondent of his, -and he told me a good deal about you. I was not quite sure when you -first came that you were the same man. I was very glad when I found -that you were. Only I don’t forget that you have not had the like -prologue about me.” - -Lydgate divined some delicacy of feeling here, but did not half -understand it. “By the way,” he said, “what has become of Trawley? I -have quite lost sight of him. He was hot on the French social systems, -and talked of going to the Backwoods to found a sort of Pythagorean -community. Is he gone?” - -“Not at all. He is practising at a German bath, and has married a rich -patient.” - -“Then my notions wear the best, so far,” said Lydgate, with a short -scornful laugh. “He would have it, the medical profession was an -inevitable system of humbug. I said, the fault was in the men—men who -truckle to lies and folly. Instead of preaching against humbug outside -the walls, it might be better to set up a disinfecting apparatus -within. In short—I am reporting my own conversation—you may be sure I -had all the good sense on my side.” - -“Your scheme is a good deal more difficult to carry out than the -Pythagorean community, though. You have not only got the old Adam in -yourself against you, but you have got all those descendants of the -original Adam who form the society around you. You see, I have paid -twelve or thirteen years more than you for my knowledge of -difficulties. But”—Mr. Farebrother broke off a moment, and then added, -“you are eying that glass vase again. Do you want to make an exchange? -You shall not have it without a fair barter.” - -“I have some sea-mice—fine specimens—in spirits. And I will throw in -Robert Brown’s new thing—‘Microscopic Observations on the Pollen of -Plants’—if you don’t happen to have it already.” - -“Why, seeing how you long for the monster, I might ask a higher price. -Suppose I ask you to look through my drawers and agree with me about -all my new species?” The Vicar, while he talked in this way, -alternately moved about with his pipe in his mouth, and returned to -hang rather fondly over his drawers. “That would be good discipline, -you know, for a young doctor who has to please his patients in -Middlemarch. You must learn to be bored, remember. However, you shall -have the monster on your own terms.” - -“Don’t you think men overrate the necessity for humoring everybody’s -nonsense, till they get despised by the very fools they humor?” said -Lydgate, moving to Mr. Farebrother’s side, and looking rather absently -at the insects ranged in fine gradation, with names subscribed in -exquisite writing. “The shortest way is to make your value felt, so -that people must put up with you whether you flatter them or not.” - -“With all my heart. But then you must be sure of having the value, and -you must keep yourself independent. Very few men can do that. Either -you slip out of service altogether, and become good for nothing, or you -wear the harness and draw a good deal where your yoke-fellows pull you. -But do look at these delicate orthoptera!” - -Lydgate had after all to give some scrutiny to each drawer, the Vicar -laughing at himself, and yet persisting in the exhibition. - -“Apropos of what you said about wearing harness,” Lydgate began, after -they had sat down, “I made up my mind some time ago to do with as -little of it as possible. That was why I determined not to try anything -in London, for a good many years at least. I didn’t like what I saw -when I was studying there—so much empty bigwiggism, and obstructive -trickery. In the country, people have less pretension to knowledge, and -are less of companions, but for that reason they affect one’s -amour-propre less: one makes less bad blood, and can follow one’s own -course more quietly.” - -“Yes—well—you have got a good start; you are in the right profession, -the work you feel yourself most fit for. Some people miss that, and -repent too late. But you must not be too sure of keeping your -independence.” - -“You mean of family ties?” said Lydgate, conceiving that these might -press rather tightly on Mr. Farebrother. - -“Not altogether. Of course they make many things more difficult. But a -good wife—a good unworldly woman—may really help a man, and keep him -more independent. There’s a parishioner of mine—a fine fellow, but who -would hardly have pulled through as he has done without his wife. Do -you know the Garths? I think they were not Peacock’s patients.” - -“No; but there is a Miss Garth at old Featherstone’s, at Lowick.” - -“Their daughter: an excellent girl.” - -“She is very quiet—I have hardly noticed her.” - -“She has taken notice of you, though, depend upon it.” - -“I don’t understand,” said Lydgate; he could hardly say “Of course.” - -“Oh, she gauges everybody. I prepared her for confirmation—she is a -favorite of mine.” - -Mr. Farebrother puffed a few moments in silence, Lydgate not caring to -know more about the Garths. At last the Vicar laid down his pipe, -stretched out his legs, and turned his bright eyes with a smile towards -Lydgate, saying— - -“But we Middlemarchers are not so tame as you take us to be. We have -our intrigues and our parties. I am a party man, for example, and -Bulstrode is another. If you vote for me you will offend Bulstrode.” - -“What is there against Bulstrode?” said Lydgate, emphatically. - -“I did not say there was anything against him except that. If you vote -against him you will make him your enemy.” - -“I don’t know that I need mind about that,” said Lydgate, rather -proudly; “but he seems to have good ideas about hospitals, and he -spends large sums on useful public objects. He might help me a good -deal in carrying out my ideas. As to his religious notions—why, as -Voltaire said, incantations will destroy a flock of sheep if -administered with a certain quantity of arsenic. I look for the man who -will bring the arsenic, and don’t mind about his incantations.” - -“Very good. But then you must not offend your arsenic-man. You will not -offend me, you know,” said Mr. Farebrother, quite unaffectedly. “I -don’t translate my own convenience into other people’s duties. I am -opposed to Bulstrode in many ways. I don’t like the set he belongs to: -they are a narrow ignorant set, and do more to make their neighbors -uncomfortable than to make them better. Their system is a sort of -worldly-spiritual cliqueism: they really look on the rest of mankind as -a doomed carcass which is to nourish them for heaven. But,” he added, -smilingly, “I don’t say that Bulstrode’s new hospital is a bad thing; -and as to his wanting to oust me from the old one—why, if he thinks me -a mischievous fellow, he is only returning a compliment. And I am not a -model clergyman—only a decent makeshift.” - -Lydgate was not at all sure that the Vicar maligned himself. A model -clergyman, like a model doctor, ought to think his own profession the -finest in the world, and take all knowledge as mere nourishment to his -moral pathology and therapeutics. He only said, “What reason does -Bulstrode give for superseding you?” - -“That I don’t teach his opinions—which he calls spiritual religion; and -that I have no time to spare. Both statements are true. But then I -could make time, and I should be glad of the forty pounds. That is the -plain fact of the case. But let us dismiss it. I only wanted to tell -you that if you vote for your arsenic-man, you are not to cut me in -consequence. I can’t spare you. You are a sort of circumnavigator come -to settle among us, and will keep up my belief in the antipodes. Now -tell me all about them in Paris.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -“Oh, sir, the loftiest hopes on earth -Draw lots with meaner hopes: heroic breasts, -Breathing bad air, run risk of pestilence; -Or, lacking lime-juice when they cross the Line, -May languish with the scurvy.” - - -Some weeks passed after this conversation before the question of the -chaplaincy gathered any practical import for Lydgate, and without -telling himself the reason, he deferred the predetermination on which -side he should give his vote. It would really have been a matter of -total indifference to him—that is to say, he would have taken the more -convenient side, and given his vote for the appointment of Tyke without -any hesitation—if he had not cared personally for Mr. Farebrother. - -But his liking for the Vicar of St. Botolph’s grew with growing -acquaintanceship. That, entering into Lydgate’s position as a new-comer -who had his own professional objects to secure, Mr. Farebrother should -have taken pains rather to warn off than to obtain his interest, showed -an unusual delicacy and generosity, which Lydgate’s nature was keenly -alive to. It went along with other points of conduct in Mr. Farebrother -which were exceptionally fine, and made his character resemble those -southern landscapes which seem divided between natural grandeur and -social slovenliness. Very few men could have been as filial and -chivalrous as he was to the mother, aunt, and sister, whose dependence -on him had in many ways shaped his life rather uneasily for himself; -few men who feel the pressure of small needs are so nobly resolute not -to dress up their inevitably self-interested desires in a pretext of -better motives. In these matters he was conscious that his life would -bear the closest scrutiny; and perhaps the consciousness encouraged a -little defiance towards the critical strictness of persons whose -celestial intimacies seemed not to improve their domestic manners, and -whose lofty aims were not needed to account for their actions. Then, -his preaching was ingenious and pithy, like the preaching of the -English Church in its robust age, and his sermons were delivered -without book. People outside his parish went to hear him; and, since to -fill the church was always the most difficult part of a clergyman’s -function, here was another ground for a careless sense of superiority. -Besides, he was a likable man: sweet-tempered, ready-witted, frank, -without grins of suppressed bitterness or other conversational flavors -which make half of us an affliction to our friends. Lydgate liked him -heartily, and wished for his friendship. - -With this feeling uppermost, he continued to waive the question of the -chaplaincy, and to persuade himself that it was not only no proper -business of his, but likely enough never to vex him with a demand for -his vote. Lydgate, at Mr. Bulstrode’s request, was laying down plans -for the internal arrangements of the new hospital, and the two were -often in consultation. The banker was always presupposing that he could -count in general on Lydgate as a coadjutor, but made no special -recurrence to the coming decision between Tyke and Farebrother. When -the General Board of the Infirmary had met, however, and Lydgate had -notice that the question of the chaplaincy was thrown on a council of -the directors and medical men, to meet on the following Friday, he had -a vexed sense that he must make up his mind on this trivial Middlemarch -business. He could not help hearing within him the distinct declaration -that Bulstrode was prime minister, and that the Tyke affair was a -question of office or no office; and he could not help an equally -pronounced dislike to giving up the prospect of office. For his -observation was constantly confirming Mr. Farebrother’s assurance that -the banker would not overlook opposition. “Confound their petty -politics!” was one of his thoughts for three mornings in the meditative -process of shaving, when he had begun to feel that he must really hold -a court of conscience on this matter. Certainly there were valid things -to be said against the election of Mr. Farebrother: he had too much on -his hands already, especially considering how much time he spent on -non-clerical occupations. Then again it was a continually repeated -shock, disturbing Lydgate’s esteem, that the Vicar should obviously -play for the sake of money, liking the play indeed, but evidently -liking some end which it served. Mr. Farebrother contended on theory -for the desirability of all games, and said that Englishmen’s wit was -stagnant for want of them; but Lydgate felt certain that he would have -played very much less but for the money. There was a billiard-room at -the Green Dragon, which some anxious mothers and wives regarded as the -chief temptation in Middlemarch. The Vicar was a first-rate -billiard-player, and though he did not frequent the Green Dragon, there -were reports that he had sometimes been there in the daytime and had -won money. And as to the chaplaincy, he did not pretend that he cared -for it, except for the sake of the forty pounds. Lydgate was no -Puritan, but he did not care for play, and winning money at it had -always seemed a meanness to him; besides, he had an ideal of life which -made this subservience of conduct to the gaining of small sums -thoroughly hateful to him. Hitherto in his own life his wants had been -supplied without any trouble to himself, and his first impulse was -always to be liberal with half-crowns as matters of no importance to a -gentleman; it had never occurred to him to devise a plan for getting -half-crowns. He had always known in a general way that he was not rich, -but he had never felt poor, and he had no power of imagining the part -which the want of money plays in determining the actions of men. Money -had never been a motive to him. Hence he was not ready to frame excuses -for this deliberate pursuit of small gains. It was altogether repulsive -to him, and he never entered into any calculation of the ratio between -the Vicar’s income and his more or less necessary expenditure. It was -possible that he would not have made such a calculation in his own -case. - -And now, when the question of voting had come, this repulsive fact told -more strongly against Mr. Farebrother than it had done before. One -would know much better what to do if men’s characters were more -consistent, and especially if one’s friends were invariably fit for any -function they desired to undertake! Lydgate was convinced that if there -had been no valid objection to Mr. Farebrother, he would have voted for -him, whatever Bulstrode might have felt on the subject: he did not -intend to be a vassal of Bulstrode’s. On the other hand, there was -Tyke, a man entirely given to his clerical office, who was simply -curate at a chapel of ease in St. Peter’s parish, and had time for -extra duty. Nobody had anything to say against Mr. Tyke, except that -they could not bear him, and suspected him of cant. Really, from his -point of view, Bulstrode was thoroughly justified. - -But whichever way Lydgate began to incline, there was something to make -him wince; and being a proud man, he was a little exasperated at being -obliged to wince. He did not like frustrating his own best purposes by -getting on bad terms with Bulstrode; he did not like voting against -Farebrother, and helping to deprive him of function and salary; and the -question occurred whether the additional forty pounds might not leave -the Vicar free from that ignoble care about winning at cards. Moreover, -Lydgate did not like the consciousness that in voting for Tyke he -should be voting on the side obviously convenient for himself. But -would the end really be his own convenience? Other people would say so, -and would allege that he was currying favor with Bulstrode for the sake -of making himself important and getting on in the world. What then? He -for his own part knew that if his personal prospects simply had been -concerned, he would not have cared a rotten nut for the banker’s -friendship or enmity. What he really cared for was a medium for his -work, a vehicle for his ideas; and after all, was he not bound to -prefer the object of getting a good hospital, where he could -demonstrate the specific distinctions of fever and test therapeutic -results, before anything else connected with this chaplaincy? For the -first time Lydgate was feeling the hampering threadlike pressure of -small social conditions, and their frustrating complexity. At the end -of his inward debate, when he set out for the hospital, his hope was -really in the chance that discussion might somehow give a new aspect to -the question, and make the scale dip so as to exclude the necessity for -voting. I think he trusted a little also to the energy which is -begotten by circumstances—some feeling rushing warmly and making -resolve easy, while debate in cool blood had only made it more -difficult. However it was, he did not distinctly say to himself on -which side he would vote; and all the while he was inwardly resenting -the subjection which had been forced upon him. It would have seemed -beforehand like a ridiculous piece of bad logic that he, with his -unmixed resolutions of independence and his select purposes, would find -himself at the very outset in the grasp of petty alternatives, each of -which was repugnant to him. In his student’s chambers, he had -prearranged his social action quite differently. - -Lydgate was late in setting out, but Dr. Sprague, the two other -surgeons, and several of the directors had arrived early; Mr. -Bulstrode, treasurer and chairman, being among those who were still -absent. The conversation seemed to imply that the issue was -problematical, and that a majority for Tyke was not so certain as had -been generally supposed. The two physicians, for a wonder, turned out -to be unanimous, or rather, though of different minds, they concurred -in action. Dr. Sprague, the rugged and weighty, was, as every one had -foreseen, an adherent of Mr. Farebrother. The Doctor was more than -suspected of having no religion, but somehow Middlemarch tolerated this -deficiency in him as if he had been a Lord Chancellor; indeed it is -probable that his professional weight was the more believed in, the -world-old association of cleverness with the evil principle being still -potent in the minds even of lady-patients who had the strictest ideas -of frilling and sentiment. It was perhaps this negation in the Doctor -which made his neighbors call him hard-headed and dry-witted; -conditions of texture which were also held favorable to the storing of -judgments connected with drugs. At all events, it is certain that if -any medical man had come to Middlemarch with the reputation of having -very definite religious views, of being given to prayer, and of -otherwise showing an active piety, there would have been a general -presumption against his medical skill. - -On this ground it was (professionally speaking) fortunate for Dr. -Minchin that his religious sympathies were of a general kind, and such -as gave a distant medical sanction to all serious sentiment, whether of -Church or Dissent, rather than any adhesion to particular tenets. If -Mr. Bulstrode insisted, as he was apt to do, on the Lutheran doctrine -of justification, as that by which a Church must stand or fall, Dr. -Minchin in return was quite sure that man was not a mere machine or a -fortuitous conjunction of atoms; if Mrs. Wimple insisted on a -particular providence in relation to her stomach complaint, Dr. Minchin -for his part liked to keep the mental windows open and objected to -fixed limits; if the Unitarian brewer jested about the Athanasian -Creed, Dr. Minchin quoted Pope’s “Essay on Man.” He objected to the -rather free style of anecdote in which Dr. Sprague indulged, preferring -well-sanctioned quotations, and liking refinement of all kinds: it was -generally known that he had some kinship to a bishop, and sometimes -spent his holidays at “the palace.” - -Dr. Minchin was soft-handed, pale-complexioned, and of rounded outline, -not to be distinguished from a mild clergyman in appearance: whereas -Dr. Sprague was superfluously tall; his trousers got creased at the -knees, and showed an excess of boot at a time when straps seemed -necessary to any dignity of bearing; you heard him go in and out, and -up and down, as if he had come to see after the roofing. In short, he -had weight, and might be expected to grapple with a disease and throw -it; while Dr. Minchin might be better able to detect it lurking and to -circumvent it. They enjoyed about equally the mysterious privilege of -medical reputation, and concealed with much etiquette their contempt -for each other’s skill. Regarding themselves as Middlemarch -institutions, they were ready to combine against all innovators, and -against non-professionals given to interference. On this ground they -were both in their hearts equally averse to Mr. Bulstrode, though Dr. -Minchin had never been in open hostility with him, and never differed -from him without elaborate explanation to Mrs. Bulstrode, who had found -that Dr. Minchin alone understood her constitution. A layman who pried -into the professional conduct of medical men, and was always obtruding -his reforms,—though he was less directly embarrassing to the two -physicians than to the surgeon-apothecaries who attended paupers by -contract, was nevertheless offensive to the professional nostril as -such; and Dr. Minchin shared fully in the new pique against Bulstrode, -excited by his apparent determination to patronize Lydgate. The -long-established practitioners, Mr. Wrench and Mr. Toller; were just -now standing apart and having a friendly colloquy, in which they agreed -that Lydgate was a jackanapes, just made to serve Bulstrode’s purpose. -To non-medical friends they had already concurred in praising the other -young practitioner, who had come into the town on Mr. Peacock’s -retirement without further recommendation than his own merits and such -argument for solid professional acquirement as might be gathered from -his having apparently wasted no time on other branches of knowledge. It -was clear that Lydgate, by not dispensing drugs, intended to cast -imputations on his equals, and also to obscure the limit between his -own rank as a general practitioner and that of the physicians, who, in -the interest of the profession, felt bound to maintain its various -grades,—especially against a man who had not been to either of the -English universities and enjoyed the absence of anatomical and bedside -study there, but came with a libellous pretension to experience in -Edinburgh and Paris, where observation might be abundant indeed, but -hardly sound. - -Thus it happened that on this occasion Bulstrode became identified with -Lydgate, and Lydgate with Tyke; and owing to this variety of -interchangeable names for the chaplaincy question, diverse minds were -enabled to form the same judgment concerning it. - -Dr. Sprague said at once bluntly to the group assembled when he -entered, “I go for Farebrother. A salary, with all my heart. But why -take it from the Vicar? He has none too much—has to insure his life, -besides keeping house, and doing a vicar’s charities. Put forty pounds -in his pocket and you’ll do no harm. He’s a good fellow, is -Farebrother, with as little of the parson about him as will serve to -carry orders.” - -“Ho, ho! Doctor,” said old Mr. Powderell, a retired iron-monger of some -standing—his interjection being something between a laugh and a -Parliamentary disapproval; “we must let you have your say. But what we -have to consider is not anybody’s income—it’s the souls of the poor -sick people”—here Mr. Powderell’s voice and face had a sincere pathos -in them. “He is a real Gospel preacher, is Mr. Tyke. I should vote -against my conscience if I voted against Mr. Tyke—I should indeed.” - -“Mr. Tyke’s opponents have not asked any one to vote against his -conscience, I believe,” said Mr. Hackbutt, a rich tanner of fluent -speech, whose glittering spectacles and erect hair were turned with -some severity towards innocent Mr. Powderell. “But in my judgment it -behoves us, as Directors, to consider whether we will regard it as our -whole business to carry out propositions emanating from a single -quarter. Will any member of the committee aver that he would have -entertained the idea of displacing the gentleman who has always -discharged the function of chaplain here, if it had not been suggested -to him by parties whose disposition it is to regard every institution -of this town as a machinery for carrying out their own views? I tax no -man’s motives: let them lie between himself and a higher Power; but I -do say, that there are influences at work here which are incompatible -with genuine independence, and that a crawling servility is usually -dictated by circumstances which gentlemen so conducting themselves -could not afford either morally or financially to avow. I myself am a -layman, but I have given no inconsiderable attention to the divisions -in the Church and—” - -“Oh, damn the divisions!” burst in Mr. Frank Hawley, lawyer and -town-clerk, who rarely presented himself at the board, but now looked -in hurriedly, whip in hand. “We have nothing to do with them here. -Farebrother has been doing the work—what there was—without pay, and if -pay is to be given, it should be given to him. I call it a confounded -job to take the thing away from Farebrother.” - -“I think it would be as well for gentlemen not to give their remarks a -personal bearing,” said Mr. Plymdale. “I shall vote for the appointment -of Mr. Tyke, but I should not have known, if Mr. Hackbutt hadn’t hinted -it, that I was a Servile Crawler.” - -“I disclaim any personalities. I expressly said, if I may be allowed to -repeat, or even to conclude what I was about to say—” - -“Ah, here’s Minchin!” said Mr. Frank Hawley; at which everybody turned -away from Mr. Hackbutt, leaving him to feel the uselessness of superior -gifts in Middlemarch. “Come, Doctor, I must have you on the right side, -eh?” - -“I hope so,” said Dr. Minchin, nodding and shaking hands here and -there; “at whatever cost to my feelings.” - -“If there’s any feeling here, it should be feeling for the man who is -turned out, I think,” said Mr. Frank Hawley. - -“I confess I have feelings on the other side also. I have a divided -esteem,” said Dr. Minchin, rubbing his hands. “I consider Mr. Tyke an -exemplary man—none more so—and I believe him to be proposed from -unimpeachable motives. I, for my part, wish that I could give him my -vote. But I am constrained to take a view of the case which gives the -preponderance to Mr. Farebrother’s claims. He is an amiable man, an -able preacher, and has been longer among us.” - -Old Mr. Powderell looked on, sad and silent. Mr. Plymdale settled his -cravat, uneasily. - -“You don’t set up Farebrother as a pattern of what a clergyman ought to -be, I hope,” said Mr. Larcher, the eminent carrier, who had just come -in. “I have no ill-will towards him, but I think we owe something to -the public, not to speak of anything higher, in these appointments. In -my opinion Farebrother is too lax for a clergyman. I don’t wish to -bring up particulars against him; but he will make a little attendance -here go as far as he can.” - -“And a devilish deal better than too much,” said Mr. Hawley, whose bad -language was notorious in that part of the county. “Sick people can’t -bear so much praying and preaching. And that methodistical sort of -religion is bad for the spirits—bad for the inside, eh?” he added, -turning quickly round to the four medical men who were assembled. - -But any answer was dispensed with by the entrance of three gentlemen, -with whom there were greetings more or less cordial. These were the -Reverend Edward Thesiger, Rector of St. Peter’s, Mr. Bulstrode, and our -friend Mr. Brooke of Tipton, who had lately allowed himself to be put -on the board of directors in his turn, but had never before attended, -his attendance now being due to Mr. Bulstrode’s exertions. Lydgate was -the only person still expected. - -Every one now sat down, Mr. Bulstrode presiding, pale and -self-restrained as usual. Mr. Thesiger, a moderate evangelical, wished -for the appointment of his friend Mr. Tyke, a zealous able man, who, -officiating at a chapel of ease, had not a cure of souls too extensive -to leave him ample time for the new duty. It was desirable that -chaplaincies of this kind should be entered on with a fervent -intention: they were peculiar opportunities for spiritual influence; -and while it was good that a salary should be allotted, there was the -more need for scrupulous watching lest the office should be perverted -into a mere question of salary. Mr. Thesiger’s manner had so much quiet -propriety that objectors could only simmer in silence. - -Mr. Brooke believed that everybody meant well in the matter. He had not -himself attended to the affairs of the Infirmary, though he had a -strong interest in whatever was for the benefit of Middlemarch, and was -most happy to meet the gentlemen present on any public question—“any -public question, you know,” Mr. Brooke repeated, with his nod of -perfect understanding. “I am a good deal occupied as a magistrate, and -in the collection of documentary evidence, but I regard my time as -being at the disposal of the public—and, in short, my friends have -convinced me that a chaplain with a salary—a salary, you know—is a very -good thing, and I am happy to be able to come here and vote for the -appointment of Mr. Tyke, who, I understand, is an unexceptionable man, -apostolic and eloquent and everything of that kind—and I am the last -man to withhold my vote—under the circumstances, you know.” - -“It seems to me that you have been crammed with one side of the -question, Mr. Brooke,” said Mr. Frank Hawley, who was afraid of nobody, -and was a Tory suspicious of electioneering intentions. “You don’t seem -to know that one of the worthiest men we have has been doing duty as -chaplain here for years without pay, and that Mr. Tyke is proposed to -supersede him.” - -“Excuse me, Mr. Hawley,” said Mr. Bulstrode. “Mr. Brooke has been fully -informed of Mr. Farebrother’s character and position.” - -“By his enemies,” flashed out Mr. Hawley. - -“I trust there is no personal hostility concerned here,” said Mr. -Thesiger. - -“I’ll swear there is, though,” retorted Mr. Hawley. - -“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Bulstrode, in a subdued tone, “the merits of the -question may be very briefly stated, and if any one present doubts that -every gentleman who is about to give his vote has not been fully -informed, I can now recapitulate the considerations that should weigh -on either side.” - -“I don’t see the good of that,” said Mr. Hawley. “I suppose we all know -whom we mean to vote for. Any man who wants to do justice does not wait -till the last minute to hear both sides of the question. I have no time -to lose, and I propose that the matter be put to the vote at once.” - -A brief but still hot discussion followed before each person wrote -“Tyke” or “Farebrother” on a piece of paper and slipped it into a glass -tumbler; and in the mean time Mr. Bulstrode saw Lydgate enter. - -“I perceive that the votes are equally divided at present,” said Mr. -Bulstrode, in a clear biting voice. Then, looking up at Lydgate— - -“There is a casting-vote still to be given. It is yours, Mr. Lydgate: -will you be good enough to write?” - -“The thing is settled now,” said Mr. Wrench, rising. “We all know how -Mr. Lydgate will vote.” - -“You seem to speak with some peculiar meaning, sir,” said Lydgate, -rather defiantly, and keeping his pencil suspended. - -“I merely mean that you are expected to vote with Mr. Bulstrode. Do you -regard that meaning as offensive?” - -“It may be offensive to others. But I shall not desist from voting with -him on that account.” Lydgate immediately wrote down “Tyke.” - -So the Rev. Walter Tyke became chaplain to the Infirmary, and Lydgate -continued to work with Mr. Bulstrode. He was really uncertain whether -Tyke were not the more suitable candidate, and yet his consciousness -told him that if he had been quite free from indirect bias he should -have voted for Mr. Farebrother. The affair of the chaplaincy remained a -sore point in his memory as a case in which this petty medium of -Middlemarch had been too strong for him. How could a man be satisfied -with a decision between such alternatives and under such circumstances? -No more than he can be satisfied with his hat, which he has chosen from -among such shapes as the resources of the age offer him, wearing it at -best with a resignation which is chiefly supported by comparison. - -But Mr. Farebrother met him with the same friendliness as before. The -character of the publican and sinner is not always practically -incompatible with that of the modern Pharisee, for the majority of us -scarcely see more distinctly the faultiness of our own conduct than the -faultiness of our own arguments, or the dulness of our own jokes. But -the Vicar of St. Botolph’s had certainly escaped the slightest tincture -of the Pharisee, and by dint of admitting to himself that he was too -much as other men were, he had become remarkably unlike them in -this—that he could excuse others for thinking slightly of him, and -could judge impartially of their conduct even when it told against him. - -“The world has been too strong for _me_, I know,” he said one day to -Lydgate. “But then I am not a mighty man—I shall never be a man of -renown. The choice of Hercules is a pretty fable; but Prodicus makes it -easy work for the hero, as if the first resolves were enough. Another -story says that he came to hold the distaff, and at last wore the -Nessus shirt. I suppose one good resolve might keep a man right if -everybody else’s resolve helped him.” - -The Vicar’s talk was not always inspiriting: he had escaped being a -Pharisee, but he had not escaped that low estimate of possibilities -which we rather hastily arrive at as an inference from our own failure. -Lydgate thought that there was a pitiable infirmity of will in Mr. -Farebrother. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -“L’ altra vedete ch’ha fatto alla guancia -Della sua palma, sospirando, letto.” -—_Purgatorio_, vii. - - -When George the Fourth was still reigning over the privacies of -Windsor, when the Duke of Wellington was Prime Minister, and Mr. Vincy -was mayor of the old corporation in Middlemarch, Mrs. Casaubon, born -Dorothea Brooke, had taken her wedding journey to Rome. In those days -the world in general was more ignorant of good and evil by forty years -than it is at present. Travellers did not often carry full information -on Christian art either in their heads or their pockets; and even the -most brilliant English critic of the day mistook the flower-flushed -tomb of the ascended Virgin for an ornamental vase due to the painter’s -fancy. Romanticism, which has helped to fill some dull blanks with love -and knowledge, had not yet penetrated the times with its leaven and -entered into everybody’s food; it was fermenting still as a -distinguishable vigorous enthusiasm in certain long-haired German -artists at Rome, and the youth of other nations who worked or idled -near them were sometimes caught in the spreading movement. - -One fine morning a young man whose hair was not immoderately long, but -abundant and curly, and who was otherwise English in his equipment, had -just turned his back on the Belvedere Torso in the Vatican and was -looking out on the magnificent view of the mountains from the adjoining -round vestibule. He was sufficiently absorbed not to notice the -approach of a dark-eyed, animated German who came up to him and placing -a hand on his shoulder, said with a strong accent, “Come here, quick! -else she will have changed her pose.” - -Quickness was ready at the call, and the two figures passed lightly -along by the Meleager, towards the hall where the reclining Ariadne, -then called the Cleopatra, lies in the marble voluptuousness of her -beauty, the drapery folding around her with a petal-like ease and -tenderness. They were just in time to see another figure standing -against a pedestal near the reclining marble: a breathing blooming -girl, whose form, not shamed by the Ariadne, was clad in Quakerish gray -drapery; her long cloak, fastened at the neck, was thrown backward from -her arms, and one beautiful ungloved hand pillowed her cheek, pushing -somewhat backward the white beaver bonnet which made a sort of halo to -her face around the simply braided dark-brown hair. She was not looking -at the sculpture, probably not thinking of it: her large eyes were -fixed dreamily on a streak of sunlight which fell across the floor. But -she became conscious of the two strangers who suddenly paused as if to -contemplate the Cleopatra, and, without looking at them, immediately -turned away to join a maid-servant and courier who were loitering along -the hall at a little distance off. - -“What do you think of that for a fine bit of antithesis?” said the -German, searching in his friend’s face for responding admiration, but -going on volubly without waiting for any other answer. “There lies -antique beauty, not corpse-like even in death, but arrested in the -complete contentment of its sensuous perfection: and here stands beauty -in its breathing life, with the consciousness of Christian centuries in -its bosom. But she should be dressed as a nun; I think she looks almost -what you call a Quaker; I would dress her as a nun in my picture. -However, she is married; I saw her wedding-ring on that wonderful left -hand, otherwise I should have thought the sallow _Geistlicher_ was her -father. I saw him parting from her a good while ago, and just now I -found her in that magnificent pose. Only think! he is perhaps rich, and -would like to have her portrait taken. Ah! it is no use looking after -her—there she goes! Let us follow her home!” - -“No, no,” said his companion, with a little frown. - -“You are singular, Ladislaw. You look struck together. Do you know -her?” - -“I know that she is married to my cousin,” said Will Ladislaw, -sauntering down the hall with a preoccupied air, while his German -friend kept at his side and watched him eagerly. - -“What! the _Geistlicher_? He looks more like an uncle—a more useful -sort of relation.” - -“He is not my uncle. I tell you he is my second cousin,” said Ladislaw, -with some irritation. - -“Schön, schön. Don’t be snappish. You are not angry with me for -thinking Mrs. Second-Cousin the most perfect young Madonna I ever saw?” - -“Angry? nonsense. I have only seen her once before, for a couple of -minutes, when my cousin introduced her to me, just before I left -England. They were not married then. I didn’t know they were coming to -Rome.” - -“But you will go to see them now—you will find out what they have for -an address—since you know the name. Shall we go to the post? And you -could speak about the portrait.” - -“Confound you, Naumann! I don’t know what I shall do. I am not so -brazen as you.” - -“Bah! that is because you are dilettantish and amateurish. If you were -an artist, you would think of Mistress Second-Cousin as antique form -animated by Christian sentiment—a sort of Christian Antigone—sensuous -force controlled by spiritual passion.” - -“Yes, and that your painting her was the chief outcome of her -existence—the divinity passing into higher completeness and all but -exhausted in the act of covering your bit of canvas. I am amateurish if -you like: I do _not_ think that all the universe is straining towards -the obscure significance of your pictures.” - -“But it is, my dear!—so far as it is straining through me, Adolf -Naumann: that stands firm,” said the good-natured painter, putting a -hand on Ladislaw’s shoulder, and not in the least disturbed by the -unaccountable touch of ill-humor in his tone. “See now! My existence -presupposes the existence of the whole universe—does it _not?_ and my -function is to paint—and as a painter I have a conception which is -altogether _genialisch_, of your great-aunt or second grandmother as a -subject for a picture; therefore, the universe is straining towards -that picture through that particular hook or claw which it puts forth -in the shape of me—not true?” - -“But how if another claw in the shape of me is straining to thwart -it?—the case is a little less simple then.” - -“Not at all: the result of the struggle is the same thing—picture or no -picture—logically.” - -Will could not resist this imperturbable temper, and the cloud in his -face broke into sunshiny laughter. - -“Come now, my friend—you will help?” said Naumann, in a hopeful tone. - -“No; nonsense, Naumann! English ladies are not at everybody’s service -as models. And you want to express too much with your painting. You -would only have made a better or worse portrait with a background which -every connoisseur would give a different reason for or against. And -what is a portrait of a woman? Your painting and Plastik are poor stuff -after all. They perturb and dull conceptions instead of raising them. -Language is a finer medium.” - -“Yes, for those who can’t paint,” said Naumann. “There you have perfect -right. I did not recommend you to paint, my friend.” - -The amiable artist carried his sting, but Ladislaw did not choose to -appear stung. He went on as if he had not heard. - -“Language gives a fuller image, which is all the better for being -vague. After all, the true seeing is within; and painting stares at you -with an insistent imperfection. I feel that especially about -representations of women. As if a woman were a mere colored -superficies! You must wait for movement and tone. There is a difference -in their very breathing: they change from moment to moment.—This woman -whom you have just seen, for example: how would you paint her voice, -pray? But her voice is much diviner than anything you have seen of -her.” - -“I see, I see. You are jealous. No man must presume to think that he -can paint your ideal. This is serious, my friend! Your great-aunt! ‘Der -Neffe als Onkel’ in a tragic sense—_ungeheuer!_” - -“You and I shall quarrel, Naumann, if you call that lady my aunt -again.” - -“How is she to be called then?” - -“Mrs. Casaubon.” - -“Good. Suppose I get acquainted with her in spite of you, and find that -she very much wishes to be painted?” - -“Yes, suppose!” said Will Ladislaw, in a contemptuous undertone, -intended to dismiss the subject. He was conscious of being irritated by -ridiculously small causes, which were half of his own creation. Why was -he making any fuss about Mrs. Casaubon? And yet he felt as if something -had happened to him with regard to her. There are characters which are -continually creating collisions and nodes for themselves in dramas -which nobody is prepared to act with them. Their susceptibilities will -clash against objects that remain innocently quiet. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -“A child forsaken, waking suddenly, -Whose gaze afeard on all things round doth rove, -And seeth only that it cannot see - The meeting eyes of love.” - - -Two hours later, Dorothea was seated in an inner room or boudoir of a -handsome apartment in the Via Sistina. - -I am sorry to add that she was sobbing bitterly, with such abandonment -to this relief of an oppressed heart as a woman habitually controlled -by pride on her own account and thoughtfulness for others will -sometimes allow herself when she feels securely alone. And Mr. Casaubon -was certain to remain away for some time at the Vatican. - -Yet Dorothea had no distinctly shapen grievance that she could state -even to herself; and in the midst of her confused thought and passion, -the mental act that was struggling forth into clearness was a -self-accusing cry that her feeling of desolation was the fault of her -own spiritual poverty. She had married the man of her choice, and with -the advantage over most girls that she had contemplated her marriage -chiefly as the beginning of new duties: from the very first she had -thought of Mr. Casaubon as having a mind so much above her own, that he -must often be claimed by studies which she could not entirely share; -moreover, after the brief narrow experience of her girlhood she was -beholding Rome, the city of visible history, where the past of a whole -hemisphere seems moving in funeral procession with strange ancestral -images and trophies gathered from afar. - -But this stupendous fragmentariness heightened the dreamlike -strangeness of her bridal life. Dorothea had now been five weeks in -Rome, and in the kindly mornings when autumn and winter seemed to go -hand in hand like a happy aged couple one of whom would presently -survive in chiller loneliness, she had driven about at first with Mr. -Casaubon, but of late chiefly with Tantripp and their experienced -courier. She had been led through the best galleries, had been taken to -the chief points of view, had been shown the grandest ruins and the -most glorious churches, and she had ended by oftenest choosing to drive -out to the Campagna where she could feel alone with the earth and sky, -away-from the oppressive masquerade of ages, in which her own life too -seemed to become a masque with enigmatical costumes. - -To those who have looked at Rome with the quickening power of a -knowledge which breathes a growing soul into all historic shapes, and -traces out the suppressed transitions which unite all contrasts, Rome -may still be the spiritual centre and interpreter of the world. But let -them conceive one more historical contrast: the gigantic broken -revelations of that Imperial and Papal city thrust abruptly on the -notions of a girl who had been brought up in English and Swiss -Puritanism, fed on meagre Protestant histories and on art chiefly of -the hand-screen sort; a girl whose ardent nature turned all her small -allowance of knowledge into principles, fusing her actions into their -mould, and whose quick emotions gave the most abstract things the -quality of a pleasure or a pain; a girl who had lately become a wife, -and from the enthusiastic acceptance of untried duty found herself -plunged in tumultuous preoccupation with her personal lot. The weight -of unintelligible Rome might lie easily on bright nymphs to whom it -formed a background for the brilliant picnic of Anglo-foreign society; -but Dorothea had no such defence against deep impressions. Ruins and -basilicas, palaces and colossi, set in the midst of a sordid present, -where all that was living and warm-blooded seemed sunk in the deep -degeneracy of a superstition divorced from reverence; the dimmer but -yet eager Titanic life gazing and struggling on walls and ceilings; the -long vistas of white forms whose marble eyes seemed to hold the -monotonous light of an alien world: all this vast wreck of ambitious -ideals, sensuous and spiritual, mixed confusedly with the signs of -breathing forgetfulness and degradation, at first jarred her as with an -electric shock, and then urged themselves on her with that ache -belonging to a glut of confused ideas which check the flow of emotion. -Forms both pale and glowing took possession of her young sense, and -fixed themselves in her memory even when she was not thinking of them, -preparing strange associations which remained through her after-years. -Our moods are apt to bring with them images which succeed each other -like the magic-lantern pictures of a doze; and in certain states of -dull forlornness Dorothea all her life continued to see the vastness of -St. Peter’s, the huge bronze canopy, the excited intention in the -attitudes and garments of the prophets and evangelists in the mosaics -above, and the red drapery which was being hung for Christmas spreading -itself everywhere like a disease of the retina. - -Not that this inward amazement of Dorothea’s was anything very -exceptional: many souls in their young nudity are tumbled out among -incongruities and left to “find their feet” among them, while their -elders go about their business. Nor can I suppose that when Mrs. -Casaubon is discovered in a fit of weeping six weeks after her wedding, -the situation will be regarded as tragic. Some discouragement, some -faintness of heart at the new real future which replaces the imaginary, -is not unusual, and we do not expect people to be deeply moved by what -is not unusual. That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of -frequency, has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of -mankind; and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had -a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like -hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die -of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the -quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity. - -However, Dorothea was crying, and if she had been required to state the -cause, she could only have done so in some such general words as I have -already used: to have been driven to be more particular would have been -like trying to give a history of the lights and shadows, for that new -real future which was replacing the imaginary drew its material from -the endless minutiae by which her view of Mr. Casaubon and her wifely -relation, now that she was married to him, was gradually changing with -the secret motion of a watch-hand from what it had been in her maiden -dream. It was too early yet for her fully to recognize or at least -admit the change, still more for her to have readjusted that -devotedness which was so necessary a part of her mental life that she -was almost sure sooner or later to recover it. Permanent rebellion, the -disorder of a life without some loving reverent resolve, was not -possible to her; but she was now in an interval when the very force of -her nature heightened its confusion. In this way, the early months of -marriage often are times of critical tumult—whether that of a -shrimp-pool or of deeper waters—which afterwards subsides into cheerful -peace. - -But was not Mr. Casaubon just as learned as before? Had his forms of -expression changed, or his sentiments become less laudable? Oh -waywardness of womanhood! did his chronology fail him, or his ability -to state not only a theory but the names of those who held it; or his -provision for giving the heads of any subject on demand? And was not -Rome the place in all the world to give free play to such -accomplishments? Besides, had not Dorothea’s enthusiasm especially -dwelt on the prospect of relieving the weight and perhaps the sadness -with which great tasks lie on him who has to achieve them?— And that -such weight pressed on Mr. Casaubon was only plainer than before. - -All these are crushing questions; but whatever else remained the same, -the light had changed, and you cannot find the pearly dawn at noonday. -The fact is unalterable, that a fellow-mortal with whose nature you are -acquainted solely through the brief entrances and exits of a few -imaginative weeks called courtship, may, when seen in the continuity of -married companionship, be disclosed as something better or worse than -what you have preconceived, but will certainly not appear altogether -the same. And it would be astonishing to find how soon the change is -felt if we had no kindred changes to compare with it. To share lodgings -with a brilliant dinner-companion, or to see your favorite politician -in the Ministry, may bring about changes quite as rapid: in these cases -too we begin by knowing little and believing much, and we sometimes end -by inverting the quantities. - -Still, such comparisons might mislead, for no man was more incapable of -flashy make-believe than Mr. Casaubon: he was as genuine a character as -any ruminant animal, and he had not actively assisted in creating any -illusions about himself. How was it that in the weeks since her -marriage, Dorothea had not distinctly observed but felt with a stifling -depression, that the large vistas and wide fresh air which she had -dreamed of finding in her husband’s mind were replaced by anterooms and -winding passages which seemed to lead nowhither? I suppose it was that -in courtship everything is regarded as provisional and preliminary, and -the smallest sample of virtue or accomplishment is taken to guarantee -delightful stores which the broad leisure of marriage will reveal. But -the door-sill of marriage once crossed, expectation is concentrated on -the present. Having once embarked on your marital voyage, it is -impossible not to be aware that you make no way and that the sea is not -within sight—that, in fact, you are exploring an enclosed basin. - -In their conversation before marriage, Mr. Casaubon had often dwelt on -some explanation or questionable detail of which Dorothea did not see -the bearing; but such imperfect coherence seemed due to the brokenness -of their intercourse, and, supported by her faith in their future, she -had listened with fervid patience to a recitation of possible arguments -to be brought against Mr. Casaubon’s entirely new view of the -Philistine god Dagon and other fish-deities, thinking that hereafter -she should see this subject which touched him so nearly from the same -high ground whence doubtless it had become so important to him. Again, -the matter-of-course statement and tone of dismissal with which he -treated what to her were the most stirring thoughts, was easily -accounted for as belonging to the sense of haste and preoccupation in -which she herself shared during their engagement. But now, since they -had been in Rome, with all the depths of her emotion roused to -tumultuous activity, and with life made a new problem by new elements, -she had been becoming more and more aware, with a certain terror, that -her mind was continually sliding into inward fits of anger and -repulsion, or else into forlorn weariness. How far the judicious Hooker -or any other hero of erudition would have been the same at Mr. -Casaubon’s time of life, she had no means of knowing, so that he could -not have the advantage of comparison; but her husband’s way of -commenting on the strangely impressive objects around them had begun to -affect her with a sort of mental shiver: he had perhaps the best -intention of acquitting himself worthily, but only of acquitting -himself. What was fresh to her mind was worn out to his; and such -capacity of thought and feeling as had ever been stimulated in him by -the general life of mankind had long shrunk to a sort of dried -preparation, a lifeless embalmment of knowledge. - -When he said, “Does this interest you, Dorothea? Shall we stay a little -longer? I am ready to stay if you wish it,”—it seemed to her as if -going or staying were alike dreary. Or, “Should you like to go to the -Farnesina, Dorothea? It contains celebrated frescos designed or painted -by Raphael, which most persons think it worth while to visit.” - -“But do you care about them?” was always Dorothea’s question. - -“They are, I believe, highly esteemed. Some of them represent the fable -of Cupid and Psyche, which is probably the romantic invention of a -literary period, and cannot, I think, be reckoned as a genuine mythical -product. But if you like these wall-paintings we can easily drive -thither; and you will then, I think, have seen the chief works of -Raphael, any of which it were a pity to omit in a visit to Rome. He is -the painter who has been held to combine the most complete grace of -form with sublimity of expression. Such at least I have gathered to be -the opinion of cognoscenti.” - -This kind of answer given in a measured official tone, as of a -clergyman reading according to the rubric, did not help to justify the -glories of the Eternal City, or to give her the hope that if she knew -more about them the world would be joyously illuminated for her. There -is hardly any contact more depressing to a young ardent creature than -that of a mind in which years full of knowledge seem to have issued in -a blank absence of interest or sympathy. - -On other subjects indeed Mr. Casaubon showed a tenacity of occupation -and an eagerness which are usually regarded as the effect of -enthusiasm, and Dorothea was anxious to follow this spontaneous -direction of his thoughts, instead of being made to feel that she -dragged him away from it. But she was gradually ceasing to expect with -her former delightful confidence that she should see any wide opening -where she followed him. Poor Mr. Casaubon himself was lost among small -closets and winding stairs, and in an agitated dimness about the -Cabeiri, or in an exposure of other mythologists’ ill-considered -parallels, easily lost sight of any purpose which had prompted him to -these labors. With his taper stuck before him he forgot the absence of -windows, and in bitter manuscript remarks on other men’s notions about -the solar deities, he had become indifferent to the sunlight. - -These characteristics, fixed and unchangeable as bone in Mr. Casaubon, -might have remained longer unfelt by Dorothea if she had been -encouraged to pour forth her girlish and womanly feeling—if he would -have held her hands between his and listened with the delight of -tenderness and understanding to all the little histories which made up -her experience, and would have given her the same sort of intimacy in -return, so that the past life of each could be included in their mutual -knowledge and affection—or if she could have fed her affection with -those childlike caresses which are the bent of every sweet woman, who -has begun by showering kisses on the hard pate of her bald doll, -creating a happy soul within that woodenness from the wealth of her own -love. That was Dorothea’s bent. With all her yearning to know what was -afar from her and to be widely benignant, she had ardor enough for what -was near, to have kissed Mr. Casaubon’s coat-sleeve, or to have -caressed his shoe-latchet, if he would have made any other sign of -acceptance than pronouncing her, with his unfailing propriety, to be of -a most affectionate and truly feminine nature, indicating at the same -time by politely reaching a chair for her that he regarded these -manifestations as rather crude and startling. Having made his clerical -toilet with due care in the morning, he was prepared only for those -amenities of life which were suited to the well-adjusted stiff cravat -of the period, and to a mind weighted with unpublished matter. - -And by a sad contradiction Dorothea’s ideas and resolves seemed like -melting ice floating and lost in the warm flood of which they had been -but another form. She was humiliated to find herself a mere victim of -feeling, as if she could know nothing except through that medium: all -her strength was scattered in fits of agitation, of struggle, of -despondency, and then again in visions of more complete renunciation, -transforming all hard conditions into duty. Poor Dorothea! she was -certainly troublesome—to herself chiefly; but this morning for the -first time she had been troublesome to Mr. Casaubon. - -She had begun, while they were taking coffee, with a determination to -shake off what she inwardly called her selfishness, and turned a face -all cheerful attention to her husband when he said, “My dear Dorothea, -we must now think of all that is yet left undone, as a preliminary to -our departure. I would fain have returned home earlier that we might -have been at Lowick for the Christmas; but my inquiries here have been -protracted beyond their anticipated period. I trust, however, that the -time here has not been passed unpleasantly to you. Among the sights of -Europe, that of Rome has ever been held one of the most striking and in -some respects edifying. I well remember that I considered it an epoch -in my life when I visited it for the first time; after the fall of -Napoleon, an event which opened the Continent to travellers. Indeed I -think it is one among several cities to which an extreme hyperbole has -been applied—‘See Rome and die:’ but in your case I would propose an -emendation and say, See Rome as a bride, and live henceforth as a happy -wife.” - -Mr. Casaubon pronounced this little speech with the most conscientious -intention, blinking a little and swaying his head up and down, and -concluding with a smile. He had not found marriage a rapturous state, -but he had no idea of being anything else than an irreproachable -husband, who would make a charming young woman as happy as she deserved -to be. - -“I hope you are thoroughly satisfied with our stay—I mean, with the -result so far as your studies are concerned,” said Dorothea, trying to -keep her mind fixed on what most affected her husband. - -“Yes,” said Mr. Casaubon, with that peculiar pitch of voice which makes -the word half a negative. “I have been led farther than I had foreseen, -and various subjects for annotation have presented themselves which, -though I have no direct need of them, I could not pretermit. The task, -notwithstanding the assistance of my amanuensis, has been a somewhat -laborious one, but your society has happily prevented me from that too -continuous prosecution of thought beyond the hours of study which has -been the snare of my solitary life.” - -“I am very glad that my presence has made any difference to you,” said -Dorothea, who had a vivid memory of evenings in which she had supposed -that Mr. Casaubon’s mind had gone too deep during the day to be able to -get to the surface again. I fear there was a little temper in her -reply. “I hope when we get to Lowick, I shall be more useful to you, -and be able to enter a little more into what interests you.” - -“Doubtless, my dear,” said Mr. Casaubon, with a slight bow. “The notes -I have here made will want sifting, and you can, if you please, extract -them under my direction.” - -“And all your notes,” said Dorothea, whose heart had already burned -within her on this subject, so that now she could not help speaking -with her tongue. “All those rows of volumes—will you not now do what -you used to speak of?—will you not make up your mind what part of them -you will use, and begin to write the book which will make your vast -knowledge useful to the world? I will write to your dictation, or I -will copy and extract what you tell me: I can be of no other use.” -Dorothea, in a most unaccountable, darkly feminine manner, ended with a -slight sob and eyes full of tears. - -The excessive feeling manifested would alone have been highly -disturbing to Mr. Casaubon, but there were other reasons why Dorothea’s -words were among the most cutting and irritating to him that she could -have been impelled to use. She was as blind to his inward troubles as -he to hers: she had not yet learned those hidden conflicts in her -husband which claim our pity. She had not yet listened patiently to his -heartbeats, but only felt that her own was beating violently. In Mr. -Casaubon’s ear, Dorothea’s voice gave loud emphatic iteration to those -muffled suggestions of consciousness which it was possible to explain -as mere fancy, the illusion of exaggerated sensitiveness: always when -such suggestions are unmistakably repeated from without, they are -resisted as cruel and unjust. We are angered even by the full -acceptance of our humiliating confessions—how much more by hearing in -hard distinct syllables from the lips of a near observer, those -confused murmurs which we try to call morbid, and strive against as if -they were the oncoming of numbness! And this cruel outward accuser was -there in the shape of a wife—nay, of a young bride, who, instead of -observing his abundant pen-scratches and amplitude of paper with the -uncritical awe of an elegant-minded canary-bird, seemed to present -herself as a spy watching everything with a malign power of inference. -Here, towards this particular point of the compass, Mr. Casaubon had a -sensitiveness to match Dorothea’s, and an equal quickness to imagine -more than the fact. He had formerly observed with approbation her -capacity for worshipping the right object; he now foresaw with sudden -terror that this capacity might be replaced by presumption, this -worship by the most exasperating of all criticism,—that which sees -vaguely a great many fine ends, and has not the least notion what it -costs to reach them. - -For the first time since Dorothea had known him, Mr. Casaubon’s face -had a quick angry flush upon it. - -“My love,” he said, with irritation reined in by propriety, “you may -rely upon me for knowing the times and the seasons, adapted to the -different stages of a work which is not to be measured by the facile -conjectures of ignorant onlookers. It had been easy for me to gain a -temporary effect by a mirage of baseless opinion; but it is ever the -trial of the scrupulous explorer to be saluted with the impatient scorn -of chatterers who attempt only the smallest achievements, being indeed -equipped for no other. And it were well if all such could be admonished -to discriminate judgments of which the true subject-matter lies -entirely beyond their reach, from those of which the elements may be -compassed by a narrow and superficial survey.” - -This speech was delivered with an energy and readiness quite unusual -with Mr. Casaubon. It was not indeed entirely an improvisation, but had -taken shape in inward colloquy, and rushed out like the round grains -from a fruit when sudden heat cracks it. Dorothea was not only his -wife: she was a personification of that shallow world which surrounds -the appreciated or desponding author. - -Dorothea was indignant in her turn. Had she not been repressing -everything in herself except the desire to enter into some fellowship -with her husband’s chief interests? - -“My judgment _was_ a very superficial one—such as I am capable of -forming,” she answered, with a prompt resentment, that needed no -rehearsal. “You showed me the rows of notebooks—you have often spoken -of them—you have often said that they wanted digesting. But I never -heard you speak of the writing that is to be published. Those were very -simple facts, and my judgment went no farther. I only begged you to let -me be of some good to you.” - -Dorothea rose to leave the table and Mr. Casaubon made no reply, taking -up a letter which lay beside him as if to reperuse it. Both were -shocked at their mutual situation—that each should have betrayed anger -towards the other. If they had been at home, settled at Lowick in -ordinary life among their neighbors, the clash would have been less -embarrassing: but on a wedding journey, the express object of which is -to isolate two people on the ground that they are all the world to each -other, the sense of disagreement is, to say the least, confounding and -stultifying. To have changed your longitude extensively and placed -yourselves in a moral solitude in order to have small explosions, to -find conversation difficult and to hand a glass of water without -looking, can hardly be regarded as satisfactory fulfilment even to the -toughest minds. To Dorothea’s inexperienced sensitiveness, it seemed -like a catastrophe, changing all prospects; and to Mr. Casaubon it was -a new pain, he never having been on a wedding journey before, or found -himself in that close union which was more of a subjection than he had -been able to imagine, since this charming young bride not only obliged -him to much consideration on her behalf (which he had sedulously -given), but turned out to be capable of agitating him cruelly just -where he most needed soothing. Instead of getting a soft fence against -the cold, shadowy, unapplausive audience of his life, had he only given -it a more substantial presence? - -Neither of them felt it possible to speak again at present. To have -reversed a previous arrangement and declined to go out would have been -a show of persistent anger which Dorothea’s conscience shrank from, -seeing that she already began to feel herself guilty. However just her -indignation might be, her ideal was not to claim justice, but to give -tenderness. So when the carriage came to the door, she drove with Mr. -Casaubon to the Vatican, walked with him through the stony avenue of -inscriptions, and when she parted with him at the entrance to the -Library, went on through the Museum out of mere listlessness as to what -was around her. She had not spirit to turn round and say that she would -drive anywhere. It was when Mr. Casaubon was quitting her that Naumann -had first seen her, and he had entered the long gallery of sculpture at -the same time with her; but here Naumann had to await Ladislaw with -whom he was to settle a bet of champagne about an enigmatical -mediaeval-looking figure there. After they had examined the figure, and -had walked on finishing their dispute, they had parted, Ladislaw -lingering behind while Naumann had gone into the Hall of Statues where -he again saw Dorothea, and saw her in that brooding abstraction which -made her pose remarkable. She did not really see the streak of sunlight -on the floor more than she saw the statues: she was inwardly seeing the -light of years to come in her own home and over the English fields and -elms and hedge-bordered highroads; and feeling that the way in which -they might be filled with joyful devotedness was not so clear to her as -it had been. But in Dorothea’s mind there was a current into which all -thought and feeling were apt sooner or later to flow—the reaching -forward of the whole consciousness towards the fullest truth, the least -partial good. There was clearly something better than anger and -despondency. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -“Hire facounde eke full womanly and plain, -No contrefeted termes had she -To semen wise.” -—CHAUCER. - - -It was in that way Dorothea came to be sobbing as soon as she was -securely alone. But she was presently roused by a knock at the door, -which made her hastily dry her eyes before saying, “Come in.” Tantripp -had brought a card, and said that there was a gentleman waiting in the -lobby. The courier had told him that only Mrs. Casaubon was at home, -but he said he was a relation of Mr. Casaubon’s: would she see him? - -“Yes,” said Dorothea, without pause; “show him into the salon.” Her -chief impressions about young Ladislaw were that when she had seen him -at Lowick she had been made aware of Mr. Casaubon’s generosity towards -him, and also that she had been interested in his own hesitation about -his career. She was alive to anything that gave her an opportunity for -active sympathy, and at this moment it seemed as if the visit had come -to shake her out of her self-absorbed discontent—to remind her of her -husband’s goodness, and make her feel that she had now the right to be -his helpmate in all kind deeds. She waited a minute or two, but when -she passed into the next room there were just signs enough that she had -been crying to make her open face look more youthful and appealing than -usual. She met Ladislaw with that exquisite smile of good-will which is -unmixed with vanity, and held out her hand to him. He was the elder by -several years, but at that moment he looked much the younger, for his -transparent complexion flushed suddenly, and he spoke with a shyness -extremely unlike the ready indifference of his manner with his male -companion, while Dorothea became all the calmer with a wondering desire -to put him at ease. - -“I was not aware that you and Mr. Casaubon were in Rome, until this -morning, when I saw you in the Vatican Museum,” he said. “I knew you at -once—but—I mean, that I concluded Mr. Casaubon’s address would be found -at the Poste Restante, and I was anxious to pay my respects to him and -you as early as possible.” - -“Pray sit down. He is not here now, but he will be glad to hear of you, -I am sure,” said Dorothea, seating herself unthinkingly between the -fire and the light of the tall window, and pointing to a chair -opposite, with the quietude of a benignant matron. The signs of girlish -sorrow in her face were only the more striking. “Mr. Casaubon is much -engaged; but you will leave your address—will you not?—and he will -write to you.” - -“You are very good,” said Ladislaw, beginning to lose his diffidence in -the interest with which he was observing the signs of weeping which had -altered her face. “My address is on my card. But if you will allow me I -will call again to-morrow at an hour when Mr. Casaubon is likely to be -at home.” - -“He goes to read in the Library of the Vatican every day, and you can -hardly see him except by an appointment. Especially now. We are about -to leave Rome, and he is very busy. He is usually away almost from -breakfast till dinner. But I am sure he will wish you to dine with us.” - -Will Ladislaw was struck mute for a few moments. He had never been fond -of Mr. Casaubon, and if it had not been for the sense of obligation, -would have laughed at him as a Bat of erudition. But the idea of this -dried-up pedant, this elaborator of small explanations about as -important as the surplus stock of false antiquities kept in a vendor’s -back chamber, having first got this adorable young creature to marry -him, and then passing his honeymoon away from her, groping after his -mouldy futilities (Will was given to hyperbole)—this sudden picture -stirred him with a sort of comic disgust: he was divided between the -impulse to laugh aloud and the equally unseasonable impulse to burst -into scornful invective. - -For an instant he felt that the struggle was causing a queer contortion -of his mobile features, but with a good effort he resolved it into -nothing more offensive than a merry smile. - -Dorothea wondered; but the smile was irresistible, and shone back from -her face too. Will Ladislaw’s smile was delightful, unless you were -angry with him beforehand: it was a gush of inward light illuminating -the transparent skin as well as the eyes, and playing about every curve -and line as if some Ariel were touching them with a new charm, and -banishing forever the traces of moodiness. The reflection of that smile -could not but have a little merriment in it too, even under dark -eyelashes still moist, as Dorothea said inquiringly, “Something amuses -you?” - -“Yes,” said Will, quick in finding resources. “I am thinking of the -sort of figure I cut the first time I saw you, when you annihilated my -poor sketch with your criticism.” - -“My criticism?” said Dorothea, wondering still more. “Surely not. I -always feel particularly ignorant about painting.” - -“I suspected you of knowing so much, that you knew how to say just what -was most cutting. You said—I dare say you don’t remember it as I -do—that the relation of my sketch to nature was quite hidden from you. -At least, you implied that.” Will could laugh now as well as smile. - -“That was really my ignorance,” said Dorothea, admiring Will’s -good-humor. “I must have said so only because I never could see any -beauty in the pictures which my uncle told me all judges thought very -fine. And I have gone about with just the same ignorance in Rome. There -are comparatively few paintings that I can really enjoy. At first when -I enter a room where the walls are covered with frescos, or with rare -pictures, I feel a kind of awe—like a child present at great ceremonies -where there are grand robes and processions; I feel myself in the -presence of some higher life than my own. But when I begin to examine -the pictures one by one the life goes out of them, or else is something -violent and strange to me. It must be my own dulness. I am seeing so -much all at once, and not understanding half of it. That always makes -one feel stupid. It is painful to be told that anything is very fine -and not be able to feel that it is fine—something like being blind, -while people talk of the sky.” - -“Oh, there is a great deal in the feeling for art which must be -acquired,” said Will. (It was impossible now to doubt the directness of -Dorothea’s confession.) “Art is an old language with a great many -artificial affected styles, and sometimes the chief pleasure one gets -out of knowing them is the mere sense of knowing. I enjoy the art of -all sorts here immensely; but I suppose if I could pick my enjoyment to -pieces I should find it made up of many different threads. There is -something in daubing a little one’s self, and having an idea of the -process.” - -“You mean perhaps to be a painter?” said Dorothea, with a new direction -of interest. “You mean to make painting your profession? Mr. Casaubon -will like to hear that you have chosen a profession.” - -“No, oh no,” said Will, with some coldness. “I have quite made up my -mind against it. It is too one-sided a life. I have been seeing a great -deal of the German artists here: I travelled from Frankfort with one of -them. Some are fine, even brilliant fellows—but I should not like to -get into their way of looking at the world entirely from the studio -point of view.” - -“That I can understand,” said Dorothea, cordially. “And in Rome it -seems as if there were so many things which are more wanted in the -world than pictures. But if you have a genius for painting, would it -not be right to take that as a guide? Perhaps you might do better -things than these—or different, so that there might not be so many -pictures almost all alike in the same place.” - -There was no mistaking this simplicity, and Will was won by it into -frankness. “A man must have a very rare genius to make changes of that -sort. I am afraid mine would not carry me even to the pitch of doing -well what has been done already, at least not so well as to make it -worth while. And I should never succeed in anything by dint of -drudgery. If things don’t come easily to me I never get them.” - -“I have heard Mr. Casaubon say that he regrets your want of patience,” -said Dorothea, gently. She was rather shocked at this mode of taking -all life as a holiday. - -“Yes, I know Mr. Casaubon’s opinion. He and I differ.” - -The slight streak of contempt in this hasty reply offended Dorothea. -She was all the more susceptible about Mr. Casaubon because of her -morning’s trouble. - -“Certainly you differ,” she said, rather proudly. “I did not think of -comparing you: such power of persevering devoted labor as Mr. -Casaubon’s is not common.” - -Will saw that she was offended, but this only gave an additional -impulse to the new irritation of his latent dislike towards Mr. -Casaubon. It was too intolerable that Dorothea should be worshipping -this husband: such weakness in a woman is pleasant to no man but the -husband in question. Mortals are easily tempted to pinch the life out -of their neighbor’s buzzing glory, and think that such killing is no -murder. - -“No, indeed,” he answered, promptly. “And therefore it is a pity that -it should be thrown away, as so much English scholarship is, for want -of knowing what is being done by the rest of the world. If Mr. Casaubon -read German he would save himself a great deal of trouble.” - -“I do not understand you,” said Dorothea, startled and anxious. - -“I merely mean,” said Will, in an offhand way, “that the Germans have -taken the lead in historical inquiries, and they laugh at results which -are got by groping about in woods with a pocket-compass while they have -made good roads. When I was with Mr. Casaubon I saw that he deafened -himself in that direction: it was almost against his will that he read -a Latin treatise written by a German. I was very sorry.” - -Will only thought of giving a good pinch that would annihilate that -vaunted laboriousness, and was unable to imagine the mode in which -Dorothea would be wounded. Young Mr. Ladislaw was not at all deep -himself in German writers; but very little achievement is required in -order to pity another man’s shortcomings. - -Poor Dorothea felt a pang at the thought that the labor of her -husband’s life might be void, which left her no energy to spare for the -question whether this young relative who was so much obliged to him -ought not to have repressed his observation. She did not even speak, -but sat looking at her hands, absorbed in the piteousness of that -thought. - -Will, however, having given that annihilating pinch, was rather -ashamed, imagining from Dorothea’s silence that he had offended her -still more; and having also a conscience about plucking the -tail-feathers from a benefactor. - -“I regretted it especially,” he resumed, taking the usual course from -detraction to insincere eulogy, “because of my gratitude and respect -towards my cousin. It would not signify so much in a man whose talents -and character were less distinguished.” - -Dorothea raised her eyes, brighter than usual with excited feeling, and -said in her saddest recitative, “How I wish I had learned German when I -was at Lausanne! There were plenty of German teachers. But now I can be -of no use.” - -There was a new light, but still a mysterious light, for Will in -Dorothea’s last words. The question how she had come to accept Mr. -Casaubon—which he had dismissed when he first saw her by saying that -she must be disagreeable in spite of appearances—was not now to be -answered on any such short and easy method. Whatever else she might be, -she was not disagreeable. She was not coldly clever and indirectly -satirical, but adorably simple and full of feeling. She was an angel -beguiled. It would be a unique delight to wait and watch for the -melodious fragments in which her heart and soul came forth so directly -and ingenuously. The Aeolian harp again came into his mind. - -She must have made some original romance for herself in this marriage. -And if Mr. Casaubon had been a dragon who had carried her off to his -lair with his talons simply and without legal forms, it would have been -an unavoidable feat of heroism to release her and fall at her feet. But -he was something more unmanageable than a dragon: he was a benefactor -with collective society at his back, and he was at that moment entering -the room in all the unimpeachable correctness of his demeanor, while -Dorothea was looking animated with a newly roused alarm and regret, and -Will was looking animated with his admiring speculation about her -feelings. - -Mr. Casaubon felt a surprise which was quite unmixed with pleasure, but -he did not swerve from his usual politeness of greeting, when Will rose -and explained his presence. Mr. Casaubon was less happy than usual, and -this perhaps made him look all the dimmer and more faded; else, the -effect might easily have been produced by the contrast of his young -cousin’s appearance. The first impression on seeing Will was one of -sunny brightness, which added to the uncertainty of his changing -expression. Surely, his very features changed their form, his jaw -looked sometimes large and sometimes small; and the little ripple in -his nose was a preparation for metamorphosis. When he turned his head -quickly his hair seemed to shake out light, and some persons thought -they saw decided genius in this coruscation. Mr. Casaubon, on the -contrary, stood rayless. - -As Dorothea’s eyes were turned anxiously on her husband she was perhaps -not insensible to the contrast, but it was only mingled with other -causes in making her more conscious of that new alarm on his behalf -which was the first stirring of a pitying tenderness fed by the -realities of his lot and not by her own dreams. Yet it was a source of -greater freedom to her that Will was there; his young equality was -agreeable, and also perhaps his openness to conviction. She felt an -immense need of some one to speak to, and she had never before seen any -one who seemed so quick and pliable, so likely to understand -everything. - -Mr. Casaubon gravely hoped that Will was passing his time profitably as -well as pleasantly in Rome—had thought his intention was to remain in -South Germany—but begged him to come and dine to-morrow, when he could -converse more at large: at present he was somewhat weary. Ladislaw -understood, and accepting the invitation immediately took his leave. - -Dorothea’s eyes followed her husband anxiously, while he sank down -wearily at the end of a sofa, and resting his elbow supported his head -and looked on the floor. A little flushed, and with bright eyes, she -seated herself beside him, and said— - -“Forgive me for speaking so hastily to you this morning. I was wrong. I -fear I hurt you and made the day more burdensome.” - -“I am glad that you feel that, my dear,” said Mr. Casaubon. He spoke -quietly and bowed his head a little, but there was still an uneasy -feeling in his eyes as he looked at her. - -“But you do forgive me?” said Dorothea, with a quick sob. In her need -for some manifestation of feeling she was ready to exaggerate her own -fault. Would not love see returning penitence afar off, and fall on its -neck and kiss it? - -“My dear Dorothea—‘who with repentance is not satisfied, is not of -heaven nor earth:’—you do not think me worthy to be banished by that -severe sentence,” said Mr. Casaubon, exerting himself to make a strong -statement, and also to smile faintly. - -Dorothea was silent, but a tear which had come up with the sob would -insist on falling. - -“You are excited, my dear. And I also am feeling some unpleasant -consequences of too much mental disturbance,” said Mr. Casaubon. In -fact, he had it in his thought to tell her that she ought not to have -received young Ladislaw in his absence: but he abstained, partly from -the sense that it would be ungracious to bring a new complaint in the -moment of her penitent acknowledgment, partly because he wanted to -avoid further agitation of himself by speech, and partly because he was -too proud to betray that jealousy of disposition which was not so -exhausted on his scholarly compeers that there was none to spare in -other directions. There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little -fire: it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, damp -despondency of uneasy egoism. - -“I think it is time for us to dress,” he added, looking at his watch. -They both rose, and there was never any further allusion between them -to what had passed on this day. - -But Dorothea remembered it to the last with the vividness with which we -all remember epochs in our experience when some dear expectation dies, -or some new motive is born. Today she had begun to see that she had -been under a wild illusion in expecting a response to her feeling from -Mr. Casaubon, and she had felt the waking of a presentiment that there -might be a sad consciousness in his life which made as great a need on -his side as on her own. - -We are all of us born in moral stupidity, taking the world as an udder -to feed our supreme selves: Dorothea had early begun to emerge from -that stupidity, but yet it had been easier to her to imagine how she -would devote herself to Mr. Casaubon, and become wise and strong in his -strength and wisdom, than to conceive with that distinctness which is -no longer reflection but feeling—an idea wrought back to the directness -of sense, like the solidity of objects—that he had an equivalent centre -of self, whence the lights and shadows must always fall with a certain -difference. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -“Nous câusames longtemps; elle était simple et bonne. -Ne sachant pas le mal, elle faisait le bien; -Des richesses du coeur elle me fit l’aumône, -Et tout en écoutant comme le coeur se donne, -Sans oser y penser je lui donnai le mien; -Elle emporta ma vie, et n’en sut jamais rien.” -—ALFRED DE MUSSET. - - -Will Ladislaw was delightfully agreeable at dinner the next day, and -gave no opportunity for Mr. Casaubon to show disapprobation. On the -contrary it seemed to Dorothea that Will had a happier way of drawing -her husband into conversation and of deferentially listening to him -than she had ever observed in any one before. To be sure, the listeners -about Tipton were not highly gifted! Will talked a good deal himself, -but what he said was thrown in with such rapidity, and with such an -unimportant air of saying something by the way, that it seemed a gay -little chime after the great bell. If Will was not always perfect, this -was certainly one of his good days. He described touches of incident -among the poor people in Rome, only to be seen by one who could move -about freely; he found himself in agreement with Mr. Casaubon as to the -unsound opinions of Middleton concerning the relations of Judaism and -Catholicism; and passed easily to a half-enthusiastic half-playful -picture of the enjoyment he got out of the very miscellaneousness of -Rome, which made the mind flexible with constant comparison, and saved -you from seeing the world’s ages as a set of box-like partitions -without vital connection. Mr. Casaubon’s studies, Will observed, had -always been of too broad a kind for that, and he had perhaps never felt -any such sudden effect, but for himself he confessed that Rome had -given him quite a new sense of history as a whole: the fragments -stimulated his imagination and made him constructive. Then -occasionally, but not too often, he appealed to Dorothea, and discussed -what she said, as if her sentiment were an item to be considered in the -final judgment even of the Madonna di Foligno or the Laocoon. A sense -of contributing to form the world’s opinion makes conversation -particularly cheerful; and Mr. Casaubon too was not without his pride -in his young wife, who spoke better than most women, as indeed he had -perceived in choosing her. - -Since things were going on so pleasantly, Mr. Casaubon’s statement that -his labors in the Library would be suspended for a couple of days, and -that after a brief renewal he should have no further reason for staying -in Rome, encouraged Will to urge that Mrs. Casaubon should not go away -without seeing a studio or two. Would not Mr. Casaubon take her? That -sort of thing ought not to be missed: it was quite special: it was a -form of life that grew like a small fresh vegetation with its -population of insects on huge fossils. Will would be happy to conduct -them—not to anything wearisome, only to a few examples. - -Mr. Casaubon, seeing Dorothea look earnestly towards him, could not but -ask her if she would be interested in such visits: he was now at her -service during the whole day; and it was agreed that Will should come -on the morrow and drive with them. - -Will could not omit Thorwaldsen, a living celebrity about whom even Mr. -Casaubon inquired, but before the day was far advanced he led the way -to the studio of his friend Adolf Naumann, whom he mentioned as one of -the chief renovators of Christian art, one of those who had not only -revived but expanded that grand conception of supreme events as -mysteries at which the successive ages were spectators, and in relation -to which the great souls of all periods became as it were -contemporaries. Will added that he had made himself Naumann’s pupil for -the nonce. - -“I have been making some oil-sketches under him,” said Will. “I hate -copying. I must put something of my own in. Naumann has been painting -the Saints drawing the Car of the Church, and I have been making a -sketch of Marlowe’s Tamburlaine Driving the Conquered Kings in his -Chariot. I am not so ecclesiastical as Naumann, and I sometimes twit -him with his excess of meaning. But this time I mean to outdo him in -breadth of intention. I take Tamburlaine in his chariot for the -tremendous course of the world’s physical history lashing on the -harnessed dynasties. In my opinion, that is a good mythical -interpretation.” Will here looked at Mr. Casaubon, who received this -offhand treatment of symbolism very uneasily, and bowed with a neutral -air. - -“The sketch must be very grand, if it conveys so much,” said Dorothea. -“I should need some explanation even of the meaning you give. Do you -intend Tamburlaine to represent earthquakes and volcanoes?” - -“Oh yes,” said Will, laughing, “and migrations of races and clearings -of forests—and America and the steam-engine. Everything you can -imagine!” - -“What a difficult kind of shorthand!” said Dorothea, smiling towards -her husband. “It would require all your knowledge to be able to read -it.” - -Mr. Casaubon blinked furtively at Will. He had a suspicion that he was -being laughed at. But it was not possible to include Dorothea in the -suspicion. - -They found Naumann painting industriously, but no model was present; -his pictures were advantageously arranged, and his own plain vivacious -person set off by a dove-colored blouse and a maroon velvet cap, so -that everything was as fortunate as if he had expected the beautiful -young English lady exactly at that time. - -The painter in his confident English gave little dissertations on his -finished and unfinished subjects, seeming to observe Mr. Casaubon as -much as he did Dorothea. Will burst in here and there with ardent words -of praise, marking out particular merits in his friend’s work; and -Dorothea felt that she was getting quite new notions as to the -significance of Madonnas seated under inexplicable canopied thrones -with the simple country as a background, and of saints with -architectural models in their hands, or knives accidentally wedged in -their skulls. Some things which had seemed monstrous to her were -gathering intelligibility and even a natural meaning: but all this was -apparently a branch of knowledge in which Mr. Casaubon had not -interested himself. - -“I think I would rather feel that painting is beautiful than have to -read it as an enigma; but I should learn to understand these pictures -sooner than yours with the very wide meaning,” said Dorothea, speaking -to Will. - -“Don’t speak of my painting before Naumann,” said Will. “He will tell -you, it is all _pfuscherei_, which is his most opprobrious word!” - -“Is that true?” said Dorothea, turning her sincere eyes on Naumann, who -made a slight grimace and said— - -“Oh, he does not mean it seriously with painting. His walk must be -_belles-lettres_. That is wi-ide.” - -Naumann’s pronunciation of the vowel seemed to stretch the word -satirically. Will did not half like it, but managed to laugh: and Mr. -Casaubon, while he felt some disgust at the artist’s German accent, -began to entertain a little respect for his judicious severity. - -The respect was not diminished when Naumann, after drawing Will aside -for a moment and looking, first at a large canvas, then at Mr. -Casaubon, came forward again and said— - -“My friend Ladislaw thinks you will pardon me, sir, if I say that a -sketch of your head would be invaluable to me for the St. Thomas -Aquinas in my picture there. It is too much to ask; but I so seldom see -just what I want—the idealistic in the real.” - -“You astonish me greatly, sir,” said Mr. Casaubon, his looks improved -with a glow of delight; “but if my poor physiognomy, which I have been -accustomed to regard as of the commonest order, can be of any use to -you in furnishing some traits for the angelical doctor, I shall feel -honored. That is to say, if the operation will not be a lengthy one; -and if Mrs. Casaubon will not object to the delay.” - -As for Dorothea, nothing could have pleased her more, unless it had -been a miraculous voice pronouncing Mr. Casaubon the wisest and -worthiest among the sons of men. In that case her tottering faith would -have become firm again. - -Naumann’s apparatus was at hand in wonderful completeness, and the -sketch went on at once as well as the conversation. Dorothea sat down -and subsided into calm silence, feeling happier than she had done for a -long while before. Every one about her seemed good, and she said to -herself that Rome, if she had only been less ignorant, would have been -full of beauty: its sadness would have been winged with hope. No nature -could be less suspicious than hers: when she was a child she believed -in the gratitude of wasps and the honorable susceptibility of sparrows, -and was proportionately indignant when their baseness was made -manifest. - -The adroit artist was asking Mr. Casaubon questions about English -polities, which brought long answers, and, Will meanwhile had perched -himself on some steps in the background overlooking all. - -Presently Naumann said—“Now if I could lay this by for half an hour and -take it up again—come and look, Ladislaw—I think it is perfect so far.” - -Will vented those adjuring interjections which imply that admiration is -too strong for syntax; and Naumann said in a tone of piteous regret— - -“Ah—now—if I could but have had more—but you have other engagements—I -could not ask it—or even to come again to-morrow.” - -“Oh, let us stay!” said Dorothea. “We have nothing to do to-day except -go about, have we?” she added, looking entreatingly at Mr. Casaubon. -“It would be a pity not to make the head as good as possible.” - -“I am at your service, sir, in the matter,” said Mr. Casaubon, with -polite condescension. “Having given up the interior of my head to -idleness, it is as well that the exterior should work in this way.” - -“You are unspeakably good—now I am happy!” said Naumann, and then went -on in German to Will, pointing here and there to the sketch as if he -were considering that. Putting it aside for a moment, he looked round -vaguely, as if seeking some occupation for his visitors, and afterwards -turning to Mr. Casaubon, said— - -“Perhaps the beautiful bride, the gracious lady, would not be unwilling -to let me fill up the time by trying to make a slight sketch of -her—not, of course, as you see, for that picture—only as a single -study.” - -Mr. Casaubon, bowing, doubted not that Mrs. Casaubon would oblige him, -and Dorothea said, at once, “Where shall I put myself?” - -Naumann was all apologies in asking her to stand, and allow him to -adjust her attitude, to which she submitted without any of the affected -airs and laughs frequently thought necessary on such occasions, when -the painter said, “It is as Santa Clara that I want you to -stand—leaning so, with your cheek against your hand—so—looking at that -stool, please, so!” - -Will was divided between the inclination to fall at the Saint’s feet -and kiss her robe, and the temptation to knock Naumann down while he -was adjusting her arm. All this was impudence and desecration, and he -repented that he had brought her. - -The artist was diligent, and Will recovering himself moved about and -occupied Mr. Casaubon as ingeniously as he could; but he did not in the -end prevent the time from seeming long to that gentleman, as was clear -from his expressing a fear that Mrs. Casaubon would be tired. Naumann -took the hint and said— - -“Now, sir, if you can oblige me again; I will release the lady-wife.” - -So Mr. Casaubon’s patience held out further, and when after all it -turned out that the head of Saint Thomas Aquinas would be more perfect -if another sitting could be had, it was granted for the morrow. On the -morrow Santa Clara too was retouched more than once. The result of all -was so far from displeasing to Mr. Casaubon, that he arranged for the -purchase of the picture in which Saint Thomas Aquinas sat among the -doctors of the Church in a disputation too abstract to be represented, -but listened to with more or less attention by an audience above. The -Santa Clara, which was spoken of in the second place, Naumann declared -himself to be dissatisfied with—he could not, in conscience, engage to -make a worthy picture of it; so about the Santa Clara the arrangement -was conditional. - -I will not dwell on Naumann’s jokes at the expense of Mr. Casaubon that -evening, or on his dithyrambs about Dorothea’s charm, in all which Will -joined, but with a difference. No sooner did Naumann mention any detail -of Dorothea’s beauty, than Will got exasperated at his presumption: -there was grossness in his choice of the most ordinary words, and what -business had he to talk of her lips? She was not a woman to be spoken -of as other women were. Will could not say just what he thought, but he -became irritable. And yet, when after some resistance he had consented -to take the Casaubons to his friend’s studio, he had been allured by -the gratification of his pride in being the person who could grant -Naumann such an opportunity of studying her loveliness—or rather her -divineness, for the ordinary phrases which might apply to mere bodily -prettiness were not applicable to her. (Certainly all Tipton and its -neighborhood, as well as Dorothea herself, would have been surprised at -her beauty being made so much of. In that part of the world Miss Brooke -had been only a “fine young woman.”) - -“Oblige me by letting the subject drop, Naumann. Mrs. Casaubon is not -to be talked of as if she were a model,” said Will. Naumann stared at -him. - -“Schön! I will talk of my Aquinas. The head is not a bad type, after -all. I dare say the great scholastic himself would have been flattered -to have his portrait asked for. Nothing like these starchy doctors for -vanity! It was as I thought: he cared much less for her portrait than -his own.” - -“He’s a cursed white-blooded pedantic coxcomb,” said Will, with -gnashing impetuosity. His obligations to Mr. Casaubon were not known to -his hearer, but Will himself was thinking of them, and wishing that he -could discharge them all by a check. - -Naumann gave a shrug and said, “It is good they go away soon, my dear. -They are spoiling your fine temper.” - -All Will’s hope and contrivance were now concentrated on seeing -Dorothea when she was alone. He only wanted her to take more emphatic -notice of him; he only wanted to be something more special in her -remembrance than he could yet believe himself likely to be. He was -rather impatient under that open ardent good-will, which he saw was her -usual state of feeling. The remote worship of a woman throned out of -their reach plays a great part in men’s lives, but in most cases the -worshipper longs for some queenly recognition, some approving sign by -which his soul’s sovereign may cheer him without descending from her -high place. That was precisely what Will wanted. But there were plenty -of contradictions in his imaginative demands. It was beautiful to see -how Dorothea’s eyes turned with wifely anxiety and beseeching to Mr. -Casaubon: she would have lost some of her halo if she had been without -that duteous preoccupation; and yet at the next moment the husband’s -sandy absorption of such nectar was too intolerable; and Will’s longing -to say damaging things about him was perhaps not the less tormenting -because he felt the strongest reasons for restraining it. - -Will had not been invited to dine the next day. Hence he persuaded -himself that he was bound to call, and that the only eligible time was -the middle of the day, when Mr. Casaubon would not be at home. - -Dorothea, who had not been made aware that her former reception of Will -had displeased her husband, had no hesitation about seeing him, -especially as he might be come to pay a farewell visit. When he entered -she was looking at some cameos which she had been buying for Celia. She -greeted Will as if his visit were quite a matter of course, and said at -once, having a cameo bracelet in her hand— - -“I am so glad you are come. Perhaps you understand all about cameos, -and can tell me if these are really good. I wished to have you with us -in choosing them, but Mr. Casaubon objected: he thought there was not -time. He will finish his work to-morrow, and we shall go away in three -days. I have been uneasy about these cameos. Pray sit down and look at -them.” - -“I am not particularly knowing, but there can be no great mistake about -these little Homeric bits: they are exquisitely neat. And the color is -fine: it will just suit you.” - -“Oh, they are for my sister, who has quite a different complexion. You -saw her with me at Lowick: she is light-haired and very pretty—at least -I think so. We were never so long away from each other in our lives -before. She is a great pet and never was naughty in her life. I found -out before I came away that she wanted me to buy her some cameos, and I -should be sorry for them not to be good—after their kind.” Dorothea -added the last words with a smile. - -“You seem not to care about cameos,” said Will, seating himself at some -distance from her, and observing her while she closed the cases. - -“No, frankly, I don’t think them a great object in life,” said -Dorothea. - -“I fear you are a heretic about art generally. How is that? I should -have expected you to be very sensitive to the beautiful everywhere.” - -“I suppose I am dull about many things,” said Dorothea, simply. “I -should like to make life beautiful—I mean everybody’s life. And then -all this immense expense of art, that seems somehow to lie outside life -and make it no better for the world, pains one. It spoils my enjoyment -of anything when I am made to think that most people are shut out from -it.” - -“I call that the fanaticism of sympathy,” said Will, impetuously. “You -might say the same of landscape, of poetry, of all refinement. If you -carried it out you ought to be miserable in your own goodness, and turn -evil that you might have no advantage over others. The best piety is to -enjoy—when you can. You are doing the most then to save the earth’s -character as an agreeable planet. And enjoyment radiates. It is of no -use to try and take care of all the world; that is being taken care of -when you feel delight—in art or in anything else. Would you turn all -the youth of the world into a tragic chorus, wailing and moralizing -over misery? I suspect that you have some false belief in the virtues -of misery, and want to make your life a martyrdom.” Will had gone -further than he intended, and checked himself. But Dorothea’s thought -was not taking just the same direction as his own, and she answered -without any special emotion— - -“Indeed you mistake me. I am not a sad, melancholy creature. I am never -unhappy long together. I am angry and naughty—not like Celia: I have a -great outburst, and then all seems glorious again. I cannot help -believing in glorious things in a blind sort of way. I should be quite -willing to enjoy the art here, but there is so much that I don’t know -the reason of—so much that seems to me a consecration of ugliness -rather than beauty. The painting and sculpture may be wonderful, but -the feeling is often low and brutal, and sometimes even ridiculous. -Here and there I see what takes me at once as noble—something that I -might compare with the Alban Mountains or the sunset from the Pincian -Hill; but that makes it the greater pity that there is so little of the -best kind among all that mass of things over which men have toiled so.” - -“Of course there is always a great deal of poor work: the rarer things -want that soil to grow in.” - -“Oh dear,” said Dorothea, taking up that thought into the chief current -of her anxiety; “I see it must be very difficult to do anything good. I -have often felt since I have been in Rome that most of our lives would -look much uglier and more bungling than the pictures, if they could be -put on the wall.” - -Dorothea parted her lips again as if she were going to say more, but -changed her mind and paused. - -“You are too young—it is an anachronism for you to have such thoughts,” -said Will, energetically, with a quick shake of the head habitual to -him. “You talk as if you had never known any youth. It is monstrous—as -if you had had a vision of Hades in your childhood, like the boy in the -legend. You have been brought up in some of those horrible notions that -choose the sweetest women to devour—like Minotaurs. And now you will go -and be shut up in that stone prison at Lowick: you will be buried -alive. It makes me savage to think of it! I would rather never have -seen you than think of you with such a prospect.” - -Will again feared that he had gone too far; but the meaning we attach -to words depends on our feeling, and his tone of angry regret had so -much kindness in it for Dorothea’s heart, which had always been giving -out ardor and had never been fed with much from the living beings -around her, that she felt a new sense of gratitude and answered with a -gentle smile— - -“It is very good of you to be anxious about me. It is because you did -not like Lowick yourself: you had set your heart on another kind of -life. But Lowick is my chosen home.” - -The last sentence was spoken with an almost solemn cadence, and Will -did not know what to say, since it would not be useful for him to -embrace her slippers, and tell her that he would die for her: it was -clear that she required nothing of the sort; and they were both silent -for a moment or two, when Dorothea began again with an air of saying at -last what had been in her mind beforehand. - -“I wanted to ask you again about something you said the other day. -Perhaps it was half of it your lively way of speaking: I notice that -you like to put things strongly; I myself often exaggerate when I speak -hastily.” - -“What was it?” said Will, observing that she spoke with a timidity -quite new in her. “I have a hyperbolical tongue: it catches fire as it -goes. I dare say I shall have to retract.” - -“I mean what you said about the necessity of knowing German—I mean, for -the subjects that Mr. Casaubon is engaged in. I have been thinking -about it; and it seems to me that with Mr. Casaubon’s learning he must -have before him the same materials as German scholars—has he not?” -Dorothea’s timidity was due to an indistinct consciousness that she was -in the strange situation of consulting a third person about the -adequacy of Mr. Casaubon’s learning. - -“Not exactly the same materials,” said Will, thinking that he would be -duly reserved. “He is not an Orientalist, you know. He does not profess -to have more than second-hand knowledge there.” - -“But there are very valuable books about antiquities which were written -a long while ago by scholars who knew nothing about these modern -things; and they are still used. Why should Mr. Casaubon’s not be -valuable, like theirs?” said Dorothea, with more remonstrant energy. -She was impelled to have the argument aloud, which she had been having -in her own mind. - -“That depends on the line of study taken,” said Will, also getting a -tone of rejoinder. “The subject Mr. Casaubon has chosen is as changing -as chemistry: new discoveries are constantly making new points of view. -Who wants a system on the basis of the four elements, or a book to -refute Paracelsus? Do you not see that it is no use now to be crawling -a little way after men of the last century—men like Bryant—and -correcting their mistakes?—living in a lumber-room and furbishing up -broken-legged theories about Chus and Mizraim?” - -“How can you bear to speak so lightly?” said Dorothea, with a look -between sorrow and anger. “If it were as you say, what could be sadder -than so much ardent labor all in vain? I wonder it does not affect you -more painfully, if you really think that a man like Mr. Casaubon, of so -much goodness, power, and learning, should in any way fail in what has -been the labor of his best years.” She was beginning to be shocked that -she had got to such a point of supposition, and indignant with Will for -having led her to it. - -“You questioned me about the matter of fact, not of feeling,” said -Will. “But if you wish to punish me for the fact, I submit. I am not in -a position to express my feeling toward Mr. Casaubon: it would be at -best a pensioner’s eulogy.” - -“Pray excuse me,” said Dorothea, coloring deeply. “I am aware, as you -say, that I am in fault in having introduced the subject. Indeed, I am -wrong altogether. Failure after long perseverance is much grander than -never to have a striving good enough to be called a failure.” - -“I quite agree with you,” said Will, determined to change the -situation—“so much so that I have made up my mind not to run that risk -of never attaining a failure. Mr. Casaubon’s generosity has perhaps -been dangerous to me, and I mean to renounce the liberty it has given -me. I mean to go back to England shortly and work my own way—depend on -nobody else than myself.” - -“That is fine—I respect that feeling,” said Dorothea, with returning -kindness. “But Mr. Casaubon, I am sure, has never thought of anything -in the matter except what was most for your welfare.” - -“She has obstinacy and pride enough to serve instead of love, now she -has married him,” said Will to himself. Aloud he said, rising— - -“I shall not see you again.” - -“Oh, stay till Mr. Casaubon comes,” said Dorothea, earnestly. “I am so -glad we met in Rome. I wanted to know you.” - -“And I have made you angry,” said Will. “I have made you think ill of -me.” - -“Oh no. My sister tells me I am always angry with people who do not say -just what I like. But I hope I am not given to think ill of them. In -the end I am usually obliged to think ill of myself for being so -impatient.” - -“Still, you don’t like me; I have made myself an unpleasant thought to -you.” - -“Not at all,” said Dorothea, with the most open kindness. “I like you -very much.” - -Will was not quite contented, thinking that he would apparently have -been of more importance if he had been disliked. He said nothing, but -looked dull, not to say sulky. - -“And I am quite interested to see what you will do,” Dorothea went on -cheerfully. “I believe devoutly in a natural difference of vocation. If -it were not for that belief, I suppose I should be very narrow—there -are so many things, besides painting, that I am quite ignorant of. You -would hardly believe how little I have taken in of music and -literature, which you know so much of. I wonder what your vocation will -turn out to be: perhaps you will be a poet?” - -“That depends. To be a poet is to have a soul so quick to discern that -no shade of quality escapes it, and so quick to feel, that discernment -is but a hand playing with finely ordered variety on the chords of -emotion—a soul in which knowledge passes instantaneously into feeling, -and feeling flashes back as a new organ of knowledge. One may have that -condition by fits only.” - -“But you leave out the poems,” said Dorothea. “I think they are wanted -to complete the poet. I understand what you mean about knowledge -passing into feeling, for that seems to be just what I experience. But -I am sure I could never produce a poem.” - -“You _are_ a poem—and that is to be the best part of a poet—what makes -up the poet’s consciousness in his best moods,” said Will, showing such -originality as we all share with the morning and the spring-time and -other endless renewals. - -“I am very glad to hear it,” said Dorothea, laughing out her words in a -bird-like modulation, and looking at Will with playful gratitude in her -eyes. “What very kind things you say to me!” - -“I wish I could ever do anything that would be what you call kind—that -I could ever be of the slightest service to you. I fear I shall never -have the opportunity.” Will spoke with fervor. - -“Oh yes,” said Dorothea, cordially. “It will come; and I shall remember -how well you wish me. I quite hoped that we should be friends when I -first saw you—because of your relationship to Mr. Casaubon.” There was -a certain liquid brightness in her eyes, and Will was conscious that -his own were obeying a law of nature and filling too. The allusion to -Mr. Casaubon would have spoiled all if anything at that moment could -have spoiled the subduing power, the sweet dignity, of her noble -unsuspicious inexperience. - -“And there is one thing even now that you can do,” said Dorothea, -rising and walking a little way under the strength of a recurring -impulse. “Promise me that you will not again, to any one, speak of that -subject—I mean about Mr. Casaubon’s writings—I mean in that kind of -way. It was I who led to it. It was my fault. But promise me.” - -She had returned from her brief pacing and stood opposite Will, looking -gravely at him. - -“Certainly, I will promise you,” said Will, reddening however. If he -never said a cutting word about Mr. Casaubon again and left off -receiving favors from him, it would clearly be permissible to hate him -the more. The poet must know how to hate, says Goethe; and Will was at -least ready with that accomplishment. He said that he must go now -without waiting for Mr. Casaubon, whom he would come to take leave of -at the last moment. Dorothea gave him her hand, and they exchanged a -simple “Good-by.” - -But going out of the _porte cochere_ he met Mr. Casaubon, and that -gentleman, expressing the best wishes for his cousin, politely waived -the pleasure of any further leave-taking on the morrow, which would be -sufficiently crowded with the preparations for departure. - -“I have something to tell you about our cousin Mr. Ladislaw, which I -think will heighten your opinion of him,” said Dorothea to her husband -in the course of the evening. She had mentioned immediately on his -entering that Will had just gone away, and would come again, but Mr. -Casaubon had said, “I met him outside, and we made our final adieux, I -believe,” saying this with the air and tone by which we imply that any -subject, whether private or public, does not interest us enough to wish -for a further remark upon it. So Dorothea had waited. - -“What is that, my love?” said Mr Casaubon (he always said “my love” -when his manner was the coldest). - -“He has made up his mind to leave off wandering at once, and to give up -his dependence on your generosity. He means soon to go back to England, -and work his own way. I thought you would consider that a good sign,” -said Dorothea, with an appealing look into her husband’s neutral face. - -“Did he mention the precise order of occupation to which he would -addict himself?” - -“No. But he said that he felt the danger which lay for him in your -generosity. Of course he will write to you about it. Do you not think -better of him for his resolve?” - -“I shall await his communication on the subject,” said Mr. Casaubon. - -“I told him I was sure that the thing you considered in all you did for -him was his own welfare. I remembered your goodness in what you said -about him when I first saw him at Lowick,” said Dorothea, putting her -hand on her husband’s. - -“I had a duty towards him,” said Mr. Casaubon, laying his other hand on -Dorothea’s in conscientious acceptance of her caress, but with a glance -which he could not hinder from being uneasy. “The young man, I confess, -is not otherwise an object of interest to me, nor need we, I think, -discuss his future course, which it is not ours to determine beyond the -limits which I have sufficiently indicated.” Dorothea did not mention -Will again. - - - - -BOOK III. -WAITING FOR DEATH. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -“Your horses of the Sun,” he said, - “And first-rate whip Apollo! -Whate’er they be, I’ll eat my head, - But I will beat them hollow.” - - -Fred Vincy, we have seen, had a debt on his mind, and though no such -immaterial burthen could depress that buoyant-hearted young gentleman -for many hours together, there were circumstances connected with this -debt which made the thought of it unusually importunate. The creditor -was Mr. Bambridge, a horse-dealer of the neighborhood, whose company -was much sought in Middlemarch by young men understood to be “addicted -to pleasure.” During the vacations Fred had naturally required more -amusements than he had ready money for, and Mr. Bambridge had been -accommodating enough not only to trust him for the hire of horses and -the accidental expense of ruining a fine hunter, but also to make a -small advance by which he might be able to meet some losses at -billiards. The total debt was a hundred and sixty pounds. Bambridge was -in no alarm about his money, being sure that young Vincy had backers; -but he had required something to show for it, and Fred had at first -given a bill with his own signature. Three months later he had renewed -this bill with the signature of Caleb Garth. On both occasions Fred had -felt confident that he should meet the bill himself, having ample funds -at disposal in his own hopefulness. You will hardly demand that his -confidence should have a basis in external facts; such confidence, we -know, is something less coarse and materialistic: it is a comfortable -disposition leading us to expect that the wisdom of providence or the -folly of our friends, the mysteries of luck or the still greater -mystery of our high individual value in the universe, will bring about -agreeable issues, such as are consistent with our good taste in -costume, and our general preference for the best style of thing. Fred -felt sure that he should have a present from his uncle, that he should -have a run of luck, that by dint of “swapping” he should gradually -metamorphose a horse worth forty pounds into a horse that would fetch a -hundred at any moment—“judgment” being always equivalent to an -unspecified sum in hard cash. And in any case, even supposing negations -which only a morbid distrust could imagine, Fred had always (at that -time) his father’s pocket as a last resource, so that his assets of -hopefulness had a sort of gorgeous superfluity about them. Of what -might be the capacity of his father’s pocket, Fred had only a vague -notion: was not trade elastic? And would not the deficiencies of one -year be made up for by the surplus of another? The Vincys lived in an -easy profuse way, not with any new ostentation, but according to the -family habits and traditions, so that the children had no standard of -economy, and the elder ones retained some of their infantine notion -that their father might pay for anything if he would. Mr. Vincy himself -had expensive Middlemarch habits—spent money on coursing, on his -cellar, and on dinner-giving, while mamma had those running accounts -with tradespeople, which give a cheerful sense of getting everything -one wants without any question of payment. But it was in the nature of -fathers, Fred knew, to bully one about expenses: there was always a -little storm over his extravagance if he had to disclose a debt, and -Fred disliked bad weather within doors. He was too filial to be -disrespectful to his father, and he bore the thunder with the certainty -that it was transient; but in the mean time it was disagreeable to see -his mother cry, and also to be obliged to look sulky instead of having -fun; for Fred was so good-tempered that if he looked glum under -scolding, it was chiefly for propriety’s sake. The easier course -plainly, was to renew the bill with a friend’s signature. Why not? With -the superfluous securities of hope at his command, there was no reason -why he should not have increased other people’s liabilities to any -extent, but for the fact that men whose names were good for anything -were usually pessimists, indisposed to believe that the universal order -of things would necessarily be agreeable to an agreeable young -gentleman. - -With a favor to ask we review our list of friends, do justice to their -more amiable qualities, forgive their little offenses, and concerning -each in turn, try to arrive at the conclusion that he will be eager to -oblige us, our own eagerness to be obliged being as communicable as -other warmth. Still there is always a certain number who are dismissed -as but moderately eager until the others have refused; and it happened -that Fred checked off all his friends but one, on the ground that -applying to them would be disagreeable; being implicitly convinced that -he at least (whatever might be maintained about mankind generally) had -a right to be free from anything disagreeable. That he should ever fall -into a thoroughly unpleasant position—wear trousers shrunk with -washing, eat cold mutton, have to walk for want of a horse, or to “duck -under” in any sort of way—was an absurdity irreconcilable with those -cheerful intuitions implanted in him by nature. And Fred winced under -the idea of being looked down upon as wanting funds for small debts. -Thus it came to pass that the friend whom he chose to apply to was at -once the poorest and the kindest—namely, Caleb Garth. - -The Garths were very fond of Fred, as he was of them; for when he and -Rosamond were little ones, and the Garths were better off, the slight -connection between the two families through Mr. Featherstone’s double -marriage (the first to Mr. Garth’s sister, and the second to Mrs. -Vincy’s) had led to an acquaintance which was carried on between the -children rather than the parents: the children drank tea together out -of their toy teacups, and spent whole days together in play. Mary was a -little hoyden, and Fred at six years old thought her the nicest girl in -the world, making her his wife with a brass ring which he had cut from -an umbrella. Through all the stages of his education he had kept his -affection for the Garths, and his habit of going to their house as a -second home, though any intercourse between them and the elders of his -family had long ceased. Even when Caleb Garth was prosperous, the -Vincys were on condescending terms with him and his wife, for there -were nice distinctions of rank in Middlemarch; and though old -manufacturers could not any more than dukes be connected with none but -equals, they were conscious of an inherent social superiority which was -defined with great nicety in practice, though hardly expressible -theoretically. Since then Mr. Garth had failed in the building -business, which he had unfortunately added to his other avocations of -surveyor, valuer, and agent, had conducted that business for a time -entirely for the benefit of his assignees, and had been living -narrowly, exerting himself to the utmost that he might after all pay -twenty shillings in the pound. He had now achieved this, and from all -who did not think it a bad precedent, his honorable exertions had won -him due esteem; but in no part of the world is genteel visiting founded -on esteem, in the absence of suitable furniture and complete -dinner-service. Mrs. Vincy had never been at her ease with Mrs. Garth, -and frequently spoke of her as a woman who had had to work for her -bread—meaning that Mrs. Garth had been a teacher before her marriage; -in which case an intimacy with Lindley Murray and Mangnall’s Questions -was something like a draper’s discrimination of calico trademarks, or a -courier’s acquaintance with foreign countries: no woman who was better -off needed that sort of thing. And since Mary had been keeping Mr. -Featherstone’s house, Mrs. Vincy’s want of liking for the Garths had -been converted into something more positive, by alarm lest Fred should -engage himself to this plain girl, whose parents “lived in such a small -way.” Fred, being aware of this, never spoke at home of his visits to -Mrs. Garth, which had of late become more frequent, the increasing -ardor of his affection for Mary inclining him the more towards those -who belonged to her. - -Mr. Garth had a small office in the town, and to this Fred went with -his request. He obtained it without much difficulty, for a large amount -of painful experience had not sufficed to make Caleb Garth cautious -about his own affairs, or distrustful of his fellow-men when they had -not proved themselves untrustworthy; and he had the highest opinion of -Fred, was “sure the lad would turn out well—an open affectionate -fellow, with a good bottom to his character—you might trust him for -anything.” Such was Caleb’s psychological argument. He was one of those -rare men who are rigid to themselves and indulgent to others. He had a -certain shame about his neighbors’ errors, and never spoke of them -willingly; hence he was not likely to divert his mind from the best -mode of hardening timber and other ingenious devices in order to -preconceive those errors. If he had to blame any one, it was necessary -for him to move all the papers within his reach, or describe various -diagrams with his stick, or make calculations with the odd money in his -pocket, before he could begin; and he would rather do other men’s work -than find fault with their doing. I fear he was a bad disciplinarian. - -When Fred stated the circumstances of his debt, his wish to meet it -without troubling his father, and the certainty that the money would be -forthcoming so as to cause no one any inconvenience, Caleb pushed his -spectacles upward, listened, looked into his favorite’s clear young -eyes, and believed him, not distinguishing confidence about the future -from veracity about the past; but he felt that it was an occasion for a -friendly hint as to conduct, and that before giving his signature he -must give a rather strong admonition. Accordingly, he took the paper -and lowered his spectacles, measured the space at his command, reached -his pen and examined it, dipped it in the ink and examined it again, -then pushed the paper a little way from him, lifted up his spectacles -again, showed a deepened depression in the outer angle of his bushy -eyebrows, which gave his face a peculiar mildness (pardon these details -for once—you would have learned to love them if you had known Caleb -Garth), and said in a comfortable tone,— - -“It was a misfortune, eh, that breaking the horse’s knees? And then, -these exchanges, they don’t answer when you have ’cute jockeys to deal -with. You’ll be wiser another time, my boy.” - -Whereupon Caleb drew down his spectacles, and proceeded to write his -signature with the care which he always gave to that performance; for -whatever he did in the way of business he did well. He contemplated the -large well-proportioned letters and final flourish, with his head a -trifle on one side for an instant, then handed it to Fred, said -“Good-by,” and returned forthwith to his absorption in a plan for Sir -James Chettam’s new farm-buildings. - -Either because his interest in this work thrust the incident of the -signature from his memory, or for some reason of which Caleb was more -conscious, Mrs. Garth remained ignorant of the affair. - -Since it occurred, a change had come over Fred’s sky, which altered his -view of the distance, and was the reason why his uncle Featherstone’s -present of money was of importance enough to make his color come and -go, first with a too definite expectation, and afterwards with a -proportionate disappointment. His failure in passing his examination, -had made his accumulation of college debts the more unpardonable by his -father, and there had been an unprecedented storm at home. Mr. Vincy -had sworn that if he had anything more of that sort to put up with, -Fred should turn out and get his living how he could; and he had never -yet quite recovered his good-humored tone to his son, who had -especially enraged him by saying at this stage of things that he did -not want to be a clergyman, and would rather not “go on with that.” -Fred was conscious that he would have been yet more severely dealt with -if his family as well as himself had not secretly regarded him as Mr. -Featherstone’s heir; that old gentleman’s pride in him, and apparent -fondness for him, serving in the stead of more exemplary conduct—just -as when a youthful nobleman steals jewellery we call the act -kleptomania, speak of it with a philosophical smile, and never think of -his being sent to the house of correction as if he were a ragged boy -who had stolen turnips. In fact, tacit expectations of what would be -done for him by uncle Featherstone determined the angle at which most -people viewed Fred Vincy in Middlemarch; and in his own consciousness, -what uncle Featherstone would do for him in an emergency, or what he -would do simply as an incorporated luck, formed always an immeasurable -depth of aerial perspective. But that present of bank-notes, once made, -was measurable, and being applied to the amount of the debt, showed a -deficit which had still to be filled up either by Fred’s “judgment” or -by luck in some other shape. For that little episode of the alleged -borrowing, in which he had made his father the agent in getting the -Bulstrode certificate, was a new reason against going to his father for -money towards meeting his actual debt. Fred was keen enough to foresee -that anger would confuse distinctions, and that his denial of having -borrowed expressly on the strength of his uncle’s will would be taken -as a falsehood. He had gone to his father and told him one vexatious -affair, and he had left another untold: in such cases the complete -revelation always produces the impression of a previous duplicity. Now -Fred piqued himself on keeping clear of lies, and even fibs; he often -shrugged his shoulders and made a significant grimace at what he called -Rosamond’s fibs (it is only brothers who can associate such ideas with -a lovely girl); and rather than incur the accusation of falsehood he -would even incur some trouble and self-restraint. It was under strong -inward pressure of this kind that Fred had taken the wise step of -depositing the eighty pounds with his mother. It was a pity that he had -not at once given them to Mr. Garth; but he meant to make the sum -complete with another sixty, and with a view to this, he had kept -twenty pounds in his own pocket as a sort of seed-corn, which, planted -by judgment, and watered by luck, might yield more than threefold—a -very poor rate of multiplication when the field is a young gentleman’s -infinite soul, with all the numerals at command. - -Fred was not a gambler: he had not that specific disease in which the -suspension of the whole nervous energy on a chance or risk becomes as -necessary as the dram to the drunkard; he had only the tendency to that -diffusive form of gambling which has no alcoholic intensity, but is -carried on with the healthiest chyle-fed blood, keeping up a joyous -imaginative activity which fashions events according to desire, and -having no fears about its own weather, only sees the advantage there -must be to others in going aboard with it. Hopefulness has a pleasure -in making a throw of any kind, because the prospect of success is -certain; and only a more generous pleasure in offering as many as -possible a share in the stake. Fred liked play, especially billiards, -as he liked hunting or riding a steeple-chase; and he only liked it the -better because he wanted money and hoped to win. But the twenty pounds’ -worth of seed-corn had been planted in vain in the seductive green -plot—all of it at least which had not been dispersed by the -roadside—and Fred found himself close upon the term of payment with no -money at command beyond the eighty pounds which he had deposited with -his mother. The broken-winded horse which he rode represented a present -which had been made to him a long while ago by his uncle Featherstone: -his father always allowed him to keep a horse, Mr. Vincy’s own habits -making him regard this as a reasonable demand even for a son who was -rather exasperating. This horse, then, was Fred’s property, and in his -anxiety to meet the imminent bill he determined to sacrifice a -possession without which life would certainly be worth little. He made -the resolution with a sense of heroism—heroism forced on him by the -dread of breaking his word to Mr. Garth, by his love for Mary and awe -of her opinion. He would start for Houndsley horse-fair which was to be -held the next morning, and—simply sell his horse, bringing back the -money by coach?—Well, the horse would hardly fetch more than thirty -pounds, and there was no knowing what might happen; it would be folly -to balk himself of luck beforehand. It was a hundred to one that some -good chance would fall in his way; the longer he thought of it, the -less possible it seemed that he should not have a good chance, and the -less reasonable that he should not equip himself with the powder and -shot for bringing it down. He would ride to Houndsley with Bambridge -and with Horrock “the vet,” and without asking them anything expressly, -he should virtually get the benefit of their opinion. Before he set -out, Fred got the eighty pounds from his mother. - -Most of those who saw Fred riding out of Middlemarch in company with -Bambridge and Horrock, on his way of course to Houndsley horse-fair, -thought that young Vincy was pleasure-seeking as usual; and but for an -unwonted consciousness of grave matters on hand, he himself would have -had a sense of dissipation, and of doing what might be expected of a -gay young fellow. Considering that Fred was not at all coarse, that he -rather looked down on the manners and speech of young men who had not -been to the university, and that he had written stanzas as pastoral and -unvoluptuous as his flute-playing, his attraction towards Bambridge and -Horrock was an interesting fact which even the love of horse-flesh -would not wholly account for without that mysterious influence of -Naming which determinates so much of mortal choice. Under any other -name than “pleasure” the society of Messieurs Bambridge and Horrock -must certainly have been regarded as monotonous; and to arrive with -them at Houndsley on a drizzling afternoon, to get down at the Red Lion -in a street shaded with coal-dust, and dine in a room furnished with a -dirt-enamelled map of the county, a bad portrait of an anonymous horse -in a stable, His Majesty George the Fourth with legs and cravat, and -various leaden spittoons, might have seemed a hard business, but for -the sustaining power of nomenclature which determined that the pursuit -of these things was “gay.” - -In Mr. Horrock there was certainly an apparent unfathomableness which -offered play to the imagination. Costume, at a glance, gave him a -thrilling association with horses (enough to specify the hat-brim which -took the slightest upward angle just to escape the suspicion of bending -downwards), and nature had given him a face which by dint of Mongolian -eyes, and a nose, mouth, and chin seeming to follow his hat-brim in a -moderate inclination upwards, gave the effect of a subdued unchangeable -sceptical smile, of all expressions the most tyrannous over a -susceptible mind, and, when accompanied by adequate silence, likely to -create the reputation of an invincible understanding, an infinite fund -of humor—too dry to flow, and probably in a state of immovable -crust,—and a critical judgment which, if you could ever be fortunate -enough to know it, would be _the_ thing and no other. It is a -physiognomy seen in all vocations, but perhaps it has never been more -powerful over the youth of England than in a judge of horses. - -Mr. Horrock, at a question from Fred about his horse’s fetlock, turned -sideways in his saddle, and watched the horse’s action for the space of -three minutes, then turned forward, twitched his own bridle, and -remained silent with a profile neither more nor less sceptical than it -had been. - -The part thus played in dialogue by Mr. Horrock was terribly effective. -A mixture of passions was excited in Fred—a mad desire to thrash -Horrock’s opinion into utterance, restrained by anxiety to retain the -advantage of his friendship. There was always the chance that Horrock -might say something quite invaluable at the right moment. - -Mr. Bambridge had more open manners, and appeared to give forth his -ideas without economy. He was loud, robust, and was sometimes spoken of -as being “given to indulgence”—chiefly in swearing, drinking, and -beating his wife. Some people who had lost by him called him a vicious -man; but he regarded horse-dealing as the finest of the arts, and might -have argued plausibly that it had nothing to do with morality. He was -undeniably a prosperous man, bore his drinking better than others bore -their moderation, and, on the whole, flourished like the green -bay-tree. But his range of conversation was limited, and like the fine -old tune, “Drops of brandy,” gave you after a while a sense of -returning upon itself in a way that might make weak heads dizzy. But a -slight infusion of Mr. Bambridge was felt to give tone and character to -several circles in Middlemarch; and he was a distinguished figure in -the bar and billiard-room at the Green Dragon. He knew some anecdotes -about the heroes of the turf, and various clever tricks of Marquesses -and Viscounts which seemed to prove that blood asserted its -pre-eminence even among black-legs; but the minute retentiveness of his -memory was chiefly shown about the horses he had himself bought and -sold; the number of miles they would trot you in no time without -turning a hair being, after the lapse of years, still a subject of -passionate asseveration, in which he would assist the imagination of -his hearers by solemnly swearing that they never saw anything like it. -In short, Mr. Bambridge was a man of pleasure and a gay companion. - -Fred was subtle, and did not tell his friends that he was going to -Houndsley bent on selling his horse: he wished to get indirectly at -their genuine opinion of its value, not being aware that a genuine -opinion was the last thing likely to be extracted from such eminent -critics. It was not Mr. Bambridge’s weakness to be a gratuitous -flatterer. He had never before been so much struck with the fact that -this unfortunate bay was a roarer to a degree which required the -roundest word for perdition to give you any idea of it. - -“You made a bad hand at swapping when you went to anybody but me, -Vincy! Why, you never threw your leg across a finer horse than that -chestnut, and you gave him for this brute. If you set him cantering, he -goes on like twenty sawyers. I never heard but one worse roarer in my -life, and that was a roan: it belonged to Pegwell, the corn-factor; he -used to drive him in his gig seven years ago, and he wanted me to take -him, but I said, ‘Thank you, Peg, I don’t deal in wind-instruments.’ -That was what I said. It went the round of the country, that joke did. -But, what the hell! the horse was a penny trumpet to that roarer of -yours.” - -“Why, you said just now his was worse than mine,” said Fred, more -irritable than usual. - -“I said a lie, then,” said Mr. Bambridge, emphatically. “There wasn’t a -penny to choose between ’em.” - -Fred spurred his horse, and they trotted on a little way. When they -slackened again, Mr. Bambridge said— - -“Not but what the roan was a better trotter than yours.” - -“I’m quite satisfied with his paces, I know,” said Fred, who required -all the consciousness of being in gay company to support him; “I say -his trot is an uncommonly clean one, eh, Horrock?” - -Mr. Horrock looked before him with as complete a neutrality as if he -had been a portrait by a great master. - -Fred gave up the fallacious hope of getting a genuine opinion; but on -reflection he saw that Bambridge’s depreciation and Horrock’s silence -were both virtually encouraging, and indicated that they thought better -of the horse than they chose to say. - -That very evening, indeed, before the fair had set in, Fred thought he -saw a favorable opening for disposing advantageously of his horse, but -an opening which made him congratulate himself on his foresight in -bringing with him his eighty pounds. A young farmer, acquainted with -Mr. Bambridge, came into the Red Lion, and entered into conversation -about parting with a hunter, which he introduced at once as Diamond, -implying that it was a public character. For himself he only wanted a -useful hack, which would draw upon occasion; being about to marry and -to give up hunting. The hunter was in a friend’s stable at some little -distance; there was still time for gentlemen to see it before dark. The -friend’s stable had to be reached through a back street where you might -as easily have been poisoned without expense of drugs as in any grim -street of that unsanitary period. Fred was not fortified against -disgust by brandy, as his companions were, but the hope of having at -last seen the horse that would enable him to make money was -exhilarating enough to lead him over the same ground again the first -thing in the morning. He felt sure that if he did not come to a bargain -with the farmer, Bambridge would; for the stress of circumstances, Fred -felt, was sharpening his acuteness and endowing him with all the -constructive power of suspicion. Bambridge had run down Diamond in a -way that he never would have done (the horse being a friend’s) if he -had not thought of buying it; every one who looked at the animal—even -Horrock—was evidently impressed with its merit. To get all the -advantage of being with men of this sort, you must know how to draw -your inferences, and not be a spoon who takes things literally. The -color of the horse was a dappled gray, and Fred happened to know that -Lord Medlicote’s man was on the look-out for just such a horse. After -all his running down, Bambridge let it out in the course of the -evening, when the farmer was absent, that he had seen worse horses go -for eighty pounds. Of course he contradicted himself twenty times over, -but when you know what is likely to be true you can test a man’s -admissions. And Fred could not but reckon his own judgment of a horse -as worth something. The farmer had paused over Fred’s respectable -though broken-winded steed long enough to show that he thought it worth -consideration, and it seemed probable that he would take it, with -five-and-twenty pounds in addition, as the equivalent of Diamond. In -that case Fred, when he had parted with his new horse for at least -eighty pounds, would be fifty-five pounds in pocket by the transaction, -and would have a hundred and thirty-five pounds towards meeting the -bill; so that the deficit temporarily thrown on Mr. Garth would at the -utmost be twenty-five pounds. By the time he was hurrying on his -clothes in the morning, he saw so clearly the importance of not losing -this rare chance, that if Bambridge and Horrock had both dissuaded him, -he would not have been deluded into a direct interpretation of their -purpose: he would have been aware that those deep hands held something -else than a young fellow’s interest. With regard to horses, distrust -was your only clew. But scepticism, as we know, can never be thoroughly -applied, else life would come to a standstill: something we must -believe in and do, and whatever that something may be called, it is -virtually our own judgment, even when it seems like the most slavish -reliance on another. Fred believed in the excellence of his bargain, -and even before the fair had well set in, had got possession of the -dappled gray, at the price of his old horse and thirty pounds in -addition—only five pounds more than he had expected to give. - -But he felt a little worried and wearied, perhaps with mental debate, -and without waiting for the further gayeties of the horse-fair, he set -out alone on his fourteen miles’ journey, meaning to take it very -quietly and keep his horse fresh. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -“The offender’s sorrow brings but small relief -To him who wears the strong offence’s cross.” -—SHAKESPEARE: _Sonnets_. - - -I am sorry to say that only the third day after the propitious events -at Houndsley Fred Vincy had fallen into worse spirits than he had known -in his life before. Not that he had been disappointed as to the -possible market for his horse, but that before the bargain could be -concluded with Lord Medlicote’s man, this Diamond, in which hope to the -amount of eighty pounds had been invested, had without the slightest -warning exhibited in the stable a most vicious energy in kicking, had -just missed killing the groom, and had ended in laming himself severely -by catching his leg in a rope that overhung the stable-board. There was -no more redress for this than for the discovery of bad temper after -marriage—which of course old companions were aware of before the -ceremony. For some reason or other, Fred had none of his usual -elasticity under this stroke of ill-fortune: he was simply aware that -he had only fifty pounds, that there was no chance of his getting any -more at present, and that the bill for a hundred and sixty would be -presented in five days. Even if he had applied to his father on the -plea that Mr. Garth should be saved from loss, Fred felt smartingly -that his father would angrily refuse to rescue Mr. Garth from the -consequence of what he would call encouraging extravagance and deceit. -He was so utterly downcast that he could frame no other project than to -go straight to Mr. Garth and tell him the sad truth, carrying with him -the fifty pounds, and getting that sum at least safely out of his own -hands. His father, being at the warehouse, did not yet know of the -accident: when he did, he would storm about the vicious brute being -brought into his stable; and before meeting that lesser annoyance Fred -wanted to get away with all his courage to face the greater. He took -his father’s nag, for he had made up his mind that when he had told Mr. -Garth, he would ride to Stone Court and confess all to Mary. In fact, -it is probable that but for Mary’s existence and Fred’s love for her, -his conscience would have been much less active both in previously -urging the debt on his thought and impelling him not to spare himself -after his usual fashion by deferring an unpleasant task, but to act as -directly and simply as he could. Even much stronger mortals than Fred -Vincy hold half their rectitude in the mind of the being they love -best. “The theatre of all my actions is fallen,” said an antique -personage when his chief friend was dead; and they are fortunate who -get a theatre where the audience demands their best. Certainly it would -have made a considerable difference to Fred at that time if Mary Garth -had had no decided notions as to what was admirable in character. - -Mr. Garth was not at the office, and Fred rode on to his house, which -was a little way outside the town—a homely place with an orchard in -front of it, a rambling, old-fashioned, half-timbered building, which -before the town had spread had been a farm-house, but was now -surrounded with the private gardens of the townsmen. We get the fonder -of our houses if they have a physiognomy of their own, as our friends -have. The Garth family, which was rather a large one, for Mary had four -brothers and one sister, were very fond of their old house, from which -all the best furniture had long been sold. Fred liked it too, knowing -it by heart even to the attic which smelt deliciously of apples and -quinces, and until to-day he had never come to it without pleasant -expectations; but his heart beat uneasily now with the sense that he -should probably have to make his confession before Mrs. Garth, of whom -he was rather more in awe than of her husband. Not that she was -inclined to sarcasm and to impulsive sallies, as Mary was. In her -present matronly age at least, Mrs. Garth never committed herself by -over-hasty speech; having, as she said, borne the yoke in her youth, -and learned self-control. She had that rare sense which discerns what -is unalterable, and submits to it without murmuring. Adoring her -husband’s virtues, she had very early made up her mind to his -incapacity of minding his own interests, and had met the consequences -cheerfully. She had been magnanimous enough to renounce all pride in -teapots or children’s frilling, and had never poured any pathetic -confidences into the ears of her feminine neighbors concerning Mr. -Garth’s want of prudence and the sums he might have had if he had been -like other men. Hence these fair neighbors thought her either proud or -eccentric, and sometimes spoke of her to their husbands as “your fine -Mrs. Garth.” She was not without her criticism of them in return, being -more accurately instructed than most matrons in Middlemarch, and—where -is the blameless woman?—apt to be a little severe towards her own sex, -which in her opinion was framed to be entirely subordinate. On the -other hand, she was disproportionately indulgent towards the failings -of men, and was often heard to say that these were natural. Also, it -must be admitted that Mrs. Garth was a trifle too emphatic in her -resistance to what she held to be follies: the passage from governess -into housewife had wrought itself a little too strongly into her -consciousness, and she rarely forgot that while her grammar and accent -were above the town standard, she wore a plain cap, cooked the family -dinner, and darned all the stockings. She had sometimes taken pupils in -a peripatetic fashion, making them follow her about in the kitchen with -their book or slate. She thought it good for them to see that she could -make an excellent lather while she corrected their blunders “without -looking,”—that a woman with her sleeves tucked up above her elbows -might know all about the Subjunctive Mood or the Torrid Zone—that, in -short, she might possess “education” and other good things ending in -“tion,” and worthy to be pronounced emphatically, without being a -useless doll. When she made remarks to this edifying effect, she had a -firm little frown on her brow, which yet did not hinder her face from -looking benevolent, and her words which came forth like a procession -were uttered in a fervid agreeable contralto. Certainly, the exemplary -Mrs. Garth had her droll aspects, but her character sustained her -oddities, as a very fine wine sustains a flavor of skin. - -Towards Fred Vincy she had a motherly feeling, and had always been -disposed to excuse his errors, though she would probably not have -excused Mary for engaging herself to him, her daughter being included -in that more rigorous judgment which she applied to her own sex. But -this very fact of her exceptional indulgence towards him made it the -harder to Fred that he must now inevitably sink in her opinion. And the -circumstances of his visit turned out to be still more unpleasant than -he had expected; for Caleb Garth had gone out early to look at some -repairs not far off. Mrs. Garth at certain hours was always in the -kitchen, and this morning she was carrying on several occupations at -once there—making her pies at the well-scoured deal table on one side -of that airy room, observing Sally’s movements at the oven and -dough-tub through an open door, and giving lessons to her youngest boy -and girl, who were standing opposite to her at the table with their -books and slates before them. A tub and a clothes-horse at the other -end of the kitchen indicated an intermittent wash of small things also -going on. - -Mrs. Garth, with her sleeves turned above her elbows, deftly handling -her pastry—applying her rolling-pin and giving ornamental pinches, -while she expounded with grammatical fervor what were the right views -about the concord of verbs and pronouns with “nouns of multitude or -signifying many,” was a sight agreeably amusing. She was of the same -curly-haired, square-faced type as Mary, but handsomer, with more -delicacy of feature, a pale skin, a solid matronly figure, and a -remarkable firmness of glance. In her snowy-frilled cap she reminded -one of that delightful Frenchwoman whom we have all seen marketing, -basket on arm. Looking at the mother, you might hope that the daughter -would become like her, which is a prospective advantage equal to a -dowry—the mother too often standing behind the daughter like a -malignant prophecy—“Such as I am, she will shortly be.” - -“Now let us go through that once more,” said Mrs. Garth, pinching an -apple-puff which seemed to distract Ben, an energetic young male with a -heavy brow, from due attention to the lesson. “‘Not without regard to -the import of the word as conveying unity or plurality of idea’—tell me -again what that means, Ben.” - -(Mrs. Garth, like more celebrated educators, had her favorite ancient -paths, and in a general wreck of society would have tried to hold her -“Lindley Murray” above the waves.) - -“Oh—it means—you must think what you mean,” said Ben, rather peevishly. -“I hate grammar. What’s the use of it?” - -“To teach you to speak and write correctly, so that you can be -understood,” said Mrs. Garth, with severe precision. “Should you like -to speak as old Job does?” - -“Yes,” said Ben, stoutly; “it’s funnier. He says, ‘Yo goo’—that’s just -as good as ‘You go.’” - -“But he says, ‘A ship’s in the garden,’ instead of ‘a sheep,’” said -Letty, with an air of superiority. “You might think he meant a ship off -the sea.” - -“No, you mightn’t, if you weren’t silly,” said Ben. “How could a ship -off the sea come there?” - -“These things belong only to pronunciation, which is the least part of -grammar,” said Mrs. Garth. “That apple-peel is to be eaten by the pigs, -Ben; if you eat it, I must give them your piece of pasty. Job has only -to speak about very plain things. How do you think you would write or -speak about anything more difficult, if you knew no more of grammar -than he does? You would use wrong words, and put words in the wrong -places, and instead of making people understand you, they would turn -away from you as a tiresome person. What would you do then?” - -“I shouldn’t care, I should leave off,” said Ben, with a sense that -this was an agreeable issue where grammar was concerned. - -“I see you are getting tired and stupid, Ben,” said Mrs. Garth, -accustomed to these obstructive arguments from her male offspring. -Having finished her pies, she moved towards the clothes-horse, and -said, “Come here and tell me the story I told you on Wednesday, about -Cincinnatus.” - -“I know! he was a farmer,” said Ben. - -“Now, Ben, he was a Roman—let _me_ tell,” said Letty, using her elbow -contentiously. - -“You silly thing, he was a Roman farmer, and he was ploughing.” - -“Yes, but before that—that didn’t come first—people wanted him,” said -Letty. - -“Well, but you must say what sort of a man he was first,” insisted Ben. -“He was a wise man, like my father, and that made the people want his -advice. And he was a brave man, and could fight. And so could my -father—couldn’t he, mother?” - -“Now, Ben, let me tell the story straight on, as mother told it us,” -said Letty, frowning. “Please, mother, tell Ben not to speak.” - -“Letty, I am ashamed of you,” said her mother, wringing out the caps -from the tub. “When your brother began, you ought to have waited to see -if he could not tell the story. How rude you look, pushing and -frowning, as if you wanted to conquer with your elbows! Cincinnatus, I -am sure, would have been sorry to see his daughter behave so.” (Mrs. -Garth delivered this awful sentence with much majesty of enunciation, -and Letty felt that between repressed volubility and general disesteem, -that of the Romans inclusive, life was already a painful affair.) “Now, -Ben.” - -“Well—oh—well—why, there was a great deal of fighting, and they were -all blockheads, and—I can’t tell it just how you told it—but they -wanted a man to be captain and king and everything—” - -“Dictator, now,” said Letty, with injured looks, and not without a wish -to make her mother repent. - -“Very well, dictator!” said Ben, contemptuously. “But that isn’t a good -word: he didn’t tell them to write on slates.” - -“Come, come, Ben, you are not so ignorant as that,” said Mrs. Garth, -carefully serious. “Hark, there is a knock at the door! Run, Letty, and -open it.” - -The knock was Fred’s; and when Letty said that her father was not in -yet, but that her mother was in the kitchen, Fred had no alternative. -He could not depart from his usual practice of going to see Mrs. Garth -in the kitchen if she happened to be at work there. He put his arm -round Letty’s neck silently, and led her into the kitchen without his -usual jokes and caresses. - -Mrs. Garth was surprised to see Fred at this hour, but surprise was not -a feeling that she was given to express, and she only said, quietly -continuing her work— - -“You, Fred, so early in the day? You look quite pale. Has anything -happened?” - -“I want to speak to Mr. Garth,” said Fred, not yet ready to say -more—“and to you also,” he added, after a little pause, for he had no -doubt that Mrs. Garth knew everything about the bill, and he must in -the end speak of it before her, if not to her solely. - -“Caleb will be in again in a few minutes,” said Mrs. Garth, who -imagined some trouble between Fred and his father. “He is sure not to -be long, because he has some work at his desk that must be done this -morning. Do you mind staying with me, while I finish my matters here?” - -“But we needn’t go on about Cincinnatus, need we?” said Ben, who had -taken Fred’s whip out of his hand, and was trying its efficiency on the -cat. - -“No, go out now. But put that whip down. How very mean of you to whip -poor old Tortoise! Pray take the whip from him, Fred.” - -“Come, old boy, give it me,” said Fred, putting out his hand. - -“Will you let me ride on your horse to-day?” said Ben, rendering up the -whip, with an air of not being obliged to do it. - -“Not to-day—another time. I am not riding my own horse.” - -“Shall you see Mary to-day?” - -“Yes, I think so,” said Fred, with an unpleasant twinge. - -“Tell her to come home soon, and play at forfeits, and make fun.” - -“Enough, enough, Ben! run away,” said Mrs. Garth, seeing that Fred was -teased. - -“Are Letty and Ben your only pupils now, Mrs. Garth?” said Fred, when -the children were gone and it was needful to say something that would -pass the time. He was not yet sure whether he should wait for Mr. -Garth, or use any good opportunity in conversation to confess to Mrs. -Garth herself, give her the money and ride away. - -“One—only one. Fanny Hackbutt comes at half past eleven. I am not -getting a great income now,” said Mrs. Garth, smiling. “I am at a low -ebb with pupils. But I have saved my little purse for Alfred’s premium: -I have ninety-two pounds. He can go to Mr. Hanmer’s now; he is just at -the right age.” - -This did not lead well towards the news that Mr. Garth was on the brink -of losing ninety-two pounds and more. Fred was silent. “Young gentlemen -who go to college are rather more costly than that,” Mrs. Garth -innocently continued, pulling out the edging on a cap-border. “And -Caleb thinks that Alfred will turn out a distinguished engineer: he -wants to give the boy a good chance. There he is! I hear him coming in. -We will go to him in the parlor, shall we?” - -When they entered the parlor Caleb had thrown down his hat and was -seated at his desk. - -“What! Fred, my boy!” he said, in a tone of mild surprise, holding his -pen still undipped; “you are here betimes.” But missing the usual -expression of cheerful greeting in Fred’s face, he immediately added, -“Is there anything up at home?—anything the matter?” - -“Yes, Mr. Garth, I am come to tell something that I am afraid will give -you a bad opinion of me. I am come to tell you and Mrs. Garth that I -can’t keep my word. I can’t find the money to meet the bill after all. -I have been unfortunate; I have only got these fifty pounds towards the -hundred and sixty.” - -While Fred was speaking, he had taken out the notes and laid them on -the desk before Mr. Garth. He had burst forth at once with the plain -fact, feeling boyishly miserable and without verbal resources. Mrs. -Garth was mutely astonished, and looked at her husband for an -explanation. Caleb blushed, and after a little pause said— - -“Oh, I didn’t tell you, Susan: I put my name to a bill for Fred; it was -for a hundred and sixty pounds. He made sure he could meet it himself.” - -There was an evident change in Mrs. Garth’s face, but it was like a -change below the surface of water which remains smooth. She fixed her -eyes on Fred, saying— - -“I suppose you have asked your father for the rest of the money and he -has refused you.” - -“No,” said Fred, biting his lip, and speaking with more difficulty; -“but I know it will be of no use to ask him; and unless it were of use, -I should not like to mention Mr. Garth’s name in the matter.” - -“It has come at an unfortunate time,” said Caleb, in his hesitating -way, looking down at the notes and nervously fingering the paper, -“Christmas upon us—I’m rather hard up just now. You see, I have to cut -out everything like a tailor with short measure. What can we do, Susan? -I shall want every farthing we have in the bank. It’s a hundred and ten -pounds, the deuce take it!” - -“I must give you the ninety-two pounds that I have put by for Alfred’s -premium,” said Mrs. Garth, gravely and decisively, though a nice ear -might have discerned a slight tremor in some of the words. “And I have -no doubt that Mary has twenty pounds saved from her salary by this -time. She will advance it.” - -Mrs. Garth had not again looked at Fred, and was not in the least -calculating what words she should use to cut him the most effectively. -Like the eccentric woman she was, she was at present absorbed in -considering what was to be done, and did not fancy that the end could -be better achieved by bitter remarks or explosions. But she had made -Fred feel for the first time something like the tooth of remorse. -Curiously enough, his pain in the affair beforehand had consisted -almost entirely in the sense that he must seem dishonorable, and sink -in the opinion of the Garths: he had not occupied himself with the -inconvenience and possible injury that his breach might occasion them, -for this exercise of the imagination on other people’s needs is not -common with hopeful young gentlemen. Indeed we are most of us brought -up in the notion that the highest motive for not doing a wrong is -something irrespective of the beings who would suffer the wrong. But at -this moment he suddenly saw himself as a pitiful rascal who was robbing -two women of their savings. - -“I shall certainly pay it all, Mrs. Garth—ultimately,” he stammered -out. - -“Yes, ultimately,” said Mrs. Garth, who having a special dislike to -fine words on ugly occasions, could not now repress an epigram. “But -boys cannot well be apprenticed ultimately: they should be apprenticed -at fifteen.” She had never been so little inclined to make excuses for -Fred. - -“I was the most in the wrong, Susan,” said Caleb. “Fred made sure of -finding the money. But I’d no business to be fingering bills. I suppose -you have looked all round and tried all honest means?” he added, fixing -his merciful gray eyes on Fred. Caleb was too delicate to specify Mr. -Featherstone. - -“Yes, I have tried everything—I really have. I should have had a -hundred and thirty pounds ready but for a misfortune with a horse which -I was about to sell. My uncle had given me eighty pounds, and I paid -away thirty with my old horse in order to get another which I was going -to sell for eighty or more—I meant to go without a horse—but now it has -turned out vicious and lamed itself. I wish I and the horses too had -been at the devil, before I had brought this on you. There’s no one -else I care so much for: you and Mrs. Garth have always been so kind to -me. However, it’s no use saying that. You will always think me a rascal -now.” - -Fred turned round and hurried out of the room, conscious that he was -getting rather womanish, and feeling confusedly that his being sorry -was not of much use to the Garths. They could see him mount, and -quickly pass through the gate. - -“I am disappointed in Fred Vincy,” said Mrs. Garth. “I would not have -believed beforehand that he would have drawn you into his debts. I knew -he was extravagant, but I did not think that he would be so mean as to -hang his risks on his oldest friend, who could the least afford to -lose.” - -“I was a fool, Susan.” - -“That you were,” said the wife, nodding and smiling. “But I should not -have gone to publish it in the market-place. Why should you keep such -things from me? It is just so with your buttons: you let them burst off -without telling me, and go out with your wristband hanging. If I had -only known I might have been ready with some better plan.” - -“You are sadly cut up, I know, Susan,” said Caleb, looking feelingly at -her. “I can’t abide your losing the money you’ve scraped together for -Alfred.” - -“It is very well that I _had_ scraped it together; and it is you who -will have to suffer, for you must teach the boy yourself. You must give -up your bad habits. Some men take to drinking, and you have taken to -working without pay. You must indulge yourself a little less in that. -And you must ride over to Mary, and ask the child what money she has.” - -Caleb had pushed his chair back, and was leaning forward, shaking his -head slowly, and fitting his finger-tips together with much nicety. - -“Poor Mary!” he said. “Susan,” he went on in a lowered tone, “I’m -afraid she may be fond of Fred.” - -“Oh no! She always laughs at him; and he is not likely to think of her -in any other than a brotherly way.” - -Caleb made no rejoinder, but presently lowered his spectacles, drew up -his chair to the desk, and said, “Deuce take the bill—I wish it was at -Hanover! These things are a sad interruption to business!” - -The first part of this speech comprised his whole store of maledictory -expression, and was uttered with a slight snarl easy to imagine. But it -would be difficult to convey to those who never heard him utter the -word “business,” the peculiar tone of fervid veneration, of religious -regard, in which he wrapped it, as a consecrated symbol is wrapped in -its gold-fringed linen. - -Caleb Garth often shook his head in meditation on the value, the -indispensable might of that myriad-headed, myriad-handed labor by which -the social body is fed, clothed, and housed. It had laid hold of his -imagination in boyhood. The echoes of the great hammer where roof or -keel were a-making, the signal-shouts of the workmen, the roar of the -furnace, the thunder and plash of the engine, were a sublime music to -him; the felling and lading of timber, and the huge trunk vibrating -star-like in the distance along the highway, the crane at work on the -wharf, the piled-up produce in warehouses, the precision and variety of -muscular effort wherever exact work had to be turned out,—all these -sights of his youth had acted on him as poetry without the aid of the -poets, had made a philosophy for him without the aid of philosophers, a -religion without the aid of theology. His early ambition had been to -have as effective a share as possible in this sublime labor, which was -peculiarly dignified by him with the name of “business;” and though he -had only been a short time under a surveyor, and had been chiefly his -own teacher, he knew more of land, building, and mining than most of -the special men in the county. - -His classification of human employments was rather crude, and, like the -categories of more celebrated men, would not be acceptable in these -advanced times. He divided them into “business, politics, preaching, -learning, and amusement.” He had nothing to say against the last four; -but he regarded them as a reverential pagan regarded other gods than -his own. In the same way, he thought very well of all ranks, but he -would not himself have liked to be of any rank in which he had not such -close contact with “business” as to get often honorably decorated with -marks of dust and mortar, the damp of the engine, or the sweet soil of -the woods and fields. Though he had never regarded himself as other -than an orthodox Christian, and would argue on prevenient grace if the -subject were proposed to him, I think his virtual divinities were good -practical schemes, accurate work, and the faithful completion of -undertakings: his prince of darkness was a slack workman. But there was -no spirit of denial in Caleb, and the world seemed so wondrous to him -that he was ready to accept any number of systems, like any number of -firmaments, if they did not obviously interfere with the best -land-drainage, solid building, correct measuring, and judicious boring -(for coal). In fact, he had a reverential soul with a strong practical -intelligence. But he could not manage finance: he knew values well, but -he had no keenness of imagination for monetary results in the shape of -profit and loss: and having ascertained this to his cost, he determined -to give up all forms of his beloved “business” which required that -talent. He gave himself up entirely to the many kinds of work which he -could do without handling capital, and was one of those precious men -within his own district whom everybody would choose to work for them, -because he did his work well, charged very little, and often declined -to charge at all. It is no wonder, then, that the Garths were poor, and -“lived in a small way.” However, they did not mind it. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -“Love seeketh not itself to please, - Nor for itself hath any care -But for another gives its ease - And builds a heaven in hell’s despair. -. . . . . . . -Love seeketh only self to please, - To bind another to its delight, -Joys in another’s loss of ease, - And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.” -—W. BLAKE: _Songs of Experience_. - - -Fred Vincy wanted to arrive at Stone Court when Mary could not expect -him, and when his uncle was not downstairs: in that case she might be -sitting alone in the wainscoted parlor. He left his horse in the yard -to avoid making a noise on the gravel in front, and entered the parlor -without other notice than the noise of the door-handle. Mary was in her -usual corner, laughing over Mrs. Piozzi’s recollections of Johnson, and -looked up with the fun still in her face. It gradually faded as she saw -Fred approach her without speaking, and stand before her with his elbow -on the mantel-piece, looking ill. She too was silent, only raising her -eyes to him inquiringly. - -“Mary,” he began, “I am a good-for-nothing blackguard.” - -“I should think one of those epithets would do at a time,” said Mary, -trying to smile, but feeling alarmed. - -“I know you will never think well of me any more. You will think me a -liar. You will think me dishonest. You will think I didn’t care for -you, or your father and mother. You always do make the worst of me, I -know.” - -“I cannot deny that I shall think all that of you, Fred, if you give me -good reasons. But please to tell me at once what you have done. I would -rather know the painful truth than imagine it.” - -“I owed money—a hundred and sixty pounds. I asked your father to put -his name to a bill. I thought it would not signify to him. I made sure -of paying the money myself, and I have tried as hard as I could. And -now, I have been so unlucky—a horse has turned out badly—I can only pay -fifty pounds. And I can’t ask my father for the money: he would not -give me a farthing. And my uncle gave me a hundred a little while ago. -So what can I do? And now your father has no ready money to spare, and -your mother will have to pay away her ninety-two pounds that she has -saved, and she says your savings must go too. You see what a—” - -“Oh, poor mother, poor father!” said Mary, her eyes filling with tears, -and a little sob rising which she tried to repress. She looked straight -before her and took no notice of Fred, all the consequences at home -becoming present to her. He too remained silent for some moments, -feeling more miserable than ever. “I wouldn’t have hurt you for the -world, Mary,” he said at last. “You can never forgive me.” - -“What does it matter whether I forgive you?” said Mary, passionately. -“Would that make it any better for my mother to lose the money she has -been earning by lessons for four years, that she might send Alfred to -Mr. Hanmer’s? Should you think all that pleasant enough if I forgave -you?” - -“Say what you like, Mary. I deserve it all.” - -“I don’t want to say anything,” said Mary, more quietly, “and my anger -is of no use.” She dried her eyes, threw aside her book, rose and -fetched her sewing. - -Fred followed her with his eyes, hoping that they would meet hers, and -in that way find access for his imploring penitence. But no! Mary could -easily avoid looking upward. - -“I do care about your mother’s money going,” he said, when she was -seated again and sewing quickly. “I wanted to ask you, Mary—don’t you -think that Mr. Featherstone—if you were to tell him—tell him, I mean, -about apprenticing Alfred—would advance the money?” - -“My family is not fond of begging, Fred. We would rather work for our -money. Besides, you say that Mr. Featherstone has lately given you a -hundred pounds. He rarely makes presents; he has never made presents to -us. I am sure my father will not ask him for anything; and even if I -chose to beg of him, it would be of no use.” - -“I am so miserable, Mary—if you knew how miserable I am, you would be -sorry for me.” - -“There are other things to be more sorry for than that. But selfish -people always think their own discomfort of more importance than -anything else in the world. I see enough of that every day.” - -“It is hardly fair to call me selfish. If you knew what things other -young men do, you would think me a good way off the worst.” - -“I know that people who spend a great deal of money on themselves -without knowing how they shall pay, must be selfish. They are always -thinking of what they can get for themselves, and not of what other -people may lose.” - -“Any man may be unfortunate, Mary, and find himself unable to pay when -he meant it. There is not a better man in the world than your father, -and yet he got into trouble.” - -“How dare you make any comparison between my father and you, Fred?” -said Mary, in a deep tone of indignation. “He never got into trouble by -thinking of his own idle pleasures, but because he was always thinking -of the work he was doing for other people. And he has fared hard, and -worked hard to make good everybody’s loss.” - -“And you think that I shall never try to make good anything, Mary. It -is not generous to believe the worst of a man. When you have got any -power over him, I think you might try and use it to make him better; -but that is what you never do. However, I’m going,” Fred ended, -languidly. “I shall never speak to you about anything again. I’m very -sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused—that’s all.” - -Mary had dropped her work out of her hand and looked up. There is often -something maternal even in a girlish love, and Mary’s hard experience -had wrought her nature to an impressibility very different from that -hard slight thing which we call girlishness. At Fred’s last words she -felt an instantaneous pang, something like what a mother feels at the -imagined sobs or cries of her naughty truant child, which may lose -itself and get harm. And when, looking up, her eyes met his dull -despairing glance, her pity for him surmounted her anger and all her -other anxieties. - -“Oh, Fred, how ill you look! Sit down a moment. Don’t go yet. Let me -tell uncle that you are here. He has been wondering that he has not -seen you for a whole week.” Mary spoke hurriedly, saying the words that -came first without knowing very well what they were, but saying them in -a half-soothing half-beseeching tone, and rising as if to go away to -Mr. Featherstone. Of course Fred felt as if the clouds had parted and a -gleam had come: he moved and stood in her way. - -“Say one word, Mary, and I will do anything. Say you will not think the -worst of me—will not give me up altogether.” - -“As if it were any pleasure to me to think ill of you,” said Mary, in a -mournful tone. “As if it were not very painful to me to see you an idle -frivolous creature. How can you bear to be so contemptible, when others -are working and striving, and there are so many things to be done—how -can you bear to be fit for nothing in the world that is useful? And -with so much good in your disposition, Fred,—you might be worth a great -deal.” - -“I will try to be anything you like, Mary, if you will say that you -love me.” - -“I should be ashamed to say that I loved a man who must always be -hanging on others, and reckoning on what they would do for him. What -will you be when you are forty? Like Mr. Bowyer, I suppose—just as -idle, living in Mrs. Beck’s front parlor—fat and shabby, hoping -somebody will invite you to dinner—spending your morning in learning a -comic song—oh no! learning a tune on the flute.” - -Mary’s lips had begun to curl with a smile as soon as she had asked -that question about Fred’s future (young souls are mobile), and before -she ended, her face had its full illumination of fun. To him it was -like the cessation of an ache that Mary could laugh at him, and with a -passive sort of smile he tried to reach her hand; but she slipped away -quickly towards the door and said, “I shall tell uncle. You _must_ see -him for a moment or two.” - -Fred secretly felt that his future was guaranteed against the -fulfilment of Mary’s sarcastic prophecies, apart from that “anything” -which he was ready to do if she would define it. He never dared in -Mary’s presence to approach the subject of his expectations from Mr. -Featherstone, and she always ignored them, as if everything depended on -himself. But if ever he actually came into the property, she must -recognize the change in his position. All this passed through his mind -somewhat languidly, before he went up to see his uncle. He stayed but a -little while, excusing himself on the ground that he had a cold; and -Mary did not reappear before he left the house. But as he rode home, he -began to be more conscious of being ill, than of being melancholy. - -When Caleb Garth arrived at Stone Court soon after dusk, Mary was not -surprised, although he seldom had leisure for paying her a visit, and -was not at all fond of having to talk with Mr. Featherstone. The old -man, on the other hand, felt himself ill at ease with a brother-in-law -whom he could not annoy, who did not mind about being considered poor, -had nothing to ask of him, and understood all kinds of farming and -mining business better than he did. But Mary had felt sure that her -parents would want to see her, and if her father had not come, she -would have obtained leave to go home for an hour or two the next day. -After discussing prices during tea with Mr. Featherstone, Caleb rose to -bid him good-by, and said, “I want to speak to you, Mary.” - -She took a candle into another large parlor, where there was no fire, -and setting down the feeble light on the dark mahogany table, turned -round to her father, and putting her arms round his neck kissed him -with childish kisses which he delighted in,—the expression of his large -brows softening as the expression of a great beautiful dog softens when -it is caressed. Mary was his favorite child, and whatever Susan might -say, and right as she was on all other subjects, Caleb thought it -natural that Fred or any one else should think Mary more lovable than -other girls. - -“I’ve got something to tell you, my dear,” said Caleb in his hesitating -way. “No very good news; but then it might be worse.” - -“About money, father? I think I know what it is.” - -“Ay? how can that be? You see, I’ve been a bit of a fool again, and put -my name to a bill, and now it comes to paying; and your mother has got -to part with her savings, that’s the worst of it, and even they won’t -quite make things even. We wanted a hundred and ten pounds: your mother -has ninety-two, and I have none to spare in the bank; and she thinks -that you have some savings.” - -“Oh yes; I have more than four-and-twenty pounds. I thought you would -come, father, so I put it in my bag. See! beautiful white notes and -gold.” - -Mary took out the folded money from her reticule and put it into her -father’s hand. - -“Well, but how—we only want eighteen—here, put the rest back, -child,—but how did you know about it?” said Caleb, who, in his -unconquerable indifference to money, was beginning to be chiefly -concerned about the relation the affair might have to Mary’s -affections. - -“Fred told me this morning.” - -“Ah! Did he come on purpose?” - -“Yes, I think so. He was a good deal distressed.” - -“I’m afraid Fred is not to be trusted, Mary,” said the father, with -hesitating tenderness. “He means better than he acts, perhaps. But I -should think it a pity for any body’s happiness to be wrapped up in -him, and so would your mother.” - -“And so should I, father,” said Mary, not looking up, but putting the -back of her father’s hand against her cheek. - -“I don’t want to pry, my dear. But I was afraid there might be -something between you and Fred, and I wanted to caution you. You see, -Mary”—here Caleb’s voice became more tender; he had been pushing his -hat about on the table and looking at it, but finally he turned his -eyes on his daughter—“a woman, let her be as good as she may, has got -to put up with the life her husband makes for her. Your mother has had -to put up with a good deal because of me.” - -Mary turned the back of her father’s hand to her lips and smiled at -him. - -“Well, well, nobody’s perfect, but”—here Mr. Garth shook his head to -help out the inadequacy of words—“what I am thinking of is—what it must -be for a wife when she’s never sure of her husband, when he hasn’t got -a principle in him to make him more afraid of doing the wrong thing by -others than of getting his own toes pinched. That’s the long and the -short of it, Mary. Young folks may get fond of each other before they -know what life is, and they may think it all holiday if they can only -get together; but it soon turns into working day, my dear. However, you -have more sense than most, and you haven’t been kept in cotton-wool: -there may be no occasion for me to say this, but a father trembles for -his daughter, and you are all by yourself here.” - -“Don’t fear for me, father,” said Mary, gravely meeting her father’s -eyes; “Fred has always been very good to me; he is kind-hearted and -affectionate, and not false, I think, with all his self-indulgence. But -I will never engage myself to one who has no manly independence, and -who goes on loitering away his time on the chance that others will -provide for him. You and my mother have taught me too much pride for -that.” - -“That’s right—that’s right. Then I am easy,” said Mr. Garth, taking up -his hat. “But it’s hard to run away with your earnings, eh child.” - -“Father!” said Mary, in her deepest tone of remonstrance. “Take -pocketfuls of love besides to them all at home,” was her last word -before he closed the outer door on himself. - -“I suppose your father wanted your earnings,” said old Mr. -Featherstone, with his usual power of unpleasant surmise, when Mary -returned to him. “He makes but a tight fit, I reckon. You’re of age -now; you ought to be saving for yourself.” - -“I consider my father and mother the best part of myself, sir,” said -Mary, coldly. - -Mr. Featherstone grunted: he could not deny that an ordinary sort of -girl like her might be expected to be useful, so he thought of another -rejoinder, disagreeable enough to be always apropos. “If Fred Vincy -comes to-morrow, now, don’t you keep him chattering: let him come up to -me.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -He beats me and I rail at him: O worthy satisfaction! would it were -otherwise—that I could beat him while he railed at me.—_Troilus and -Cressida_. - - -But Fred did not go to Stone Court the next day, for reasons that were -quite peremptory. From those visits to unsanitary Houndsley streets in -search of Diamond, he had brought back not only a bad bargain in -horse-flesh, but the further misfortune of some ailment which for a day -or two had deemed mere depression and headache, but which got so much -worse when he returned from his visit to Stone Court that, going into -the dining-room, he threw himself on the sofa, and in answer to his -mother’s anxious question, said, “I feel very ill: I think you must -send for Wrench.” - -Wrench came, but did not apprehend anything serious, spoke of a “slight -derangement,” and did not speak of coming again on the morrow. He had a -due value for the Vincys’ house, but the wariest men are apt to be -dulled by routine, and on worried mornings will sometimes go through -their business with the zest of the daily bell-ringer. Mr. Wrench was a -small, neat, bilious man, with a well-dressed wig: he had a laborious -practice, an irascible temper, a lymphatic wife and seven children; and -he was already rather late before setting out on a four-miles drive to -meet Dr. Minchin on the other side of Tipton, the decease of Hicks, a -rural practitioner, having increased Middlemarch practice in that -direction. Great statesmen err, and why not small medical men? Mr. -Wrench did not neglect sending the usual white parcels, which this time -had black and drastic contents. Their effect was not alleviating to -poor Fred, who, however, unwilling as he said to believe that he was -“in for an illness,” rose at his usual easy hour the next morning and -went down-stairs meaning to breakfast, but succeeded in nothing but in -sitting and shivering by the fire. Mr. Wrench was again sent for, but -was gone on his rounds, and Mrs. Vincy seeing her darling’s changed -looks and general misery, began to cry and said she would send for Dr. -Sprague. - -“Oh, nonsense, mother! It’s nothing,” said Fred, putting out his hot -dry hand to her, “I shall soon be all right. I must have taken cold in -that nasty damp ride.” - -“Mamma!” said Rosamond, who was seated near the window (the dining-room -windows looked on that highly respectable street called Lowick Gate), -“there is Mr. Lydgate, stopping to speak to some one. If I were you I -would call him in. He has cured Ellen Bulstrode. They say he cures -every one.” - -Mrs. Vincy sprang to the window and opened it in an instant, thinking -only of Fred and not of medical etiquette. Lydgate was only two yards -off on the other side of some iron palisading, and turned round at the -sudden sound of the sash, before she called to him. In two minutes he -was in the room, and Rosamond went out, after waiting just long enough -to show a pretty anxiety conflicting with her sense of what was -becoming. - -Lydgate had to hear a narrative in which Mrs. Vincy’s mind insisted -with remarkable instinct on every point of minor importance, especially -on what Mr. Wrench had said and had not said about coming again. That -there might be an awkward affair with Wrench, Lydgate saw at once; but -the case was serious enough to make him dismiss that consideration: he -was convinced that Fred was in the pink-skinned stage of typhoid fever, -and that he had taken just the wrong medicines. He must go to bed -immediately, must have a regular nurse, and various appliances and -precautions must be used, about which Lydgate was particular. Poor Mrs. -Vincy’s terror at these indications of danger found vent in such words -as came most easily. She thought it “very ill usage on the part of Mr. -Wrench, who had attended their house so many years in preference to Mr. -Peacock, though Mr. Peacock was equally a friend. Why Mr. Wrench should -neglect her children more than others, she could not for the life of -her understand. He had not neglected Mrs. Larcher’s when they had the -measles, nor indeed would Mrs. Vincy have wished that he should. And if -anything should happen—” - -Here poor Mrs. Vincy’s spirit quite broke down, and her Niobe throat -and good-humored face were sadly convulsed. This was in the hall out of -Fred’s hearing, but Rosamond had opened the drawing-room door, and now -came forward anxiously. Lydgate apologized for Mr. Wrench, said that -the symptoms yesterday might have been disguising, and that this form -of fever was very equivocal in its beginnings: he would go immediately -to the druggist’s and have a prescription made up in order to lose no -time, but he would write to Mr. Wrench and tell him what had been done. - -“But you must come again—you must go on attending Fred. I can’t have my -boy left to anybody who may come or not. I bear nobody ill-will, thank -God, and Mr. Wrench saved me in the pleurisy, but he’d better have let -me die—if—if—” - -“I will meet Mr. Wrench here, then, shall I?” said Lydgate, really -believing that Wrench was not well prepared to deal wisely with a case -of this kind. - -“Pray make that arrangement, Mr. Lydgate,” said Rosamond, coming to her -mother’s aid, and supporting her arm to lead her away. - -When Mr. Vincy came home he was very angry with Wrench, and did not -care if he never came into his house again. Lydgate should go on now, -whether Wrench liked it or not. It was no joke to have fever in the -house. Everybody must be sent to now, not to come to dinner on -Thursday. And Pritchard needn’t get up any wine: brandy was the best -thing against infection. “I shall drink brandy,” added Mr. Vincy, -emphatically—as much as to say, this was not an occasion for firing -with blank-cartridges. “He’s an uncommonly unfortunate lad, is Fred. -He’d need have some luck by and by to make up for all this—else I don’t -know who’d have an eldest son.” - -“Don’t say so, Vincy,” said the mother, with a quivering lip, “if you -don’t want him to be taken from me.” - -“It will worret you to death, Lucy; _that_ I can see,” said Mr. Vincy, -more mildly. “However, Wrench shall know what I think of the matter.” -(What Mr. Vincy thought confusedly was, that the fever might somehow -have been hindered if Wrench had shown the proper solicitude about -his—the Mayor’s—family.) “I’m the last man to give in to the cry about -new doctors, or new parsons either—whether they’re Bulstrode’s men or -not. But Wrench shall know what I think, take it as he will.” - -Wrench did not take it at all well. Lydgate was as polite as he could -be in his offhand way, but politeness in a man who has placed you at a -disadvantage is only an additional exasperation, especially if he -happens to have been an object of dislike beforehand. Country -practitioners used to be an irritable species, susceptible on the point -of honor; and Mr. Wrench was one of the most irritable among them. He -did not refuse to meet Lydgate in the evening, but his temper was -somewhat tried on the occasion. He had to hear Mrs. Vincy say— - -“Oh, Mr. Wrench, what have I ever done that you should use me so?— To -go away, and never to come again! And my boy might have been stretched -a corpse!” - -Mr. Vincy, who had been keeping up a sharp fire on the enemy Infection, -and was a good deal heated in consequence, started up when he heard -Wrench come in, and went into the hall to let him know what he thought. - -“I’ll tell you what, Wrench, this is beyond a joke,” said the Mayor, -who of late had had to rebuke offenders with an official air, and now -broadened himself by putting his thumbs in his armholes. “To let fever -get unawares into a house like this. There are some things that ought -to be actionable, and are not so— that’s my opinion.” - -But irrational reproaches were easier to bear than the sense of being -instructed, or rather the sense that a younger man, like Lydgate, -inwardly considered him in need of instruction, for “in point of fact,” -Mr. Wrench afterwards said, Lydgate paraded flighty, foreign notions, -which would not wear. He swallowed his ire for the moment, but he -afterwards wrote to decline further attendance in the case. The house -might be a good one, but Mr. Wrench was not going to truckle to anybody -on a professional matter. He reflected, with much probability on his -side, that Lydgate would by-and-by be caught tripping too, and that his -ungentlemanly attempts to discredit the sale of drugs by his -professional brethren, would by-and-by recoil on himself. He threw out -biting remarks on Lydgate’s tricks, worthy only of a quack, to get -himself a factitious reputation with credulous people. That cant about -cures was never got up by sound practitioners. - -This was a point on which Lydgate smarted as much as Wrench could -desire. To be puffed by ignorance was not only humiliating, but -perilous, and not more enviable than the reputation of the -weather-prophet. He was impatient of the foolish expectations amidst -which all work must be carried on, and likely enough to damage himself -as much as Mr. Wrench could wish, by an unprofessional openness. - -However, Lydgate was installed as medical attendant on the Vincys, and -the event was a subject of general conversation in Middlemarch. Some -said, that the Vincys had behaved scandalously, that Mr. Vincy had -threatened Wrench, and that Mrs. Vincy had accused him of poisoning her -son. Others were of opinion that Mr. Lydgate’s passing by was -providential, that he was wonderfully clever in fevers, and that -Bulstrode was in the right to bring him forward. Many people believed -that Lydgate’s coming to the town at all was really due to Bulstrode; -and Mrs. Taft, who was always counting stitches and gathered her -information in misleading fragments caught between the rows of her -knitting, had got it into her head that Mr. Lydgate was a natural son -of Bulstrode’s, a fact which seemed to justify her suspicions of -evangelical laymen. - -She one day communicated this piece of knowledge to Mrs. Farebrother, -who did not fail to tell her son of it, observing— - -“I should not be surprised at anything in Bulstrode, but I should be -sorry to think it of Mr. Lydgate.” - -“Why, mother,” said Mr. Farebrother, after an explosive laugh, “you -know very well that Lydgate is of a good family in the North. He never -heard of Bulstrode before he came here.” - -“That is satisfactory so far as Mr. Lydgate is concerned, Camden,” said -the old lady, with an air of precision.—“But as to Bulstrode—the report -may be true of some other son.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -Let the high Muse chant loves Olympian: -We are but mortals, and must sing of man. - - -An eminent philosopher among my friends, who can dignify even your ugly -furniture by lifting it into the serene light of science, has shown me -this pregnant little fact. Your pier-glass or extensive surface of -polished steel made to be rubbed by a housemaid, will be minutely and -multitudinously scratched in all directions; but place now against it a -lighted candle as a centre of illumination, and lo! the scratches will -seem to arrange themselves in a fine series of concentric circles round -that little sun. It is demonstrable that the scratches are going -everywhere impartially and it is only your candle which produces the -flattering illusion of a concentric arrangement, its light falling with -an exclusive optical selection. These things are a parable. The -scratches are events, and the candle is the egoism of any person now -absent—of Miss Vincy, for example. Rosamond had a Providence of her own -who had kindly made her more charming than other girls, and who seemed -to have arranged Fred’s illness and Mr. Wrench’s mistake in order to -bring her and Lydgate within effective proximity. It would have been to -contravene these arrangements if Rosamond had consented to go away to -Stone Court or elsewhere, as her parents wished her to do, especially -since Mr. Lydgate thought the precaution needless. Therefore, while -Miss Morgan and the children were sent away to a farmhouse the morning -after Fred’s illness had declared itself, Rosamond refused to leave -papa and mamma. - -Poor mamma indeed was an object to touch any creature born of woman; -and Mr. Vincy, who doted on his wife, was more alarmed on her account -than on Fred’s. But for his insistence she would have taken no rest: -her brightness was all bedimmed; unconscious of her costume which had -always been so fresh and gay, she was like a sick bird with languid eye -and plumage ruffled, her senses dulled to the sights and sounds that -used most to interest her. Fred’s delirium, in which he seemed to be -wandering out of her reach, tore her heart. After her first outburst -against Mr. Wrench she went about very quietly: her one low cry was to -Lydgate. She would follow him out of the room and put her hand on his -arm moaning out, “Save my boy.” Once she pleaded, “He has always been -good to me, Mr. Lydgate: he never had a hard word for his mother,”—as -if poor Fred’s suffering were an accusation against him. All the -deepest fibres of the mother’s memory were stirred, and the young man -whose voice took a gentler tone when he spoke to her, was one with the -babe whom she had loved, with a love new to her, before he was born. - -“I have good hope, Mrs. Vincy,” Lydgate would say. “Come down with me -and let us talk about the food.” In that way he led her to the parlor -where Rosamond was, and made a change for her, surprising her into -taking some tea or broth which had been prepared for her. There was a -constant understanding between him and Rosamond on these matters. He -almost always saw her before going to the sickroom, and she appealed to -him as to what she could do for mamma. Her presence of mind and -adroitness in carrying out his hints were admirable, and it is not -wonderful that the idea of seeing Rosamond began to mingle itself with -his interest in the case. Especially when the critical stage was -passed, and he began to feel confident of Fred’s recovery. In the more -doubtful time, he had advised calling in Dr. Sprague (who, if he could, -would rather have remained neutral on Wrench’s account); but after two -consultations, the conduct of the case was left to Lydgate, and there -was every reason to make him assiduous. Morning and evening he was at -Mr. Vincy’s, and gradually the visits became cheerful as Fred became -simply feeble, and lay not only in need of the utmost petting but -conscious of it, so that Mrs. Vincy felt as if, after all, the illness -had made a festival for her tenderness. - -Both father and mother held it an added reason for good spirits, when -old Mr. Featherstone sent messages by Lydgate, saying that Fred must -make haste and get well, as he, Peter Featherstone, could not do -without him, and missed his visits sadly. The old man himself was -getting bedridden. Mrs. Vincy told these messages to Fred when he could -listen, and he turned towards her his delicate, pinched face, from -which all the thick blond hair had been cut away, and in which the eyes -seemed to have got larger, yearning for some word about Mary—wondering -what she felt about his illness. No word passed his lips; but “to hear -with eyes belongs to love’s rare wit,” and the mother in the fulness of -her heart not only divined Fred’s longing, but felt ready for any -sacrifice in order to satisfy him. - -“If I can only see my boy strong again,” she said, in her loving folly; -“and who knows?—perhaps master of Stone Court! and he can marry anybody -he likes then.” - -“Not if they won’t have me, mother,” said Fred. The illness had made -him childish, and tears came as he spoke. - -“Oh, take a bit of jelly, my dear,” said Mrs. Vincy, secretly -incredulous of any such refusal. - -She never left Fred’s side when her husband was not in the house, and -thus Rosamond was in the unusual position of being much alone. Lydgate, -naturally, never thought of staying long with her, yet it seemed that -the brief impersonal conversations they had together were creating that -peculiar intimacy which consists in shyness. They were obliged to look -at each other in speaking, and somehow the looking could not be carried -through as the matter of course which it really was. Lydgate began to -feel this sort of consciousness unpleasant and one day looked down, or -anywhere, like an ill-worked puppet. But this turned out badly: the -next day, Rosamond looked down, and the consequence was that when their -eyes met again, both were more conscious than before. There was no help -for this in science, and as Lydgate did not want to flirt, there seemed -to be no help for it in folly. It was therefore a relief when neighbors -no longer considered the house in quarantine, and when the chances of -seeing Rosamond alone were very much reduced. - -But that intimacy of mutual embarrassment, in which each feels that the -other is feeling something, having once existed, its effect is not to -be done away with. Talk about the weather and other well-bred topics is -apt to seem a hollow device, and behavior can hardly become easy unless -it frankly recognizes a mutual fascination—which of course need not -mean anything deep or serious. This was the way in which Rosamond and -Lydgate slid gracefully into ease, and made their intercourse lively -again. Visitors came and went as usual, there was once more music in -the drawing-room, and all the extra hospitality of Mr. Vincy’s -mayoralty returned. Lydgate, whenever he could, took his seat by -Rosamond’s side, and lingered to hear her music, calling himself her -captive—meaning, all the while, not to be her captive. The -preposterousness of the notion that he could at once set up a -satisfactory establishment as a married man was a sufficient guarantee -against danger. This play at being a little in love was agreeable, and -did not interfere with graver pursuits. Flirtation, after all, was not -necessarily a singeing process. Rosamond, for her part, had never -enjoyed the days so much in her life before: she was sure of being -admired by some one worth captivating, and she did not distinguish -flirtation from love, either in herself or in another. She seemed to be -sailing with a fair wind just whither she would go, and her thoughts -were much occupied with a handsome house in Lowick Gate which she hoped -would by-and-by be vacant. She was quite determined, when she was -married, to rid herself adroitly of all the visitors who were not -agreeable to her at her father’s; and she imagined the drawing-room in -her favorite house with various styles of furniture. - -Certainly her thoughts were much occupied with Lydgate himself; he -seemed to her almost perfect: if he had known his notes so that his -enchantment under her music had been less like an emotional elephant’s, -and if he had been able to discriminate better the refinements of her -taste in dress, she could hardly have mentioned a deficiency in him. -How different he was from young Plymdale or Mr. Caius Larcher! Those -young men had not a notion of French, and could speak on no subject -with striking knowledge, except perhaps the dyeing and carrying trades, -which of course they were ashamed to mention; they were Middlemarch -gentry, elated with their silver-headed whips and satin stocks, but -embarrassed in their manners, and timidly jocose: even Fred was above -them, having at least the accent and manner of a university man. -Whereas Lydgate was always listened to, bore himself with the careless -politeness of conscious superiority, and seemed to have the right -clothes on by a certain natural affinity, without ever having to think -about them. Rosamond was proud when he entered the room, and when he -approached her with a distinguishing smile, she had a delicious sense -that she was the object of enviable homage. If Lydgate had been aware -of all the pride he excited in that delicate bosom, he might have been -just as well pleased as any other man, even the most densely ignorant -of humoral pathology or fibrous tissue: he held it one of the prettiest -attitudes of the feminine mind to adore a man’s pre-eminence without -too precise a knowledge of what it consisted in. But Rosamond was not -one of those helpless girls who betray themselves unawares, and whose -behavior is awkwardly driven by their impulses, instead of being -steered by wary grace and propriety. Do you imagine that her rapid -forecast and rumination concerning house-furniture and society were -ever discernible in her conversation, even with her mamma? On the -contrary, she would have expressed the prettiest surprise and -disapprobation if she had heard that another young lady had been -detected in that immodest prematureness—indeed, would probably have -disbelieved in its possibility. For Rosamond never showed any -unbecoming knowledge, and was always that combination of correct -sentiments, music, dancing, drawing, elegant note-writing, private -album for extracted verse, and perfect blond loveliness, which made the -irresistible woman for the doomed man of that date. Think no unfair -evil of her, pray: she had no wicked plots, nothing sordid or -mercenary; in fact, she never thought of money except as something -necessary which other people would always provide. She was not in the -habit of devising falsehoods, and if her statements were no direct clew -to fact, why, they were not intended in that light—they were among her -elegant accomplishments, intended to please. Nature had inspired many -arts in finishing Mrs. Lemon’s favorite pupil, who by general consent -(Fred’s excepted) was a rare compound of beauty, cleverness, and -amiability. - -Lydgate found it more and more agreeable to be with her, and there was -no constraint now, there was a delightful interchange of influence in -their eyes, and what they said had that superfluity of meaning for -them, which is observable with some sense of flatness by a third -person; still they had no interviews or asides from which a third -person need have been excluded. In fact, they flirted; and Lydgate was -secure in the belief that they did nothing else. If a man could not -love and be wise, surely he could flirt and be wise at the same time? -Really, the men in Middlemarch, except Mr. Farebrother, were great -bores, and Lydgate did not care about commercial politics or cards: -what was he to do for relaxation? He was often invited to the -Bulstrodes’; but the girls there were hardly out of the schoolroom; and -Mrs. Bulstrode’s _naive_ way of conciliating piety and worldliness, the -nothingness of this life and the desirability of cut glass, the -consciousness at once of filthy rags and the best damask, was not a -sufficient relief from the weight of her husband’s invariable -seriousness. The Vincys’ house, with all its faults, was the pleasanter -by contrast; besides, it nourished Rosamond—sweet to look at as a -half-opened blush-rose, and adorned with accomplishments for the -refined amusement of man. - -But he made some enemies, other than medical, by his success with Miss -Vincy. One evening he came into the drawing-room rather late, when -several other visitors were there. The card-table had drawn off the -elders, and Mr. Ned Plymdale (one of the good matches in Middlemarch, -though not one of its leading minds) was in _tête-à-tête_ with -Rosamond. He had brought the last “Keepsake,” the gorgeous watered-silk -publication which marked modern progress at that time; and he -considered himself very fortunate that he could be the first to look -over it with her, dwelling on the ladies and gentlemen with shiny -copper-plate cheeks and copper-plate smiles, and pointing to comic -verses as capital and sentimental stories as interesting. Rosamond was -gracious, and Mr. Ned was satisfied that he had the very best thing in -art and literature as a medium for “paying addresses”—the very thing to -please a nice girl. He had also reasons, deep rather than ostensible, -for being satisfied with his own appearance. To superficial observers -his chin had too vanishing an aspect, looking as if it were being -gradually reabsorbed. And it did indeed cause him some difficulty about -the fit of his satin stocks, for which chins were at that time useful. - -“I think the Honorable Mrs. S. is something like you,” said Mr. Ned. He -kept the book open at the bewitching portrait, and looked at it rather -languishingly. - -“Her back is very large; she seems to have sat for that,” said -Rosamond, not meaning any satire, but thinking how red young Plymdale’s -hands were, and wondering why Lydgate did not come. She went on with -her tatting all the while. - -“I did not say she was as beautiful as you are,” said Mr. Ned, -venturing to look from the portrait to its rival. - -“I suspect you of being an adroit flatterer,” said Rosamond, feeling -sure that she should have to reject this young gentleman a second time. - -But now Lydgate came in; the book was closed before he reached -Rosamond’s corner, and as he took his seat with easy confidence on the -other side of her, young Plymdale’s jaw fell like a barometer towards -the cheerless side of change. Rosamond enjoyed not only Lydgate’s -presence but its effect: she liked to excite jealousy. - -“What a late comer you are!” she said, as they shook hands. “Mamma had -given you up a little while ago. How do you find Fred?” - -“As usual; going on well, but slowly. I want him to go away—to Stone -Court, for example. But your mamma seems to have some objection.” - -“Poor fellow!” said Rosamond, prettily. “You will see Fred so changed,” -she added, turning to the other suitor; “we have looked to Mr. Lydgate -as our guardian angel during this illness.” - -Mr. Ned smiled nervously, while Lydgate, drawing the “Keepsake” towards -him and opening it, gave a short scornful laugh and tossed up his chin, -as if in wonderment at human folly. - -“What are you laughing at so profanely?” said Rosamond, with bland -neutrality. - -“I wonder which would turn out to be the silliest—the engravings or the -writing here,” said Lydgate, in his most convinced tone, while he -turned over the pages quickly, seeming to see all through the book in -no time, and showing his large white hands to much advantage, as -Rosamond thought. “Do look at this bridegroom coming out of church: did -you ever see such a ‘sugared invention’—as the Elizabethans used to -say? Did any haberdasher ever look so smirking? Yet I will answer for -it the story makes him one of the first gentlemen in the land.” - -“You are so severe, I am frightened at you,” said Rosamond, keeping her -amusement duly moderate. Poor young Plymdale had lingered with -admiration over this very engraving, and his spirit was stirred. - -“There are a great many celebrated people writing in the ‘Keepsake,’ at -all events,” he said, in a tone at once piqued and timid. “This is the -first time I have heard it called silly.” - -“I think I shall turn round on you and accuse you of being a Goth,” -said Rosamond, looking at Lydgate with a smile. “I suspect you know -nothing about Lady Blessington and L. E. L.” Rosamond herself was not -without relish for these writers, but she did not readily commit -herself by admiration, and was alive to the slightest hint that -anything was not, according to Lydgate, in the very highest taste. - -“But Sir Walter Scott—I suppose Mr. Lydgate knows him,” said young -Plymdale, a little cheered by this advantage. - -“Oh, I read no literature now,” said Lydgate, shutting the book, and -pushing it away. “I read so much when I was a lad, that I suppose it -will last me all my life. I used to know Scott’s poems by heart.” - -“I should like to know when you left off,” said Rosamond, “because then -I might be sure that I knew something which you did not know.” - -“Mr. Lydgate would say that was not worth knowing,” said Mr. Ned, -purposely caustic. - -“On the contrary,” said Lydgate, showing no smart; but smiling with -exasperating confidence at Rosamond. “It would be worth knowing by the -fact that Miss Vincy could tell it me.” - -Young Plymdale soon went to look at the whist-playing, thinking that -Lydgate was one of the most conceited, unpleasant fellows it had ever -been his ill-fortune to meet. - -“How rash you are!” said Rosamond, inwardly delighted. “Do you see that -you have given offence?” - -“What! is it Mr. Plymdale’s book? I am sorry. I didn’t think about it.” - -“I shall begin to admit what you said of yourself when you first came -here—that you are a bear, and want teaching by the birds.” - -“Well, there is a bird who can teach me what she will. Don’t I listen -to her willingly?” - -To Rosamond it seemed as if she and Lydgate were as good as engaged. -That they were some time to be engaged had long been an idea in her -mind; and ideas, we know, tend to a more solid kind of existence, the -necessary materials being at hand. It is true, Lydgate had the -counter-idea of remaining unengaged; but this was a mere negative, a -shadow cast by other resolves which themselves were capable of -shrinking. Circumstance was almost sure to be on the side of Rosamond’s -idea, which had a shaping activity and looked through watchful blue -eyes, whereas Lydgate’s lay blind and unconcerned as a jelly-fish which -gets melted without knowing it. - -That evening when he went home, he looked at his phials to see how a -process of maceration was going on, with undisturbed interest; and he -wrote out his daily notes with as much precision as usual. The reveries -from which it was difficult for him to detach himself were ideal -constructions of something else than Rosamond’s virtues, and the -primitive tissue was still his fair unknown. Moreover, he was beginning -to feel some zest for the growing though half-suppressed feud between -him and the other medical men, which was likely to become more -manifest, now that Bulstrode’s method of managing the new hospital was -about to be declared; and there were various inspiriting signs that his -non-acceptance by some of Peacock’s patients might be counterbalanced -by the impression he had produced in other quarters. Only a few days -later, when he had happened to overtake Rosamond on the Lowick road and -had got down from his horse to walk by her side until he had quite -protected her from a passing drove, he had been stopped by a servant on -horseback with a message calling him in to a house of some importance -where Peacock had never attended; and it was the second instance of -this kind. The servant was Sir James Chettam’s, and the house was -Lowick Manor. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -1_st Gent_. All times are good to seek your wedded home - Bringing a mutual delight. - -2_d Gent_. Why, true. - The calendar hath not an evil day - For souls made one by love, and even death - Were sweetness, if it came like rolling waves - While they two clasped each other, and foresaw - No life apart. - - -Mr. and Mrs. Casaubon, returning from their wedding journey, arrived at -Lowick Manor in the middle of January. A light snow was falling as they -descended at the door, and in the morning, when Dorothea passed from -her dressing-room into the blue-green boudoir that we know of, she saw -the long avenue of limes lifting their trunks from a white earth, and -spreading white branches against the dun and motionless sky. The -distant flat shrank in uniform whiteness and low-hanging uniformity of -cloud. The very furniture in the room seemed to have shrunk since she -saw it before: the stag in the tapestry looked more like a ghost in his -ghostly blue-green world; the volumes of polite literature in the -bookcase looked more like immovable imitations of books. The bright -fire of dry oak-boughs burning on the logs seemed an incongruous -renewal of life and glow—like the figure of Dorothea herself as she -entered carrying the red-leather cases containing the cameos for Celia. - -She was glowing from her morning toilet as only healthful youth can -glow: there was gem-like brightness on her coiled hair and in her hazel -eyes; there was warm red life in her lips; her throat had a breathing -whiteness above the differing white of the fur which itself seemed to -wind about her neck and cling down her blue-gray pelisse with a -tenderness gathered from her own, a sentient commingled innocence which -kept its loveliness against the crystalline purity of the outdoor snow. -As she laid the cameo-cases on the table in the bow-window, she -unconsciously kept her hands on them, immediately absorbed in looking -out on the still, white enclosure which made her visible world. - -Mr. Casaubon, who had risen early complaining of palpitation, was in -the library giving audience to his curate Mr. Tucker. By-and-by Celia -would come in her quality of bridesmaid as well as sister, and through -the next weeks there would be wedding visits received and given; all in -continuance of that transitional life understood to correspond with the -excitement of bridal felicity, and keeping up the sense of busy -ineffectiveness, as of a dream which the dreamer begins to suspect. The -duties of her married life, contemplated as so great beforehand, seemed -to be shrinking with the furniture and the white vapor-walled -landscape. The clear heights where she expected to walk in full -communion had become difficult to see even in her imagination; the -delicious repose of the soul on a complete superior had been shaken -into uneasy effort and alarmed with dim presentiment. When would the -days begin of that active wifely devotion which was to strengthen her -husband’s life and exalt her own? Never perhaps, as she had -preconceived them; but somehow—still somehow. In this solemnly pledged -union of her life, duty would present itself in some new form of -inspiration and give a new meaning to wifely love. - -Meanwhile there was the snow and the low arch of dun vapor—there was -the stifling oppression of that gentlewoman’s world, where everything -was done for her and none asked for her aid—where the sense of -connection with a manifold pregnant existence had to be kept up -painfully as an inward vision, instead of coming from without in claims -that would have shaped her energies.— “What shall I do?” “Whatever you -please, my dear:” that had been her brief history since she had left -off learning morning lessons and practising silly rhythms on the hated -piano. Marriage, which was to bring guidance into worthy and imperative -occupation, had not yet freed her from the gentlewoman’s oppressive -liberty: it had not even filled her leisure with the ruminant joy of -unchecked tenderness. Her blooming full-pulsed youth stood there in a -moral imprisonment which made itself one with the chill, colorless, -narrowed landscape, with the shrunken furniture, the never-read books, -and the ghostly stag in a pale fantastic world that seemed to be -vanishing from the daylight. - -In the first minutes when Dorothea looked out she felt nothing but the -dreary oppression; then came a keen remembrance, and turning away from -the window she walked round the room. The ideas and hopes which were -living in her mind when she first saw this room nearly three months -before were present now only as memories: she judged them as we judge -transient and departed things. All existence seemed to beat with a -lower pulse than her own, and her religious faith was a solitary cry, -the struggle out of a nightmare in which every object was withering and -shrinking away from her. Each remembered thing in the room was -disenchanted, was deadened as an unlit transparency, till her wandering -gaze came to the group of miniatures, and there at last she saw -something which had gathered new breath and meaning: it was the -miniature of Mr. Casaubon’s aunt Julia, who had made the unfortunate -marriage—of Will Ladislaw’s grandmother. Dorothea could fancy that it -was alive now—the delicate woman’s face which yet had a headstrong -look, a peculiarity difficult to interpret. Was it only her friends who -thought her marriage unfortunate? or did she herself find it out to be -a mistake, and taste the salt bitterness of her tears in the merciful -silence of the night? What breadths of experience Dorothea seemed to -have passed over since she first looked at this miniature! She felt a -new companionship with it, as if it had an ear for her and could see -how she was looking at it. Here was a woman who had known some -difficulty about marriage. Nay, the colors deepened, the lips and chin -seemed to get larger, the hair and eyes seemed to be sending out light, -the face was masculine and beamed on her with that full gaze which -tells her on whom it falls that she is too interesting for the -slightest movement of her eyelid to pass unnoticed and uninterpreted. -The vivid presentation came like a pleasant glow to Dorothea: she felt -herself smiling, and turning from the miniature sat down and looked up -as if she were again talking to a figure in front of her. But the smile -disappeared as she went on meditating, and at last she said aloud— - -“Oh, it was cruel to speak so! How sad—how dreadful!” - -She rose quickly and went out of the room, hurrying along the corridor, -with the irresistible impulse to go and see her husband and inquire if -she could do anything for him. Perhaps Mr. Tucker was gone and Mr. -Casaubon was alone in the library. She felt as if all her morning’s -gloom would vanish if she could see her husband glad because of her -presence. - -But when she reached the head of the dark oak there was Celia coming -up, and below there was Mr. Brooke, exchanging welcomes and -congratulations with Mr. Casaubon. - -“Dodo!” said Celia, in her quiet staccato; then kissed her sister, -whose arms encircled her, and said no more. I think they both cried a -little in a furtive manner, while Dorothea ran down-stairs to greet her -uncle. - -“I need not ask how you are, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, after kissing -her forehead. “Rome has agreed with you, I see—happiness, frescos, the -antique—that sort of thing. Well, it’s very pleasant to have you back -again, and you understand all about art now, eh? But Casaubon is a -little pale, I tell him—a little pale, you know. Studying hard in his -holidays is carrying it rather too far. I overdid it at one time”—Mr. -Brooke still held Dorothea’s hand, but had turned his face to Mr. -Casaubon—“about topography, ruins, temples—I thought I had a clew, but -I saw it would carry me too far, and nothing might come of it. You may -go any length in that sort of thing, and nothing may come of it, you -know.” - -Dorothea’s eyes also were turned up to her husband’s face with some -anxiety at the idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might -be aware of signs which she had not noticed. - -“Nothing to alarm you, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, observing her -expression. “A little English beef and mutton will soon make a -difference. It was all very well to look pale, sitting for the portrait -of Aquinas, you know—we got your letter just in time. But Aquinas, -now—he was a little too subtle, wasn’t he? Does anybody read Aquinas?” - -“He is not indeed an author adapted to superficial minds,” said Mr. -Casaubon, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience. - -“You would like coffee in your own room, uncle?” said Dorothea, coming -to the rescue. - -“Yes; and you must go to Celia: she has great news to tell you, you -know. I leave it all to her.” - -The blue-green boudoir looked much more cheerful when Celia was seated -there in a pelisse exactly like her sister’s, surveying the cameos with -a placid satisfaction, while the conversation passed on to other -topics. - -“Do you think it nice to go to Rome on a wedding journey?” said Celia, -with her ready delicate blush which Dorothea was used to on the -smallest occasions. - -“It would not suit all—not you, dear, for example,” said Dorothea, -quietly. No one would ever know what she thought of a wedding journey -to Rome. - -“Mrs. Cadwallader says it is nonsense, people going a long journey when -they are married. She says they get tired to death of each other, and -can’t quarrel comfortably, as they would at home. And Lady Chettam says -she went to Bath.” Celia’s color changed again and again—seemed - -“To come and go with tidings from the heart, -As it a running messenger had been.” - - -It must mean more than Celia’s blushing usually did. - -“Celia! has something happened?” said Dorothea, in a tone full of -sisterly feeling. “Have you really any great news to tell me?” - -“It was because you went away, Dodo. Then there was nobody but me for -Sir James to talk to,” said Celia, with a certain roguishness in her -eyes. - -“I understand. It is as I used to hope and believe,” said Dorothea, -taking her sister’s face between her hands, and looking at her half -anxiously. Celia’s marriage seemed more serious than it used to do. - -“It was only three days ago,” said Celia. “And Lady Chettam is very -kind.” - -“And you are very happy?” - -“Yes. We are not going to be married yet. Because every thing is to be -got ready. And I don’t want to be married so very soon, because I think -it is nice to be engaged. And we shall be married all our lives after.” - -“I do believe you could not marry better, Kitty. Sir James is a good, -honorable man,” said Dorothea, warmly. - -“He has gone on with the cottages, Dodo. He will tell you about them -when he comes. Shall you be glad to see him?” - -“Of course I shall. How can you ask me?” - -“Only I was afraid you would be getting so learned,” said Celia, -regarding Mr. Casaubon’s learning as a kind of damp which might in due -time saturate a neighboring body. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -I found that no genius in another could please me. My unfortunate -paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort.—GOLDSMITH. - - -One morning, some weeks after her arrival at Lowick, Dorothea—but why -always Dorothea? Was her point of view the only possible one with -regard to this marriage? I protest against all our interest, all our -effort at understanding being given to the young skins that look -blooming in spite of trouble; for these too will get faded, and will -know the older and more eating griefs which we are helping to neglect. -In spite of the blinking eyes and white moles objectionable to Celia, -and the want of muscular curve which was morally painful to Sir James, -Mr. Casaubon had an intense consciousness within him, and was -spiritually a-hungered like the rest of us. He had done nothing -exceptional in marrying—nothing but what society sanctions, and -considers an occasion for wreaths and bouquets. It had occurred to him -that he must not any longer defer his intention of matrimony, and he -had reflected that in taking a wife, a man of good position should -expect and carefully choose a blooming young lady—the younger the -better, because more educable and submissive—of a rank equal to his -own, of religious principles, virtuous disposition, and good -understanding. On such a young lady he would make handsome settlements, -and he would neglect no arrangement for her happiness: in return, he -should receive family pleasures and leave behind him that copy of -himself which seemed so urgently required of a man—to the sonneteers of -the sixteenth century. Times had altered since then, and no sonneteer -had insisted on Mr. Casaubon’s leaving a copy of himself; moreover, he -had not yet succeeded in issuing copies of his mythological key; but he -had always intended to acquit himself by marriage, and the sense that -he was fast leaving the years behind him, that the world was getting -dimmer and that he felt lonely, was a reason to him for losing no more -time in overtaking domestic delights before they too were left behind -by the years. - -And when he had seen Dorothea he believed that he had found even more -than he demanded: she might really be such a helpmate to him as would -enable him to dispense with a hired secretary, an aid which Mr. -Casaubon had never yet employed and had a suspicious dread of. (Mr. -Casaubon was nervously conscious that he was expected to manifest a -powerful mind.) Providence, in its kindness, had supplied him with the -wife he needed. A wife, a modest young lady, with the purely -appreciative, unambitious abilities of her sex, is sure to think her -husband’s mind powerful. Whether Providence had taken equal care of -Miss Brooke in presenting her with Mr. Casaubon was an idea which could -hardly occur to him. Society never made the preposterous demand that a -man should think as much about his own qualifications for making a -charming girl happy as he thinks of hers for making himself happy. As -if a man could choose not only his wife but his wife’s husband! Or as -if he were bound to provide charms for his posterity in his own -person!— When Dorothea accepted him with effusion, that was only -natural; and Mr. Casaubon believed that his happiness was going to -begin. - -He had not had much foretaste of happiness in his previous life. To -know intense joy without a strong bodily frame, one must have an -enthusiastic soul. Mr. Casaubon had never had a strong bodily frame, -and his soul was sensitive without being enthusiastic: it was too -languid to thrill out of self-consciousness into passionate delight; it -went on fluttering in the swampy ground where it was hatched, thinking -of its wings and never flying. His experience was of that pitiable kind -which shrinks from pity, and fears most of all that it should be known: -it was that proud narrow sensitiveness which has not mass enough to -spare for transformation into sympathy, and quivers thread-like in -small currents of self-preoccupation or at best of an egoistic -scrupulosity. And Mr. Casaubon had many scruples: he was capable of a -severe self-restraint; he was resolute in being a man of honor -according to the code; he would be unimpeachable by any recognized -opinion. In conduct these ends had been attained; but the difficulty of -making his Key to all Mythologies unimpeachable weighed like lead upon -his mind; and the pamphlets—or “Parerga” as he called them—by which he -tested his public and deposited small monumental records of his march, -were far from having been seen in all their significance. He suspected -the Archdeacon of not having read them; he was in painful doubt as to -what was really thought of them by the leading minds of Brasenose, and -bitterly convinced that his old acquaintance Carp had been the writer -of that depreciatory recension which was kept locked in a small drawer -of Mr. Casaubon’s desk, and also in a dark closet of his verbal memory. -These were heavy impressions to struggle against, and brought that -melancholy embitterment which is the consequence of all excessive -claim: even his religious faith wavered with his wavering trust in his -own authorship, and the consolations of the Christian hope in -immortality seemed to lean on the immortality of the still unwritten -Key to all Mythologies. For my part I am very sorry for him. It is an -uneasy lot at best, to be what we call highly taught and yet not to -enjoy: to be present at this great spectacle of life and never to be -liberated from a small hungry shivering self—never to be fully -possessed by the glory we behold, never to have our consciousness -rapturously transformed into the vividness of a thought, the ardor of a -passion, the energy of an action, but always to be scholarly and -uninspired, ambitious and timid, scrupulous and dim-sighted. Becoming a -dean or even a bishop would make little difference, I fear, to Mr. -Casaubon’s uneasiness. Doubtless some ancient Greek has observed that -behind the big mask and the speaking-trumpet, there must always be our -poor little eyes peeping as usual and our timorous lips more or less -under anxious control. - -To this mental estate mapped out a quarter of a century before, to -sensibilities thus fenced in, Mr. Casaubon had thought of annexing -happiness with a lovely young bride; but even before marriage, as we -have seen, he found himself under a new depression in the consciousness -that the new bliss was not blissful to him. Inclination yearned back to -its old, easier custom. And the deeper he went in domesticity the more -did the sense of acquitting himself and acting with propriety -predominate over any other satisfaction. Marriage, like religion and -erudition, nay, like authorship itself, was fated to become an outward -requirement, and Edward Casaubon was bent on fulfilling unimpeachably -all requirements. Even drawing Dorothea into use in his study, -according to his own intention before marriage, was an effort which he -was always tempted to defer, and but for her pleading insistence it -might never have begun. But she had succeeded in making it a matter of -course that she should take her place at an early hour in the library -and have work either of reading aloud or copying assigned her. The work -had been easier to define because Mr. Casaubon had adopted an immediate -intention: there was to be a new Parergon, a small monograph on some -lately traced indications concerning the Egyptian mysteries whereby -certain assertions of Warburton’s could be corrected. References were -extensive even here, but not altogether shoreless; and sentences were -actually to be written in the shape wherein they would be scanned by -Brasenose and a less formidable posterity. These minor monumental -productions were always exciting to Mr. Casaubon; digestion was made -difficult by the interference of citations, or by the rivalry of -dialectical phrases ringing against each other in his brain. And from -the first there was to be a Latin dedication about which everything was -uncertain except that it was not to be addressed to Carp: it was a -poisonous regret to Mr. Casaubon that he had once addressed a -dedication to Carp in which he had numbered that member of the animal -kingdom among the _viros nullo ævo perituros_, a mistake which would -infallibly lay the dedicator open to ridicule in the next age, and -might even be chuckled over by Pike and Tench in the present. - -Thus Mr. Casaubon was in one of his busiest epochs, and as I began to -say a little while ago, Dorothea joined him early in the library where -he had breakfasted alone. Celia at this time was on a second visit to -Lowick, probably the last before her marriage, and was in the -drawing-room expecting Sir James. - -Dorothea had learned to read the signs of her husband’s mood, and she -saw that the morning had become more foggy there during the last hour. -She was going silently to her desk when he said, in that distant tone -which implied that he was discharging a disagreeable duty— - -“Dorothea, here is a letter for you, which was enclosed in one -addressed to me.” - -It was a letter of two pages, and she immediately looked at the -signature. - -“Mr. Ladislaw! What can he have to say to me?” she exclaimed, in a tone -of pleased surprise. “But,” she added, looking at Mr. Casaubon, “I can -imagine what he has written to you about.” - -“You can, if you please, read the letter,” said Mr. Casaubon, severely -pointing to it with his pen, and not looking at her. “But I may as well -say beforehand, that I must decline the proposal it contains to pay a -visit here. I trust I may be excused for desiring an interval of -complete freedom from such distractions as have been hitherto -inevitable, and especially from guests whose desultory vivacity makes -their presence a fatigue.” - -There had been no clashing of temper between Dorothea and her husband -since that little explosion in Rome, which had left such strong traces -in her mind that it had been easier ever since to quell emotion than to -incur the consequence of venting it. But this ill-tempered anticipation -that she could desire visits which might be disagreeable to her -husband, this gratuitous defence of himself against selfish complaint -on her part, was too sharp a sting to be meditated on until after it -had been resented. Dorothea had thought that she could have been -patient with John Milton, but she had never imagined him behaving in -this way; and for a moment Mr. Casaubon seemed to be stupidly -undiscerning and odiously unjust. Pity, that “new-born babe” which was -by-and-by to rule many a storm within her, did not “stride the blast” -on this occasion. With her first words, uttered in a tone that shook -him, she startled Mr. Casaubon into looking at her, and meeting the -flash of her eyes. - -“Why do you attribute to me a wish for anything that would annoy you? -You speak to me as if I were something you had to contend against. Wait -at least till I appear to consult my own pleasure apart from yours.” - -“Dorothea, you are hasty,” answered Mr. Casaubon, nervously. - -Decidedly, this woman was too young to be on the formidable level of -wifehood—unless she had been pale and featureless and taken everything -for granted. - -“I think it was you who were first hasty in your false suppositions -about my feeling,” said Dorothea, in the same tone. The fire was not -dissipated yet, and she thought it was ignoble in her husband not to -apologize to her. - -“We will, if you please, say no more on this subject, Dorothea. I have -neither leisure nor energy for this kind of debate.” - -Here Mr. Casaubon dipped his pen and made as if he would return to his -writing, though his hand trembled so much that the words seemed to be -written in an unknown character. There are answers which, in turning -away wrath, only send it to the other end of the room, and to have a -discussion coolly waived when you feel that justice is all on your own -side is even more exasperating in marriage than in philosophy. - -Dorothea left Ladislaw’s two letters unread on her husband’s -writing-table and went to her own place, the scorn and indignation -within her rejecting the reading of these letters, just as we hurl away -any trash towards which we seem to have been suspected of mean -cupidity. She did not in the least divine the subtle sources of her -husband’s bad temper about these letters: she only knew that they had -caused him to offend her. She began to work at once, and her hand did -not tremble; on the contrary, in writing out the quotations which had -been given to her the day before, she felt that she was forming her -letters beautifully, and it seemed to her that she saw the construction -of the Latin she was copying, and which she was beginning to -understand, more clearly than usual. In her indignation there was a -sense of superiority, but it went out for the present in firmness of -stroke, and did not compress itself into an inward articulate voice -pronouncing the once “affable archangel” a poor creature. - -There had been this apparent quiet for half an hour, and Dorothea had -not looked away from her own table, when she heard the loud bang of a -book on the floor, and turning quickly saw Mr. Casaubon on the library -steps clinging forward as if he were in some bodily distress. She -started up and bounded towards him in an instant: he was evidently in -great straits for breath. Jumping on a stool she got close to his elbow -and said with her whole soul melted into tender alarm— - -“Can you lean on me, dear?” - -He was still for two or three minutes, which seemed endless to her, -unable to speak or move, gasping for breath. When at last he descended -the three steps and fell backward in the large chair which Dorothea had -drawn close to the foot of the ladder, he no longer gasped but seemed -helpless and about to faint. Dorothea rang the bell violently, and -presently Mr. Casaubon was helped to the couch: he did not faint, and -was gradually reviving, when Sir James Chettam came in, having been met -in the hall with the news that Mr. Casaubon had “had a fit in the -library.” - -“Good God! this is just what might have been expected,” was his -immediate thought. If his prophetic soul had been urged to -particularize, it seemed to him that “fits” would have been the -definite expression alighted upon. He asked his informant, the butler, -whether the doctor had been sent for. The butler never knew his master -to want the doctor before; but would it not be right to send for a -physician? - -When Sir James entered the library, however, Mr. Casaubon could make -some signs of his usual politeness, and Dorothea, who in the reaction -from her first terror had been kneeling and sobbing by his side now -rose and herself proposed that some one should ride off for a medical -man. - -“I recommend you to send for Lydgate,” said Sir James. “My mother has -called him in, and she has found him uncommonly clever. She has had a -poor opinion of the physicians since my father’s death.” - -Dorothea appealed to her husband, and he made a silent sign of -approval. So Mr. Lydgate was sent for and he came wonderfully soon, for -the messenger, who was Sir James Chettam’s man and knew Mr. Lydgate, -met him leading his horse along the Lowick road and giving his arm to -Miss Vincy. - -Celia, in the drawing-room, had known nothing of the trouble till Sir -James told her of it. After Dorothea’s account, he no longer considered -the illness a fit, but still something “of that nature.” - -“Poor dear Dodo—how dreadful!” said Celia, feeling as much grieved as -her own perfect happiness would allow. Her little hands were clasped, -and enclosed by Sir James’s as a bud is enfolded by a liberal calyx. -“It is very shocking that Mr. Casaubon should be ill; but I never did -like him. And I think he is not half fond enough of Dorothea; and he -ought to be, for I am sure no one else would have had him—do you think -they would?” - -“I always thought it a horrible sacrifice of your sister,” said Sir -James. - -“Yes. But poor Dodo never did do what other people do, and I think she -never will.” - -“She is a noble creature,” said the loyal-hearted Sir James. He had -just had a fresh impression of this kind, as he had seen Dorothea -stretching her tender arm under her husband’s neck and looking at him -with unspeakable sorrow. He did not know how much penitence there was -in the sorrow. - -“Yes,” said Celia, thinking it was very well for Sir James to say so, -but _he_ would not have been comfortable with Dodo. “Shall I go to her? -Could I help her, do you think?” - -“I think it would be well for you just to go and see her before Lydgate -comes,” said Sir James, magnanimously. “Only don’t stay long.” - -While Celia was gone he walked up and down remembering what he had -originally felt about Dorothea’s engagement, and feeling a revival of -his disgust at Mr. Brooke’s indifference. If Cadwallader—if every one -else had regarded the affair as he, Sir James, had done, the marriage -might have been hindered. It was wicked to let a young girl blindly -decide her fate in that way, without any effort to save her. Sir James -had long ceased to have any regrets on his own account: his heart was -satisfied with his engagement to Celia. But he had a chivalrous nature -(was not the disinterested service of woman among the ideal glories of -old chivalry?): his disregarded love had not turned to bitterness; its -death had made sweet odors—floating memories that clung with a -consecrating effect to Dorothea. He could remain her brotherly friend, -interpreting her actions with generous trustfulness. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -Qui veut délasser hors de propos, lasse.—PASCAL. - - -Mr. Casaubon had no second attack of equal severity with the first, and -in a few days began to recover his usual condition. But Lydgate seemed -to think the case worth a great deal of attention. He not only used his -stethoscope (which had not become a matter of course in practice at -that time), but sat quietly by his patient and watched him. To Mr. -Casaubon’s questions about himself, he replied that the source of the -illness was the common error of intellectual men—a too eager and -monotonous application: the remedy was, to be satisfied with moderate -work, and to seek variety of relaxation. Mr. Brooke, who sat by on one -occasion, suggested that Mr. Casaubon should go fishing, as Cadwallader -did, and have a turning-room, make toys, table-legs, and that kind of -thing. - -“In short, you recommend me to anticipate the arrival of my second -childhood,” said poor Mr. Casaubon, with some bitterness. “These -things,” he added, looking at Lydgate, “would be to me such relaxation -as tow-picking is to prisoners in a house of correction.” - -“I confess,” said Lydgate, smiling, “amusement is rather an -unsatisfactory prescription. It is something like telling people to -keep up their spirits. Perhaps I had better say, that you must submit -to be mildly bored rather than to go on working.” - -“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Brooke. “Get Dorothea to play backgammon with you -in the evenings. And shuttlecock, now—I don’t know a finer game than -shuttlecock for the daytime. I remember it all the fashion. To be sure, -your eyes might not stand that, Casaubon. But you must unbend, you -know. Why, you might take to some light study: conchology, now: I -always think that must be a light study. Or get Dorothea to read you -light things, Smollett—‘Roderick Random,’ ‘Humphrey Clinker:’ they are -a little broad, but she may read anything now she’s married, you know. -I remember they made me laugh uncommonly—there’s a droll bit about a -postilion’s breeches. We have no such humor now. I have gone through -all these things, but they might be rather new to you.” - -“As new as eating thistles,” would have been an answer to represent Mr. -Casaubon’s feelings. But he only bowed resignedly, with due respect to -his wife’s uncle, and observed that doubtless the works he mentioned -had “served as a resource to a certain order of minds.” - -“You see,” said the able magistrate to Lydgate, when they were outside -the door, “Casaubon has been a little narrow: it leaves him rather at a -loss when you forbid him his particular work, which I believe is -something very deep indeed—in the line of research, you know. I would -never give way to that; I was always versatile. But a clergyman is tied -a little tight. If they would make him a bishop, now!—he did a very -good pamphlet for Peel. He would have more movement then, more show; he -might get a little flesh. But I recommend you to talk to Mrs. Casaubon. -She is clever enough for anything, is my niece. Tell her, her husband -wants liveliness, diversion: put her on amusing tactics.” - -Without Mr. Brooke’s advice, Lydgate had determined on speaking to -Dorothea. She had not been present while her uncle was throwing out his -pleasant suggestions as to the mode in which life at Lowick might be -enlivened, but she was usually by her husband’s side, and the -unaffected signs of intense anxiety in her face and voice about -whatever touched his mind or health, made a drama which Lydgate was -inclined to watch. He said to himself that he was only doing right in -telling her the truth about her husband’s probable future, but he -certainly thought also that it would be interesting to talk -confidentially with her. A medical man likes to make psychological -observations, and sometimes in the pursuit of such studies is too -easily tempted into momentous prophecy which life and death easily set -at nought. Lydgate had often been satirical on this gratuitous -prediction, and he meant now to be guarded. - -He asked for Mrs. Casaubon, but being told that she was out walking, he -was going away, when Dorothea and Celia appeared, both glowing from -their struggle with the March wind. When Lydgate begged to speak with -her alone, Dorothea opened the library door which happened to be the -nearest, thinking of nothing at the moment but what he might have to -say about Mr. Casaubon. It was the first time she had entered this room -since her husband had been taken ill, and the servant had chosen not to -open the shutters. But there was light enough to read by from the -narrow upper panes of the windows. - -“You will not mind this sombre light,” said Dorothea, standing in the -middle of the room. “Since you forbade books, the library has been out -of the question. But Mr. Casaubon will soon be here again, I hope. Is -he not making progress?” - -“Yes, much more rapid progress than I at first expected. Indeed, he is -already nearly in his usual state of health.” - -“You do not fear that the illness will return?” said Dorothea, whose -quick ear had detected some significance in Lydgate’s tone. - -“Such cases are peculiarly difficult to pronounce upon,” said Lydgate. -“The only point on which I can be confident is that it will be -desirable to be very watchful on Mr. Casaubon’s account, lest he should -in any way strain his nervous power.” - -“I beseech you to speak quite plainly,” said Dorothea, in an imploring -tone. “I cannot bear to think that there might be something which I did -not know, and which, if I had known it, would have made me act -differently.” The words came out like a cry: it was evident that they -were the voice of some mental experience which lay not very far off. - -“Sit down,” she added, placing herself on the nearest chair, and -throwing off her bonnet and gloves, with an instinctive discarding of -formality where a great question of destiny was concerned. - -“What you say now justifies my own view,” said Lydgate. “I think it is -one’s function as a medical man to hinder regrets of that sort as far -as possible. But I beg you to observe that Mr. Casaubon’s case is -precisely of the kind in which the issue is most difficult to pronounce -upon. He may possibly live for fifteen years or more, without much -worse health than he has had hitherto.” - -Dorothea had turned very pale, and when Lydgate paused she said in a -low voice, “You mean if we are very careful.” - -“Yes—careful against mental agitation of all kinds, and against -excessive application.” - -“He would be miserable, if he had to give up his work,” said Dorothea, -with a quick prevision of that wretchedness. - -“I am aware of that. The only course is to try by all means, direct and -indirect, to moderate and vary his occupations. With a happy -concurrence of circumstances, there is, as I said, no immediate danger -from that affection of the heart, which I believe to have been the -cause of his late attack. On the other hand, it is possible that the -disease may develop itself more rapidly: it is one of those cases in -which death is sometimes sudden. Nothing should be neglected which -might be affected by such an issue.” - -There was silence for a few moments, while Dorothea sat as if she had -been turned to marble, though the life within her was so intense that -her mind had never before swept in brief time over an equal range of -scenes and motives. - -“Help me, pray,” she said, at last, in the same low voice as before. -“Tell me what I can do.” - -“What do you think of foreign travel? You have been lately in Rome, I -think.” - -The memories which made this resource utterly hopeless were a new -current that shook Dorothea out of her pallid immobility. - -“Oh, that would not do—that would be worse than anything,” she said -with a more childlike despondency, while the tears rolled down. -“Nothing will be of any use that he does not enjoy.” - -“I wish that I could have spared you this pain,” said Lydgate, deeply -touched, yet wondering about her marriage. Women just like Dorothea had -not entered into his traditions. - -“It was right of you to tell me. I thank you for telling me the truth.” - -“I wish you to understand that I shall not say anything to enlighten -Mr. Casaubon himself. I think it desirable for him to know nothing more -than that he must not overwork himself, and must observe certain rules. -Anxiety of any kind would be precisely the most unfavorable condition -for him.” - -Lydgate rose, and Dorothea mechanically rose at the same time, -unclasping her cloak and throwing it off as if it stifled her. He was -bowing and quitting her, when an impulse which if she had been alone -would have turned into a prayer, made her say with a sob in her voice— - -“Oh, you are a wise man, are you not? You know all about life and -death. Advise me. Think what I can do. He has been laboring all his -life and looking forward. He minds about nothing else.— And I mind -about nothing else—” - -For years after Lydgate remembered the impression produced in him by -this involuntary appeal—this cry from soul to soul, without other -consciousness than their moving with kindred natures in the same -embroiled medium, the same troublous fitfully illuminated life. But -what could he say now except that he should see Mr. Casaubon again -to-morrow? - -When he was gone, Dorothea’s tears gushed forth, and relieved her -stifling oppression. Then she dried her eyes, reminded that her -distress must not be betrayed to her husband; and looked round the room -thinking that she must order the servant to attend to it as usual, -since Mr. Casaubon might now at any moment wish to enter. On his -writing-table there were letters which had lain untouched since the -morning when he was taken ill, and among them, as Dorothea well -remembered, there were young Ladislaw’s letters, the one addressed to -her still unopened. The associations of these letters had been made the -more painful by that sudden attack of illness which she felt that the -agitation caused by her anger might have helped to bring on: it would -be time enough to read them when they were again thrust upon her, and -she had had no inclination to fetch them from the library. But now it -occurred to her that they should be put out of her husband’s sight: -whatever might have been the sources of his annoyance about them, he -must, if possible, not be annoyed again; and she ran her eyes first -over the letter addressed to him to assure herself whether or not it -would be necessary to write in order to hinder the offensive visit. - -Will wrote from Rome, and began by saying that his obligations to Mr. -Casaubon were too deep for all thanks not to seem impertinent. It was -plain that if he were not grateful, he must be the poorest-spirited -rascal who had ever found a generous friend. To expand in wordy thanks -would be like saying, “I am honest.” But Will had come to perceive that -his defects—defects which Mr. Casaubon had himself often pointed -to—needed for their correction that more strenuous position which his -relative’s generosity had hitherto prevented from being inevitable. He -trusted that he should make the best return, if return were possible, -by showing the effectiveness of the education for which he was -indebted, and by ceasing in future to need any diversion towards -himself of funds on which others might have a better claim. He was -coming to England, to try his fortune, as many other young men were -obliged to do whose only capital was in their brains. His friend -Naumann had desired him to take charge of the “Dispute”—the picture -painted for Mr. Casaubon, with whose permission, and Mrs. Casaubon’s, -Will would convey it to Lowick in person. A letter addressed to the -Poste Restante in Paris within the fortnight would hinder him, if -necessary, from arriving at an inconvenient moment. He enclosed a -letter to Mrs. Casaubon in which he continued a discussion about art, -begun with her in Rome. - -Opening her own letter Dorothea saw that it was a lively continuation -of his remonstrance with her fanatical sympathy and her want of sturdy -neutral delight in things as they were—an outpouring of his young -vivacity which it was impossible to read just now. She had immediately -to consider what was to be done about the other letter: there was still -time perhaps to prevent Will from coming to Lowick. Dorothea ended by -giving the letter to her uncle, who was still in the house, and begging -him to let Will know that Mr. Casaubon had been ill, and that his -health would not allow the reception of any visitors. - -No one more ready than Mr. Brooke to write a letter: his only -difficulty was to write a short one, and his ideas in this case -expanded over the three large pages and the inward foldings. He had -simply said to Dorothea— - -“To be sure, I will write, my dear. He’s a very clever young -fellow—this young Ladislaw—I dare say will be a rising young man. It’s -a good letter—marks his sense of things, you know. However, I will tell -him about Casaubon.” - -But the end of Mr. Brooke’s pen was a thinking organ, evolving -sentences, especially of a benevolent kind, before the rest of his mind -could well overtake them. It expressed regrets and proposed remedies, -which, when Mr. Brooke read them, seemed felicitously -worded—surprisingly the right thing, and determined a sequel which he -had never before thought of. In this case, his pen found it such a pity -young Ladislaw should not have come into the neighborhood just at that -time, in order that Mr. Brooke might make his acquaintance more fully, -and that they might go over the long-neglected Italian drawings -together—it also felt such an interest in a young man who was starting -in life with a stock of ideas—that by the end of the second page it had -persuaded Mr. Brooke to invite young Ladislaw, since he could not be -received at Lowick, to come to Tipton Grange. Why not? They could find -a great many things to do together, and this was a period of peculiar -growth—the political horizon was expanding, and—in short, Mr. Brooke’s -pen went off into a little speech which it had lately reported for that -imperfectly edited organ the “Middlemarch Pioneer.” While Mr. Brooke -was sealing this letter, he felt elated with an influx of dim -projects:—a young man capable of putting ideas into form, the “Pioneer” -purchased to clear the pathway for a new candidate, documents -utilized—who knew what might come of it all? Since Celia was going to -marry immediately, it would be very pleasant to have a young fellow at -table with him, at least for a time. - -But he went away without telling Dorothea what he had put into the -letter, for she was engaged with her husband, and—in fact, these things -were of no importance to her. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -How will you know the pitch of that great bell -Too large for you to stir? Let but a flute -Play ’neath the fine-mixed metal: listen close -Till the right note flows forth, a silvery rill: -Then shall the huge bell tremble—then the mass -With myriad waves concurrent shall respond -In low soft unison. - - -Lydgate that evening spoke to Miss Vincy of Mrs. Casaubon, and laid -some emphasis on the strong feeling she appeared to have for that -formal studious man thirty years older than herself. - -“Of course she is devoted to her husband,” said Rosamond, implying a -notion of necessary sequence which the scientific man regarded as the -prettiest possible for a woman; but she was thinking at the same time -that it was not so very melancholy to be mistress of Lowick Manor with -a husband likely to die soon. “Do you think her very handsome?” - -“She certainly is handsome, but I have not thought about it,” said -Lydgate. - -“I suppose it would be unprofessional,” said Rosamond, dimpling. “But -how your practice is spreading! You were called in before to the -Chettams, I think; and now, the Casaubons.” - -“Yes,” said Lydgate, in a tone of compulsory admission. “But I don’t -really like attending such people so well as the poor. The cases are -more monotonous, and one has to go through more fuss and listen more -deferentially to nonsense.” - -“Not more than in Middlemarch,” said Rosamond. “And at least you go -through wide corridors and have the scent of rose-leaves everywhere.” - -“That is true, Mademoiselle de Montmorenci,” said Lydgate, just bending -his head to the table and lifting with his fourth finger her delicate -handkerchief which lay at the mouth of her reticule, as if to enjoy its -scent, while he looked at her with a smile. - -But this agreeable holiday freedom with which Lydgate hovered about the -flower of Middlemarch, could not continue indefinitely. It was not more -possible to find social isolation in that town than elsewhere, and two -people persistently flirting could by no means escape from “the various -entanglements, weights, blows, clashings, motions, by which things -severally go on.” Whatever Miss Vincy did must be remarked, and she was -perhaps the more conspicuous to admirers and critics because just now -Mrs. Vincy, after some struggle, had gone with Fred to stay a little -while at Stone Court, there being no other way of at once gratifying -old Featherstone and keeping watch against Mary Garth, who appeared a -less tolerable daughter-in-law in proportion as Fred’s illness -disappeared. - -Aunt Bulstrode, for example, came a little oftener into Lowick Gate to -see Rosamond, now she was alone. For Mrs. Bulstrode had a true sisterly -feeling for her brother; always thinking that he might have married -better, but wishing well to the children. Now Mrs. Bulstrode had a -long-standing intimacy with Mrs. Plymdale. They had nearly the same -preferences in silks, patterns for underclothing, china-ware, and -clergymen; they confided their little troubles of health and household -management to each other, and various little points of superiority on -Mrs. Bulstrode’s side, namely, more decided seriousness, more -admiration for mind, and a house outside the town, sometimes served to -give color to their conversation without dividing them—well-meaning -women both, knowing very little of their own motives. - -Mrs. Bulstrode, paying a morning visit to Mrs. Plymdale, happened to -say that she could not stay longer, because she was going to see poor -Rosamond. - -“Why do you say ‘poor Rosamond’?” said Mrs. Plymdale, a round-eyed -sharp little woman, like a tamed falcon. - -“She is so pretty, and has been brought up in such thoughtlessness. The -mother, you know, had always that levity about her, which makes me -anxious for the children.” - -“Well, Harriet, if I am to speak my mind,” said Mrs. Plymdale, with -emphasis, “I must say, anybody would suppose you and Mr. Bulstrode -would be delighted with what has happened, for you have done everything -to put Mr. Lydgate forward.” - -“Selina, what do you mean?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, in genuine surprise. - -“Not but what I am truly thankful for Ned’s sake,” said Mrs. Plymdale. -“He could certainly better afford to keep such a wife than some people -can; but I should wish him to look elsewhere. Still a mother has -anxieties, and some young men would take to a bad life in consequence. -Besides, if I was obliged to speak, I should say I was not fond of -strangers coming into a town.” - -“I don’t know, Selina,” said Mrs. Bulstrode, with a little emphasis in -her turn. “Mr. Bulstrode was a stranger here at one time. Abraham and -Moses were strangers in the land, and we are told to entertain -strangers. And especially,” she added, after a slight pause, “when they -are unexceptionable.” - -“I was not speaking in a religious sense, Harriet. I spoke as a -mother.” - -“Selina, I am sure you have never heard me say anything against a niece -of mine marrying your son.” - -“Oh, it is pride in Miss Vincy—I am sure it is nothing else,” said Mrs. -Plymdale, who had never before given all her confidence to “Harriet” on -this subject. “No young man in Middlemarch was good enough for her: I -have heard her mother say as much. That is not a Christian spirit, I -think. But now, from all I hear, she has found a man as proud as -herself.” - -“You don’t mean that there is anything between Rosamond and Mr. -Lydgate?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, rather mortified at finding out her own -ignorance. - -“Is it possible you don’t know, Harriet?” - -“Oh, I go about so little; and I am not fond of gossip; I really never -hear any. You see so many people that I don’t see. Your circle is -rather different from ours.” - -“Well, but your own niece and Mr. Bulstrode’s great favorite—and yours -too, I am sure, Harriet! I thought, at one time, you meant him for -Kate, when she is a little older.” - -“I don’t believe there can be anything serious at present,” said Mrs. -Bulstrode. “My brother would certainly have told me.” - -“Well, people have different ways, but I understand that nobody can see -Miss Vincy and Mr. Lydgate together without taking them to be engaged. -However, it is not my business. Shall I put up the pattern of mittens?” - -After this Mrs. Bulstrode drove to her niece with a mind newly -weighted. She was herself handsomely dressed, but she noticed with a -little more regret than usual that Rosamond, who was just come in and -met her in walking-dress, was almost as expensively equipped. Mrs. -Bulstrode was a feminine smaller edition of her brother, and had none -of her husband’s low-toned pallor. She had a good honest glance and -used no circumlocution. - -“You are alone, I see, my dear,” she said, as they entered the -drawing-room together, looking round gravely. Rosamond felt sure that -her aunt had something particular to say, and they sat down near each -other. Nevertheless, the quilling inside Rosamond’s bonnet was so -charming that it was impossible not to desire the same kind of thing -for Kate, and Mrs. Bulstrode’s eyes, which were rather fine, rolled -round that ample quilled circuit, while she spoke. - -“I have just heard something about you that has surprised me very much, -Rosamond.” - -“What is that, aunt?” Rosamond’s eyes also were roaming over her aunt’s -large embroidered collar. - -“I can hardly believe it—that you should be engaged without my knowing -it—without your father’s telling me.” Here Mrs. Bulstrode’s eyes -finally rested on Rosamond’s, who blushed deeply, and said— - -“I am not engaged, aunt.” - -“How is it that every one says so, then—that it is the town’s talk?” - -“The town’s talk is of very little consequence, I think,” said -Rosamond, inwardly gratified. - -“Oh, my dear, be more thoughtful; don’t despise your neighbors so. -Remember you are turned twenty-two now, and you will have no fortune: -your father, I am sure, will not be able to spare you anything. Mr. -Lydgate is very intellectual and clever; I know there is an attraction -in that. I like talking to such men myself; and your uncle finds him -very useful. But the profession is a poor one here. To be sure, this -life is not everything; but it is seldom a medical man has true -religious views—there is too much pride of intellect. And you are not -fit to marry a poor man. - -“Mr. Lydgate is not a poor man, aunt. He has very high connections.” - -“He told me himself he was poor.” - -“That is because he is used to people who have a high style of living.” - -“My dear Rosamond, _you_ must not think of living in high style.” - -Rosamond looked down and played with her reticule. She was not a fiery -young lady and had no sharp answers, but she meant to live as she -pleased. - -“Then it is really true?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, looking very earnestly -at her niece. “You are thinking of Mr. Lydgate—there is some -understanding between you, though your father doesn’t know. Be open, my -dear Rosamond: Mr. Lydgate has really made you an offer?” - -Poor Rosamond’s feelings were very unpleasant. She had been quite easy -as to Lydgate’s feeling and intention, but now when her aunt put this -question she did not like being unable to say Yes. Her pride was hurt, -but her habitual control of manner helped her. - -“Pray excuse me, aunt. I would rather not speak on the subject.” - -“You would not give your heart to a man without a decided prospect, I -trust, my dear. And think of the two excellent offers I know of that -you have refused!—and one still within your reach, if you will not -throw it away. I knew a very great beauty who married badly at last, by -doing so. Mr. Ned Plymdale is a nice young man—some might think -good-looking; and an only son; and a large business of that kind is -better than a profession. Not that marrying is everything. I would have -you seek first the kingdom of God. But a girl should keep her heart -within her own power.” - -“I should never give it to Mr. Ned Plymdale, if it were. I have already -refused him. If I loved, I should love at once and without change,” -said Rosamond, with a great sense of being a romantic heroine, and -playing the part prettily. - -“I see how it is, my dear,” said Mrs. Bulstrode, in a melancholy voice, -rising to go. “You have allowed your affections to be engaged without -return.” - -“No, indeed, aunt,” said Rosamond, with emphasis. - -“Then you are quite confident that Mr. Lydgate has a serious attachment -to you?” - -Rosamond’s cheeks by this time were persistently burning, and she felt -much mortification. She chose to be silent, and her aunt went away all -the more convinced. - -Mr. Bulstrode in things worldly and indifferent was disposed to do what -his wife bade him, and she now, without telling her reasons, desired -him on the next opportunity to find out in conversation with Mr. -Lydgate whether he had any intention of marrying soon. The result was a -decided negative. Mr. Bulstrode, on being cross-questioned, showed that -Lydgate had spoken as no man would who had any attachment that could -issue in matrimony. Mrs. Bulstrode now felt that she had a serious duty -before her, and she soon managed to arrange a _tête-à-tête_ with -Lydgate, in which she passed from inquiries about Fred Vincy’s health, -and expressions of her sincere anxiety for her brother’s large family, -to general remarks on the dangers which lay before young people with -regard to their settlement in life. Young men were often wild and -disappointing, making little return for the money spent on them, and a -girl was exposed to many circumstances which might interfere with her -prospects. - -“Especially when she has great attractions, and her parents see much -company,” said Mrs. Bulstrode. “Gentlemen pay her attention, and -engross her all to themselves, for the mere pleasure of the moment, and -that drives off others. I think it is a heavy responsibility, Mr. -Lydgate, to interfere with the prospects of any girl.” Here Mrs. -Bulstrode fixed her eyes on him, with an unmistakable purpose of -warning, if not of rebuke. - -“Clearly,” said Lydgate, looking at her—perhaps even staring a little -in return. “On the other hand, a man must be a great coxcomb to go -about with a notion that he must not pay attention to a young lady lest -she should fall in love with him, or lest others should think she -must.” - -“Oh, Mr. Lydgate, you know well what your advantages are. You know that -our young men here cannot cope with you. Where you frequent a house it -may militate very much against a girl’s making a desirable settlement -in life, and prevent her from accepting offers even if they are made.” - -Lydgate was less flattered by his advantage over the Middlemarch -Orlandos than he was annoyed by the perception of Mrs. Bulstrode’s -meaning. She felt that she had spoken as impressively as it was -necessary to do, and that in using the superior word “militate” she had -thrown a noble drapery over a mass of particulars which were still -evident enough. - -Lydgate was fuming a little, pushed his hair back with one hand, felt -curiously in his waistcoat-pocket with the other, and then stooped to -beckon the tiny black spaniel, which had the insight to decline his -hollow caresses. It would not have been decent to go away, because he -had been dining with other guests, and had just taken tea. But Mrs. -Bulstrode, having no doubt that she had been understood, turned the -conversation. - -Solomon’s Proverbs, I think, have omitted to say, that as the sore -palate findeth grit, so an uneasy consciousness heareth innuendoes. The -next day Mr. Farebrother, parting from Lydgate in the street, supposed -that they should meet at Vincy’s in the evening. Lydgate answered -curtly, no—he had work to do—he must give up going out in the evening. - -“What! you are going to get lashed to the mast, eh, and are stopping -your ears?” said the Vicar. “Well, if you don’t mean to be won by the -sirens, you are right to take precautions in time.” - -A few days before, Lydgate would have taken no notice of these words as -anything more than the Vicar’s usual way of putting things. They seemed -now to convey an innuendo which confirmed the impression that he had -been making a fool of himself and behaving so as to be misunderstood: -not, he believed, by Rosamond herself; she, he felt sure, took -everything as lightly as he intended it. She had an exquisite tact and -insight in relation to all points of manners; but the people she lived -among were blunderers and busybodies. However, the mistake should go no -farther. He resolved—and kept his resolution—that he would not go to -Mr. Vincy’s except on business. - -Rosamond became very unhappy. The uneasiness first stirred by her -aunt’s questions grew and grew till at the end of ten days that she had -not seen Lydgate, it grew into terror at the blank that might possibly -come—into foreboding of that ready, fatal sponge which so cheaply wipes -out the hopes of mortals. The world would have a new dreariness for -her, as a wilderness that a magician’s spells had turned for a little -while into a garden. She felt that she was beginning to know the pang -of disappointed love, and that no other man could be the occasion of -such delightful aerial building as she had been enjoying for the last -six months. Poor Rosamond lost her appetite and felt as forlorn as -Ariadne—as a charming stage Ariadne left behind with all her boxes full -of costumes and no hope of a coach. - -There are many wonderful mixtures in the world which are all alike -called love, and claim the privileges of a sublime rage which is an -apology for everything (in literature and the drama). Happily Rosamond -did not think of committing any desperate act: she plaited her fair -hair as beautifully as usual, and kept herself proudly calm. Her most -cheerful supposition was that her aunt Bulstrode had interfered in some -way to hinder Lydgate’s visits: everything was better than a -spontaneous indifference in him. Any one who imagines ten days too -short a time—not for falling into leanness, lightness, or other -measurable effects of passion, but—for the whole spiritual circuit of -alarmed conjecture and disappointment, is ignorant of what can go on in -the elegant leisure of a young lady’s mind. - -On the eleventh day, however, Lydgate when leaving Stone Court was -requested by Mrs. Vincy to let her husband know that there was a marked -change in Mr. Featherstone’s health, and that she wished him to come to -Stone Court on that day. Now Lydgate might have called at the -warehouse, or might have written a message on a leaf of his pocket-book -and left it at the door. Yet these simple devices apparently did not -occur to him, from which we may conclude that he had no strong -objection to calling at the house at an hour when Mr. Vincy was not at -home, and leaving the message with Miss Vincy. A man may, from various -motives, decline to give his company, but perhaps not even a sage would -be gratified that nobody missed him. It would be a graceful, easy way -of piecing on the new habits to the old, to have a few playful words -with Rosamond about his resistance to dissipation, and his firm resolve -to take long fasts even from sweet sounds. It must be confessed, also, -that momentary speculations as to all the possible grounds for Mrs. -Bulstrode’s hints had managed to get woven like slight clinging hairs -into the more substantial web of his thoughts. - -Miss Vincy was alone, and blushed so deeply when Lydgate came in that -he felt a corresponding embarrassment, and instead of any playfulness, -he began at once to speak of his reason for calling, and to beg her, -almost formally, to deliver the message to her father. Rosamond, who at -the first moment felt as if her happiness were returning, was keenly -hurt by Lydgate’s manner; her blush had departed, and she assented -coldly, without adding an unnecessary word, some trivial chain-work -which she had in her hands enabling her to avoid looking at Lydgate -higher than his chin. In all failures, the beginning is certainly the -half of the whole. After sitting two long moments while he moved his -whip and could say nothing, Lydgate rose to go, and Rosamond, made -nervous by her struggle between mortification and the wish not to -betray it, dropped her chain as if startled, and rose too, -mechanically. Lydgate instantaneously stooped to pick up the chain. -When he rose he was very near to a lovely little face set on a fair -long neck which he had been used to see turning about under the most -perfect management of self-contented grace. But as he raised his eyes -now he saw a certain helpless quivering which touched him quite newly, -and made him look at Rosamond with a questioning flash. At this moment -she was as natural as she had ever been when she was five years old: -she felt that her tears had risen, and it was no use to try to do -anything else than let them stay like water on a blue flower or let -them fall over her cheeks, even as they would. - -That moment of naturalness was the crystallizing feather-touch: it -shook flirtation into love. Remember that the ambitious man who was -looking at those Forget-me-nots under the water was very warm-hearted -and rash. He did not know where the chain went; an idea had thrilled -through the recesses within him which had a miraculous effect in -raising the power of passionate love lying buried there in no sealed -sepulchre, but under the lightest, easily pierced mould. His words were -quite abrupt and awkward; but the tone made them sound like an ardent, -appealing avowal. - -“What is the matter? you are distressed. Tell me, pray.” - -Rosamond had never been spoken to in such tones before. I am not sure -that she knew what the words were: but she looked at Lydgate and the -tears fell over her cheeks. There could have been no more complete -answer than that silence, and Lydgate, forgetting everything else, -completely mastered by the outrush of tenderness at the sudden belief -that this sweet young creature depended on him for her joy, actually -put his arms round her, folding her gently and protectingly—he was used -to being gentle with the weak and suffering—and kissed each of the two -large tears. This was a strange way of arriving at an understanding, -but it was a short way. Rosamond was not angry, but she moved backward -a little in timid happiness, and Lydgate could now sit near her and -speak less incompletely. Rosamond had to make her little confession, -and he poured out words of gratitude and tenderness with impulsive -lavishment. In half an hour he left the house an engaged man, whose -soul was not his own, but the woman’s to whom he had bound himself. - -He came again in the evening to speak with Mr. Vincy, who, just -returned from Stone Court, was feeling sure that it would not be long -before he heard of Mr. Featherstone’s demise. The felicitous word -“demise,” which had seasonably occurred to him, had raised his spirits -even above their usual evening pitch. The right word is always a power, -and communicates its definiteness to our action. Considered as a -demise, old Featherstone’s death assumed a merely legal aspect, so that -Mr. Vincy could tap his snuff-box over it and be jovial, without even -an intermittent affectation of solemnity; and Mr. Vincy hated both -solemnity and affectation. Who was ever awe struck about a testator, or -sang a hymn on the title to real property? Mr. Vincy was inclined to -take a jovial view of all things that evening: he even observed to -Lydgate that Fred had got the family constitution after all, and would -soon be as fine a fellow as ever again; and when his approbation of -Rosamond’s engagement was asked for, he gave it with astonishing -facility, passing at once to general remarks on the desirableness of -matrimony for young men and maidens, and apparently deducing from the -whole the appropriateness of a little more punch. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -They’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk. -—SHAKESPEARE: _Tempest_. - - -The triumphant confidence of the Mayor founded on Mr. Featherstone’s -insistent demand that Fred and his mother should not leave him, was a -feeble emotion compared with all that was agitating the breasts of the -old man’s blood-relations, who naturally manifested more their sense of -the family tie and were more visibly numerous now that he had become -bedridden. Naturally: for when “poor Peter” had occupied his arm-chair -in the wainscoted parlor, no assiduous beetles for whom the cook -prepares boiling water could have been less welcome on a hearth which -they had reasons for preferring, than those persons whose Featherstone -blood was ill-nourished, not from penuriousness on their part, but from -poverty. Brother Solomon and Sister Jane were rich, and the family -candor and total abstinence from false politeness with which they were -always received seemed to them no argument that their brother in the -solemn act of making his will would overlook the superior claims of -wealth. Themselves at least he had never been unnatural enough to -banish from his house, and it seemed hardly eccentric that he should -have kept away Brother Jonah, Sister Martha, and the rest, who had no -shadow of such claims. They knew Peter’s maxim, that money was a good -egg, and should be laid in a warm nest. - -But Brother Jonah, Sister Martha, and all the needy exiles, held a -different point of view. Probabilities are as various as the faces to -be seen at will in fretwork or paper-hangings: every form is there, -from Jupiter to Judy, if you only look with creative inclination. To -the poorer and least favored it seemed likely that since Peter had done -nothing for them in his life, he would remember them at the last. Jonah -argued that men liked to make a surprise of their wills, while Martha -said that nobody need be surprised if he left the best part of his -money to those who least expected it. Also it was not to be thought but -that an own brother “lying there” with dropsy in his legs must come to -feel that blood was thicker than water, and if he didn’t alter his -will, he might have money by him. At any rate some blood-relations -should be on the premises and on the watch against those who were -hardly relations at all. Such things had been known as forged wills and -disputed wills, which seemed to have the golden-hazy advantage of -somehow enabling non-legatees to live out of them. Again, those who -were no blood-relations might be caught making away with things—and -poor Peter “lying there” helpless! Somebody should be on the watch. But -in this conclusion they were at one with Solomon and Jane; also, some -nephews, nieces, and cousins, arguing with still greater subtilty as to -what might be done by a man able to “will away” his property and give -himself large treats of oddity, felt in a handsome sort of way that -there was a family interest to be attended to, and thought of Stone -Court as a place which it would be nothing but right for them to visit. -Sister Martha, otherwise Mrs. Cranch, living with some wheeziness in -the Chalky Flats, could not undertake the journey; but her son, as -being poor Peter’s own nephew, could represent her advantageously, and -watch lest his uncle Jonah should make an unfair use of the improbable -things which seemed likely to happen. In fact there was a general sense -running in the Featherstone blood that everybody must watch everybody -else, and that it would be well for everybody else to reflect that the -Almighty was watching him. - -Thus Stone Court continually saw one or other blood-relation alighting -or departing, and Mary Garth had the unpleasant task of carrying their -messages to Mr. Featherstone, who would see none of them, and sent her -down with the still more unpleasant task of telling them so. As manager -of the household she felt bound to ask them in good provincial fashion -to stay and eat; but she chose to consult Mrs. Vincy on the point of -extra down-stairs consumption now that Mr. Featherstone was laid up. - -“Oh, my dear, you must do things handsomely where there’s last illness -and a property. God knows, I don’t grudge them every ham in the -house—only, save the best for the funeral. Have some stuffed veal -always, and a fine cheese in cut. You must expect to keep open house in -these last illnesses,” said liberal Mrs. Vincy, once more of cheerful -note and bright plumage. - -But some of the visitors alighted and did not depart after the handsome -treating to veal and ham. Brother Jonah, for example (there are such -unpleasant people in most families; perhaps even in the highest -aristocracy there are Brobdingnag specimens, gigantically in debt and -bloated at greater expense)—Brother Jonah, I say, having come down in -the world, was mainly supported by a calling which he was modest enough -not to boast of, though it was much better than swindling either on -exchange or turf, but which did not require his presence at Brassing so -long as he had a good corner to sit in and a supply of food. He chose -the kitchen-corner, partly because he liked it best, and partly because -he did not want to sit with Solomon, concerning whom he had a strong -brotherly opinion. Seated in a famous arm-chair and in his best suit, -constantly within sight of good cheer, he had a comfortable -consciousness of being on the premises, mingled with fleeting -suggestions of Sunday and the bar at the Green Man; and he informed -Mary Garth that he should not go out of reach of his brother Peter -while that poor fellow was above ground. The troublesome ones in a -family are usually either the wits or the idiots. Jonah was the wit -among the Featherstones, and joked with the maid-servants when they -came about the hearth, but seemed to consider Miss Garth a suspicious -character, and followed her with cold eyes. - -Mary would have borne this one pair of eyes with comparative ease, but -unfortunately there was young Cranch, who, having come all the way from -the Chalky Flats to represent his mother and watch his uncle Jonah, -also felt it his duty to stay and to sit chiefly in the kitchen to give -his uncle company. Young Cranch was not exactly the balancing point -between the wit and the idiot,—verging slightly towards the latter -type, and squinting so as to leave everything in doubt about his -sentiments except that they were not of a forcible character. When Mary -Garth entered the kitchen and Mr. Jonah Featherstone began to follow -her with his cold detective eyes, young Cranch turning his head in the -same direction seemed to insist on it that she should remark how he was -squinting, as if he did it with design, like the gypsies when Borrow -read the New Testament to them. This was rather too much for poor Mary; -sometimes it made her bilious, sometimes it upset her gravity. One day -that she had an opportunity she could not resist describing the kitchen -scene to Fred, who would not be hindered from immediately going to see -it, affecting simply to pass through. But no sooner did he face the -four eyes than he had to rush through the nearest door which happened -to lead to the dairy, and there under the high roof and among the pans -he gave way to laughter which made a hollow resonance perfectly audible -in the kitchen. He fled by another doorway, but Mr. Jonah, who had not -before seen Fred’s white complexion, long legs, and pinched delicacy of -face, prepared many sarcasms in which these points of appearance were -wittily combined with the lowest moral attributes. - -“Why, Tom, _you_ don’t wear such gentlemanly trousers—you haven’t got -half such fine long legs,” said Jonah to his nephew, winking at the -same time, to imply that there was something more in these statements -than their undeniableness. Tom looked at his legs, but left it -uncertain whether he preferred his moral advantages to a more vicious -length of limb and reprehensible gentility of trouser. - -In the large wainscoted parlor too there were constantly pairs of eyes -on the watch, and own relatives eager to be “sitters-up.” Many came, -lunched, and departed, but Brother Solomon and the lady who had been -Jane Featherstone for twenty-five years before she was Mrs. Waule found -it good to be there every day for hours, without other calculable -occupation than that of observing the cunning Mary Garth (who was so -deep that she could be found out in nothing) and giving occasional dry -wrinkly indications of crying—as if capable of torrents in a wetter -season—at the thought that they were not allowed to go into Mr. -Featherstone’s room. For the old man’s dislike of his own family seemed -to get stronger as he got less able to amuse himself by saying biting -things to them. Too languid to sting, he had the more venom refluent in -his blood. - -Not fully believing the message sent through Mary Garth, they had -presented themselves together within the door of the bedroom, both in -black—Mrs. Waule having a white handkerchief partially unfolded in her -hand—and both with faces in a sort of half-mourning purple; while Mrs. -Vincy with her pink cheeks and pink ribbons flying was actually -administering a cordial to their own brother, and the -light-complexioned Fred, his short hair curling as might be expected in -a gambler’s, was lolling at his ease in a large chair. - -Old Featherstone no sooner caught sight of these funereal figures -appearing in spite of his orders than rage came to strengthen him more -successfully than the cordial. He was propped up on a bed-rest, and -always had his gold-headed stick lying by him. He seized it now and -swept it backwards and forwards in as large an area as he could, -apparently to ban these ugly spectres, crying in a hoarse sort of -screech— - -“Back, back, Mrs. Waule! Back, Solomon!” - -“Oh, Brother. Peter,” Mrs. Waule began—but Solomon put his hand before -her repressingly. He was a large-cheeked man, nearly seventy, with -small furtive eyes, and was not only of much blander temper but thought -himself much deeper than his brother Peter; indeed not likely to be -deceived in any of his fellow-men, inasmuch as they could not well be -more greedy and deceitful than he suspected them of being. Even the -invisible powers, he thought, were likely to be soothed by a bland -parenthesis here and there—coming from a man of property, who might -have been as impious as others. - -“Brother Peter,” he said, in a wheedling yet gravely official tone, -“It’s nothing but right I should speak to you about the Three Crofts -and the Manganese. The Almighty knows what I’ve got on my mind—” - -“Then he knows more than I want to know,” said Peter, laying down his -stick with a show of truce which had a threat in it too, for he -reversed the stick so as to make the gold handle a club in case of -closer fighting, and looked hard at Solomon’s bald head. - -“There’s things you might repent of, Brother, for want of speaking to -me,” said Solomon, not advancing, however. “I could sit up with you -to-night, and Jane with me, willingly, and you might take your own time -to speak, or let me speak.” - -“Yes, I shall take my own time—you needn’t offer me yours,” said Peter. - -“But you can’t take your own time to die in, Brother,” began Mrs. -Waule, with her usual woolly tone. “And when you lie speechless you may -be tired of having strangers about you, and you may think of me and my -children”—but here her voice broke under the touching thought which she -was attributing to her speechless brother; the mention of ourselves -being naturally affecting. - -“No, I shan’t,” said old Featherstone, contradictiously. “I shan’t -think of any of you. I’ve made my will, I tell you, I’ve made my will.” -Here he turned his head towards Mrs. Vincy, and swallowed some more of -his cordial. - -“Some people would be ashamed to fill up a place belonging by rights to -others,” said Mrs. Waule, turning her narrow eyes in the same -direction. - -“Oh, sister,” said Solomon, with ironical softness, “you and me are not -fine, and handsome, and clever enough: we must be humble and let smart -people push themselves before us.” - -Fred’s spirit could not bear this: rising and looking at Mr. -Featherstone, he said, “Shall my mother and I leave the room, sir, that -you may be alone with your friends?” - -“Sit down, I tell you,” said old Featherstone, snappishly. “Stop where -you are. Good-by, Solomon,” he added, trying to wield his stick again, -but failing now that he had reversed the handle. “Good-by, Mrs. Waule. -Don’t you come again.” - -“I shall be down-stairs, Brother, whether or no,” said Solomon. “I -shall do my duty, and it remains to be seen what the Almighty will -allow.” - -“Yes, in property going out of families,” said Mrs. Waule, in -continuation,—“and where there’s steady young men to carry on. But I -pity them who are not such, and I pity their mothers. Good-by, Brother -Peter.” - -“Remember, I’m the eldest after you, Brother, and prospered from the -first, just as you did, and have got land already by the name of -Featherstone,” said Solomon, relying much on that reflection, as one -which might be suggested in the watches of the night. “But I bid you -good-by for the present.” - -Their exit was hastened by their seeing old Mr. Featherstone pull his -wig on each side and shut his eyes with his mouth-widening grimace, as -if he were determined to be deaf and blind. - -None the less they came to Stone Court daily and sat below at the post -of duty, sometimes carrying on a slow dialogue in an undertone in which -the observation and response were so far apart, that any one hearing -them might have imagined himself listening to speaking automata, in -some doubt whether the ingenious mechanism would really work, or wind -itself up for a long time in order to stick and be silent. Solomon and -Jane would have been sorry to be quick: what that led to might be seen -on the other side of the wall in the person of Brother Jonah. - -But their watch in the wainscoted parlor was sometimes varied by the -presence of other guests from far or near. Now that Peter Featherstone -was up-stairs, his property could be discussed with all that local -enlightenment to be found on the spot: some rural and Middlemarch -neighbors expressed much agreement with the family and sympathy with -their interest against the Vincys, and feminine visitors were even -moved to tears, in conversation with Mrs. Waule, when they recalled the -fact that they themselves had been disappointed in times past by -codicils and marriages for spite on the part of ungrateful elderly -gentlemen, who, it might have been supposed, had been spared for -something better. Such conversation paused suddenly, like an organ when -the bellows are let drop, if Mary Garth came into the room; and all -eyes were turned on her as a possible legatee, or one who might get -access to iron chests. - -But the younger men who were relatives or connections of the family, -were disposed to admire her in this problematic light, as a girl who -showed much conduct, and who among all the chances that were flying -might turn out to be at least a moderate prize. Hence she had her share -of compliments and polite attentions. - -Especially from Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, a distinguished bachelor and -auctioneer of those parts, much concerned in the sale of land and -cattle: a public character, indeed, whose name was seen on widely -distributed placards, and who might reasonably be sorry for those who -did not know of him. He was second cousin to Peter Featherstone, and -had been treated by him with more amenity than any other relative, -being useful in matters of business; and in that programme of his -funeral which the old man had himself dictated, he had been named as a -Bearer. There was no odious cupidity in Mr. Borthrop Trumbull—nothing -more than a sincere sense of his own merit, which, he was aware, in -case of rivalry might tell against competitors; so that if Peter -Featherstone, who so far as he, Trumbull, was concerned, had behaved -like as good a soul as ever breathed, should have done anything -handsome by him, all he could say was, that he had never fished and -fawned, but had advised him to the best of his experience, which now -extended over twenty years from the time of his apprenticeship at -fifteen, and was likely to yield a knowledge of no surreptitious kind. -His admiration was far from being confined to himself, but was -accustomed professionally as well as privately to delight in estimating -things at a high rate. He was an amateur of superior phrases, and never -used poor language without immediately correcting himself—which was -fortunate, as he was rather loud, and given to predominate, standing or -walking about frequently, pulling down his waistcoat with the air of a -man who is very much of his own opinion, trimming himself rapidly with -his fore-finger, and marking each new series in these movements by a -busy play with his large seals. There was occasionally a little -fierceness in his demeanor, but it was directed chiefly against false -opinion, of which there is so much to correct in the world that a man -of some reading and experience necessarily has his patience tried. He -felt that the Featherstone family generally was of limited -understanding, but being a man of the world and a public character, -took everything as a matter of course, and even went to converse with -Mr. Jonah and young Cranch in the kitchen, not doubting that he had -impressed the latter greatly by his leading questions concerning the -Chalky Flats. If anybody had observed that Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, being -an auctioneer, was bound to know the nature of everything, he would -have smiled and trimmed himself silently with the sense that he came -pretty near that. On the whole, in an auctioneering way, he was an -honorable man, not ashamed of his business, and feeling that “the -celebrated Peel, now Sir Robert,” if introduced to him, would not fail -to recognize his importance. - -“I don’t mind if I have a slice of that ham, and a glass of that ale, -Miss Garth, if you will allow me,” he said, coming into the parlor at -half-past eleven, after having had the exceptional privilege of seeing -old Featherstone, and standing with his back to the fire between Mrs. -Waule and Solomon. - -“It’s not necessary for you to go out;—let me ring the bell.” - -“Thank you,” said Mary, “I have an errand.” - -“Well, Mr. Trumbull, you’re highly favored,” said Mrs. Waule. - -“What! seeing the old man?” said the auctioneer, playing with his seals -dispassionately. “Ah, you see he has relied on me considerably.” Here -he pressed his lips together, and frowned meditatively. - -“Might anybody ask what their brother has been saying?” said Solomon, -in a soft tone of humility, in which he had a sense of luxurious -cunning, he being a rich man and not in need of it. - -“Oh yes, anybody may ask,” said Mr. Trumbull, with loud and -good-humored though cutting sarcasm. “Anybody may interrogate. Any one -may give their remarks an interrogative turn,” he continued, his -sonorousness rising with his style. “This is constantly done by good -speakers, even when they anticipate no answer. It is what we call a -figure of speech—speech at a high figure, as one may say.” The eloquent -auctioneer smiled at his own ingenuity. - -“I shouldn’t be sorry to hear he’d remembered you, Mr. Trumbull,” said -Solomon. “I never was against the deserving. It’s the undeserving I’m -against.” - -“Ah, there it is, you see, there it is,” said Mr. Trumbull, -significantly. “It can’t be denied that undeserving people have been -legatees, and even residuary legatees. It is so, with testamentary -dispositions.” Again he pursed up his lips and frowned a little. - -“Do you mean to say for certain, Mr. Trumbull, that my brother has left -his land away from our family?” said Mrs. Waule, on whom, as an -unhopeful woman, those long words had a depressing effect. - -“A man might as well turn his land into charity land at once as leave -it to some people,” observed Solomon, his sister’s question having -drawn no answer. - -“What, Blue-Coat land?” said Mrs. Waule, again. “Oh, Mr. Trumbull, you -never can mean to say that. It would be flying in the face of the -Almighty that’s prospered him.” - -While Mrs. Waule was speaking, Mr. Borthrop Trumbull walked away from -the fireplace towards the window, patrolling with his fore-finger round -the inside of his stock, then along his whiskers and the curves of his -hair. He now walked to Miss Garth’s work-table, opened a book which lay -there and read the title aloud with pompous emphasis as if he were -offering it for sale: - -“‘Anne of Geierstein’ (pronounced Jeersteen) or the ‘Maiden of the -Mist, by the author of Waverley.’” Then turning the page, he began -sonorously—“The course of four centuries has well-nigh elapsed since -the series of events which are related in the following chapters took -place on the Continent.” He pronounced the last truly admirable word -with the accent on the last syllable, not as unaware of vulgar usage, -but feeling that this novel delivery enhanced the sonorous beauty which -his reading had given to the whole. - -And now the servant came in with the tray, so that the moments for -answering Mrs. Waule’s question had gone by safely, while she and -Solomon, watching Mr. Trumbull’s movements, were thinking that high -learning interfered sadly with serious affairs. Mr. Borthrop Trumbull -really knew nothing about old Featherstone’s will; but he could hardly -have been brought to declare any ignorance unless he had been arrested -for misprision of treason. - -“I shall take a mere mouthful of ham and a glass of ale,” he said, -reassuringly. “As a man with public business, I take a snack when I -can. I will back this ham,” he added, after swallowing some morsels -with alarming haste, “against any ham in the three kingdoms. In my -opinion it is better than the hams at Freshitt Hall—and I think I am a -tolerable judge.” - -“Some don’t like so much sugar in their hams,” said Mrs. Waule. “But my -poor brother would always have sugar.” - -“If any person demands better, he is at liberty to do so; but, God -bless me, what an aroma! I should be glad to buy in that quality, I -know. There is some gratification to a gentleman”—here Mr. Trumbull’s -voice conveyed an emotional remonstrance—“in having this kind of ham -set on his table.” - -He pushed aside his plate, poured out his glass of ale and drew his -chair a little forward, profiting by the occasion to look at the inner -side of his legs, which he stroked approvingly—Mr. Trumbull having all -those less frivolous airs and gestures which distinguish the -predominant races of the north. - -“You have an interesting work there, I see, Miss Garth,” he observed, -when Mary re-entered. “It is by the author of ‘Waverley’: that is Sir -Walter Scott. I have bought one of his works myself—a very nice thing, -a very superior publication, entitled ‘Ivanhoe.’ You will not get any -writer to beat him in a hurry, I think—he will not, in my opinion, be -speedily surpassed. I have just been reading a portion at the -commencement of ‘Anne of Jeersteen.’ It commences well.” (Things never -began with Mr. Borthrop Trumbull: they always commenced, both in -private life and on his handbills.) “You are a reader, I see. Do you -subscribe to our Middlemarch library?” - -“No,” said Mary. “Mr. Fred Vincy brought this book.” - -“I am a great bookman myself,” returned Mr. Trumbull. “I have no less -than two hundred volumes in calf, and I flatter myself they are well -selected. Also pictures by Murillo, Rubens, Teniers, Titian, Vandyck, -and others. I shall be happy to lend you any work you like to mention, -Miss Garth.” - -“I am much obliged,” said Mary, hastening away again, “but I have -little time for reading.” - -“I should say my brother has done something for _her_ in his will,” -said Mr. Solomon, in a very low undertone, when she had shut the door -behind her, pointing with his head towards the absent Mary. - -“His first wife was a poor match for him, though,” said Mrs. Waule. -“She brought him nothing: and this young woman is only her niece,—and -very proud. And my brother has always paid her wage.” - -“A sensible girl though, in my opinion,” said Mr. Trumbull, finishing -his ale and starting up with an emphatic adjustment of his waistcoat. -“I have observed her when she has been mixing medicine in drops. She -minds what she is doing, sir. That is a great point in a woman, and a -great point for our friend up-stairs, poor dear old soul. A man whose -life is of any value should think of his wife as a nurse: that is what -I should do, if I married; and I believe I have lived single long -enough not to make a mistake in that line. Some men must marry to -elevate themselves a little, but when I am in need of that, I hope some -one will tell me so—I hope some individual will apprise me of the fact. -I wish you good morning, Mrs. Waule. Good morning, Mr. Solomon. I trust -we shall meet under less melancholy auspices.” - -When Mr. Trumbull had departed with a fine bow, Solomon, leaning -forward, observed to his sister, “You may depend, Jane, my brother has -left that girl a lumping sum.” - -“Anybody would think so, from the way Mr. Trumbull talks,” said Jane. -Then, after a pause, “He talks as if my daughters wasn’t to be trusted -to give drops.” - -“Auctioneers talk wild,” said Solomon. “Not but what Trumbull has made -money.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - -“Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close; -And let us all to meditation.” -—2 _Henry VI_. - - -That night after twelve o’clock Mary Garth relieved the watch in Mr. -Featherstone’s room, and sat there alone through the small hours. She -often chose this task, in which she found some pleasure, -notwithstanding the old man’s testiness whenever he demanded her -attentions. There were intervals in which she could sit perfectly -still, enjoying the outer stillness and the subdued light. The red fire -with its gently audible movement seemed like a solemn existence calmly -independent of the petty passions, the imbecile desires, the straining -after worthless uncertainties, which were daily moving her contempt. -Mary was fond of her own thoughts, and could amuse herself well sitting -in twilight with her hands in her lap; for, having early had strong -reason to believe that things were not likely to be arranged for her -peculiar satisfaction, she wasted no time in astonishment and annoyance -at that fact. And she had already come to take life very much as a -comedy in which she had a proud, nay, a generous resolution not to act -the mean or treacherous part. Mary might have become cynical if she had -not had parents whom she honored, and a well of affectionate gratitude -within her, which was all the fuller because she had learned to make no -unreasonable claims. - -She sat to-night revolving, as she was wont, the scenes of the day, her -lips often curling with amusement at the oddities to which her fancy -added fresh drollery: people were so ridiculous with their illusions, -carrying their fool’s caps unawares, thinking their own lies opaque -while everybody else’s were transparent, making themselves exceptions -to everything, as if when all the world looked yellow under a lamp they -alone were rosy. Yet there were some illusions under Mary’s eyes which -were not quite comic to her. She was secretly convinced, though she had -no other grounds than her close observation of old Featherstone’s -nature, that in spite of his fondness for having the Vincys about him, -they were as likely to be disappointed as any of the relations whom he -kept at a distance. She had a good deal of disdain for Mrs. Vincy’s -evident alarm lest she and Fred should be alone together, but it did -not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the way in which Fred would -be affected, if it should turn out that his uncle had left him as poor -as ever. She could make a butt of Fred when he was present, but she did -not enjoy his follies when he was absent. - -Yet she liked her thoughts: a vigorous young mind not overbalanced by -passion, finds a good in making acquaintance with life, and watches its -own powers with interest. Mary had plenty of merriment within. - -Her thought was not veined by any solemnity or pathos about the old man -on the bed: such sentiments are easier to affect than to feel about an -aged creature whose life is not visibly anything but a remnant of -vices. She had always seen the most disagreeable side of Mr. -Featherstone: he was not proud of her, and she was only useful to him. -To be anxious about a soul that is always snapping at you must be left -to the saints of the earth; and Mary was not one of them. She had never -returned him a harsh word, and had waited on him faithfully: that was -her utmost. Old Featherstone himself was not in the least anxious about -his soul, and had declined to see Mr. Tucker on the subject. - -To-night he had not snapped, and for the first hour or two he lay -remarkably still, until at last Mary heard him rattling his bunch of -keys against the tin box which he always kept in the bed beside him. -About three o’clock he said, with remarkable distinctness, “Missy, come -here!” - -Mary obeyed, and found that he had already drawn the tin box from under -the clothes, though he usually asked to have this done for him; and he -had selected the key. He now unlocked the box, and, drawing from it -another key, looked straight at her with eyes that seemed to have -recovered all their sharpness and said, “How many of ’em are in the -house?” - -“You mean of your own relations, sir,” said Mary, well used to the old -man’s way of speech. He nodded slightly and she went on. - -“Mr. Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here.” - -“Oh ay, they stick, do they? and the rest—they come every day, I’ll -warrant—Solomon and Jane, and all the young uns? They come peeping, and -counting and casting up?” - -“Not all of them every day. Mr. Solomon and Mrs. Waule are here every -day, and the others come often.” - -The old man listened with a grimace while she spoke, and then said, -relaxing his face, “The more fools they. You hearken, missy. It’s three -o’clock in the morning, and I’ve got all my faculties as well as ever I -had in my life. I know all my property, and where the money’s put out, -and everything. And I’ve made everything ready to change my mind, and -do as I like at the last. Do you hear, missy? I’ve got my faculties.” - -“Well, sir?” said Mary, quietly. - -He now lowered his tone with an air of deeper cunning. “I’ve made two -wills, and I’m going to burn one. Now you do as I tell you. This is the -key of my iron chest, in the closet there. You push well at the side of -the brass plate at the top, till it goes like a bolt: then you can put -the key in the front lock and turn it. See and do that; and take out -the topmost paper—Last Will and Testament—big printed.” - -“No, sir,” said Mary, in a firm voice, “I cannot do that.” - -“Not do it? I tell you, you must,” said the old man, his voice -beginning to shake under the shock of this resistance. - -“I cannot touch your iron chest or your will. I must refuse to do -anything that might lay me open to suspicion.” - -“I tell you, I’m in my right mind. Shan’t I do as I like at the last? I -made two wills on purpose. Take the key, I say.” - -“No, sir, I will not,” said Mary, more resolutely still. Her repulsion -was getting stronger. - -“I tell you, there’s no time to lose.” - -“I cannot help that, sir. I will not let the close of your life soil -the beginning of mine. I will not touch your iron chest or your will.” -She moved to a little distance from the bedside. - -The old man paused with a blank stare for a little while, holding the -one key erect on the ring; then with an agitated jerk he began to work -with his bony left hand at emptying the tin box before him. - -“Missy,” he began to say, hurriedly, “look here! take the money—the -notes and gold—look here—take it—you shall have it all—do as I tell -you.” - -He made an effort to stretch out the key towards her as far as -possible, and Mary again retreated. - -“I will not touch your key or your money, sir. Pray don’t ask me to do -it again. If you do, I must go and call your brother.” - -He let his hand fall, and for the first time in her life Mary saw old -Peter Featherstone begin to cry childishly. She said, in as gentle a -tone as she could command, “Pray put up your money, sir;” and then went -away to her seat by the fire, hoping this would help to convince him -that it was useless to say more. Presently he rallied and said eagerly— - -“Look here, then. Call the young chap. Call Fred Vincy.” - -Mary’s heart began to beat more quickly. Various ideas rushed through -her mind as to what the burning of a second will might imply. She had -to make a difficult decision in a hurry. - -“I will call him, if you will let me call Mr. Jonah and others with -him.” - -“Nobody else, I say. The young chap. I shall do as I like.” - -“Wait till broad daylight, sir, when every one is stirring. Or let me -call Simmons now, to go and fetch the lawyer? He can be here in less -than two hours.” - -“Lawyer? What do I want with the lawyer? Nobody shall know—I say, -nobody shall know. I shall do as I like.” - -“Let me call some one else, sir,” said Mary, persuasively. She did not -like her position—alone with the old man, who seemed to show a strange -flaring of nervous energy which enabled him to speak again and again -without falling into his usual cough; yet she desired not to push -unnecessarily the contradiction which agitated him. “Let me, pray, call -some one else.” - -“You let me alone, I say. Look here, missy. Take the money. You’ll -never have the chance again. It’s pretty nigh two hundred—there’s more -in the box, and nobody knows how much there was. Take it and do as I -tell you.” - -Mary, standing by the fire, saw its red light falling on the old man, -propped up on his pillows and bed-rest, with his bony hand holding out -the key, and the money lying on the quilt before him. She never forgot -that vision of a man wanting to do as he liked at the last. But the way -in which he had put the offer of the money urged her to speak with -harder resolution than ever. - -“It is of no use, sir. I will not do it. Put up your money. I will not -touch your money. I will do anything else I can to comfort you; but I -will not touch your keys or your money.” - -“Anything else—anything else!” said old Featherstone, with hoarse rage, -which, as if in a nightmare, tried to be loud, and yet was only just -audible. “I want nothing else. You come here—you come here.” - -Mary approached him cautiously, knowing him too well. She saw him -dropping his keys and trying to grasp his stick, while he looked at her -like an aged hyena, the muscles of his face getting distorted with the -effort of his hand. She paused at a safe distance. - -“Let me give you some cordial,” she said, quietly, “and try to compose -yourself. You will perhaps go to sleep. And to-morrow by daylight you -can do as you like.” - -He lifted the stick, in spite of her being beyond his reach, and threw -it with a hard effort which was but impotence. It fell, slipping over -the foot of the bed. Mary let it lie, and retreated to her chair by the -fire. By-and-by she would go to him with the cordial. Fatigue would -make him passive. It was getting towards the chillest moment of the -morning, the fire had got low, and she could see through the chink -between the moreen window-curtains the light whitened by the blind. -Having put some wood on the fire and thrown a shawl over her, she sat -down, hoping that Mr. Featherstone might now fall asleep. If she went -near him the irritation might be kept up. He had said nothing after -throwing the stick, but she had seen him taking his keys again and -laying his right hand on the money. He did not put it up, however, and -she thought that he was dropping off to sleep. - -But Mary herself began to be more agitated by the remembrance of what -she had gone through, than she had been by the reality—questioning -those acts of hers which had come imperatively and excluded all -question in the critical moment. - -Presently the dry wood sent out a flame which illuminated every -crevice, and Mary saw that the old man was lying quietly with his head -turned a little on one side. She went towards him with inaudible steps, -and thought that his face looked strangely motionless; but the next -moment the movement of the flame communicating itself to all objects -made her uncertain. The violent beating of her heart rendered her -perceptions so doubtful that even when she touched him and listened for -his breathing, she could not trust her conclusions. She went to the -window and gently propped aside the curtain and blind, so that the -still light of the sky fell on the bed. - -The next moment she ran to the bell and rang it energetically. In a -very little while there was no longer any doubt that Peter Featherstone -was dead, with his right hand clasping the keys, and his left hand -lying on the heap of notes and gold. - - - - -BOOK IV. -THREE LOVE PROBLEMS. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - -“1_st Gent_. Such men as this are feathers, chips, and straws, - Carry no weight, no force. - -2_d Gent_. But levity - Is causal too, and makes the sum of weight. - For power finds its place in lack of power; - Advance is cession, and the driven ship - May run aground because the helmsman’s thought - Lacked force to balance opposites.” - - -It was on a morning of May that Peter Featherstone was buried. In the -prosaic neighborhood of Middlemarch, May was not always warm and sunny, -and on this particular morning a chill wind was blowing the blossoms -from the surrounding gardens on to the green mounds of Lowick -churchyard. Swiftly moving clouds only now and then allowed a gleam to -light up any object, whether ugly or beautiful, that happened to stand -within its golden shower. In the churchyard the objects were remarkably -various, for there was a little country crowd waiting to see the -funeral. The news had spread that it was to be a “big burying;” the old -gentleman had left written directions about everything and meant to -have a funeral “beyond his betters.” This was true; for old -Featherstone had not been a Harpagon whose passions had all been -devoured by the ever-lean and ever-hungry passion of saving, and who -would drive a bargain with his undertaker beforehand. He loved money, -but he also loved to spend it in gratifying his peculiar tastes, and -perhaps he loved it best of all as a means of making others feel his -power more or less uncomfortably. If any one will here contend that -there must have been traits of goodness in old Featherstone, I will not -presume to deny this; but I must observe that goodness is of a modest -nature, easily discouraged, and when much privacy, elbowed in early -life by unabashed vices, is apt to retire into extreme privacy, so that -it is more easily believed in by those who construct a selfish old -gentleman theoretically, than by those who form the narrower judgments -based on his personal acquaintance. In any case, he had been bent on -having a handsome funeral, and on having persons “bid” to it who would -rather have stayed at home. He had even desired that female relatives -should follow him to the grave, and poor sister Martha had taken a -difficult journey for this purpose from the Chalky Flats. She and Jane -would have been altogether cheered (in a tearful manner) by this sign -that a brother who disliked seeing them while he was living had been -prospectively fond of their presence when he should have become a -testator, if the sign had not been made equivocal by being extended to -Mrs. Vincy, whose expense in handsome crape seemed to imply the most -presumptuous hopes, aggravated by a bloom of complexion which told -pretty plainly that she was not a blood-relation, but of that generally -objectionable class called wife’s kin. - -We are all of us imaginative in some form or other, for images are the -brood of desire; and poor old Featherstone, who laughed much at the way -in which others cajoled themselves, did not escape the fellowship of -illusion. In writing the programme for his burial he certainly did not -make clear to himself that his pleasure in the little drama of which it -formed a part was confined to anticipation. In chuckling over the -vexations he could inflict by the rigid clutch of his dead hand, he -inevitably mingled his consciousness with that livid stagnant presence, -and so far as he was preoccupied with a future life, it was with one of -gratification inside his coffin. Thus old Featherstone was imaginative, -after his fashion. - -However, the three mourning-coaches were filled according to the -written orders of the deceased. There were pall-bearers on horseback, -with the richest scarfs and hatbands, and even the under-bearers had -trappings of woe which were of a good well-priced quality. The black -procession, when dismounted, looked the larger for the smallness of the -churchyard; the heavy human faces and the black draperies shivering in -the wind seemed to tell of a world strangely incongruous with the -lightly dropping blossoms and the gleams of sunshine on the daisies. -The clergyman who met the procession was Mr. Cadwallader—also according -to the request of Peter Featherstone, prompted as usual by peculiar -reasons. Having a contempt for curates, whom he always called -understrappers, he was resolved to be buried by a beneficed clergyman. -Mr. Casaubon was out of the question, not merely because he declined -duty of this sort, but because Featherstone had an especial dislike to -him as the rector of his own parish, who had a lien on the land in the -shape of tithe, also as the deliverer of morning sermons, which the old -man, being in his pew and not at all sleepy, had been obliged to sit -through with an inward snarl. He had an objection to a parson stuck up -above his head preaching to him. But his relations with Mr. Cadwallader -had been of a different kind: the trout-stream which ran through Mr. -Casaubon’s land took its course through Featherstone’s also, so that -Mr. Cadwallader was a parson who had had to ask a favor instead of -preaching. Moreover, he was one of the high gentry living four miles -away from Lowick, and was thus exalted to an equal sky with the sheriff -of the county and other dignities vaguely regarded as necessary to the -system of things. There would be a satisfaction in being buried by Mr. -Cadwallader, whose very name offered a fine opportunity for pronouncing -wrongly if you liked. - -This distinction conferred on the Rector of Tipton and Freshitt was the -reason why Mrs. Cadwallader made one of the group that watched old -Featherstone’s funeral from an upper window of the manor. She was not -fond of visiting that house, but she liked, as she said, to see -collections of strange animals such as there would be at this funeral; -and she had persuaded Sir James and the young Lady Chettam to drive the -Rector and herself to Lowick in order that the visit might be -altogether pleasant. - -“I will go anywhere with you, Mrs. Cadwallader,” Celia had said; “but I -don’t like funerals.” - -“Oh, my dear, when you have a clergyman in your family you must -accommodate your tastes: I did that very early. When I married Humphrey -I made up my mind to like sermons, and I set out by liking the end very -much. That soon spread to the middle and the beginning, because I -couldn’t have the end without them.” - -“No, to be sure not,” said the Dowager Lady Chettam, with stately -emphasis. - -The upper window from which the funeral could be well seen was in the -room occupied by Mr. Casaubon when he had been forbidden to work; but -he had resumed nearly his habitual style of life now in spite of -warnings and prescriptions, and after politely welcoming Mrs. -Cadwallader had slipped again into the library to chew a cud of erudite -mistake about Cush and Mizraim. - -But for her visitors Dorothea too might have been shut up in the -library, and would not have witnessed this scene of old Featherstone’s -funeral, which, aloof as it seemed to be from the tenor of her life, -always afterwards came back to her at the touch of certain sensitive -points in memory, just as the vision of St. Peter’s at Rome was inwoven -with moods of despondency. Scenes which make vital changes in our -neighbors’ lot are but the background of our own, yet, like a -particular aspect of the fields and trees, they become associated for -us with the epochs of our own history, and make a part of that unity -which lies in the selection of our keenest consciousness. - -The dream-like association of something alien and ill-understood with -the deepest secrets of her experience seemed to mirror that sense of -loneliness which was due to the very ardor of Dorothea’s nature. The -country gentry of old time lived in a rarefied social air: dotted apart -on their stations up the mountain they looked down with imperfect -discrimination on the belts of thicker life below. And Dorothea was not -at ease in the perspective and chilliness of that height. - -“I shall not look any more,” said Celia, after the train had entered -the church, placing herself a little behind her husband’s elbow so that -she could slyly touch his coat with her cheek. “I dare say Dodo likes -it: she is fond of melancholy things and ugly people.” - -“I am fond of knowing something about the people I live among,” said -Dorothea, who had been watching everything with the interest of a monk -on his holiday tour. “It seems to me we know nothing of our neighbors, -unless they are cottagers. One is constantly wondering what sort of -lives other people lead, and how they take things. I am quite obliged -to Mrs. Cadwallader for coming and calling me out of the library.” - -“Quite right to feel obliged to me,” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “Your rich -Lowick farmers are as curious as any buffaloes or bisons, and I dare -say you don’t half see them at church. They are quite different from -your uncle’s tenants or Sir James’s—monsters—farmers without -landlords—one can’t tell how to class them.” - -“Most of these followers are not Lowick people,” said Sir James; “I -suppose they are legatees from a distance, or from Middlemarch. -Lovegood tells me the old fellow has left a good deal of money as well -as land.” - -“Think of that now! when so many younger sons can’t dine at their own -expense,” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “Ah,” turning round at the sound of -the opening door, “here is Mr. Brooke. I felt that we were incomplete -before, and here is the explanation. You are come to see this odd -funeral, of course?” - -“No, I came to look after Casaubon—to see how he goes on, you know. And -to bring a little news—a little news, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, -nodding at Dorothea as she came towards him. “I looked into the -library, and I saw Casaubon over his books. I told him it wouldn’t do: -I said, ‘This will never do, you know: think of your wife, Casaubon.’ -And he promised me to come up. I didn’t tell him my news: I said, he -must come up.” - -“Ah, now they are coming out of church,” Mrs. Cadwallader exclaimed. -“Dear me, what a wonderfully mixed set! Mr. Lydgate as doctor, I -suppose. But that is really a good looking woman, and the fair young -man must be her son. Who are they, Sir James, do you know?” - -“I see Vincy, the Mayor of Middlemarch; they are probably his wife and -son,” said Sir James, looking interrogatively at Mr. Brooke, who nodded -and said— - -“Yes, a very decent family—a very good fellow is Vincy; a credit to the -manufacturing interest. You have seen him at my house, you know.” - -“Ah, yes: one of your secret committee,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, -provokingly. - -“A coursing fellow, though,” said Sir James, with a fox-hunter’s -disgust. - -“And one of those who suck the life out of the wretched handloom -weavers in Tipton and Freshitt. That is how his family look so fair and -sleek,” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “Those dark, purple-faced people are an -excellent foil. Dear me, they are like a set of jugs! Do look at -Humphrey: one might fancy him an ugly archangel towering above them in -his white surplice.” - -“It’s a solemn thing, though, a funeral,” said Mr. Brooke, “if you take -it in that light, you know.” - -“But I am not taking it in that light. I can’t wear my solemnity too -often, else it will go to rags. It was time the old man died, and none -of these people are sorry.” - -“How piteous!” said Dorothea. “This funeral seems to me the most dismal -thing I ever saw. It is a blot on the morning. I cannot bear to think -that any one should die and leave no love behind.” - -She was going to say more, but she saw her husband enter and seat -himself a little in the background. The difference his presence made to -her was not always a happy one: she felt that he often inwardly -objected to her speech. - -“Positively,” exclaimed Mrs. Cadwallader, “there is a new face come out -from behind that broad man queerer than any of them: a little round -head with bulging eyes—a sort of frog-face—do look. He must be of -another blood, I think.” - -“Let me see!” said Celia, with awakened curiosity, standing behind Mrs. -Cadwallader and leaning forward over her head. “Oh, what an odd face!” -Then with a quick change to another sort of surprised expression, she -added, “Why, Dodo, you never told me that Mr. Ladislaw was come again!” - -Dorothea felt a shock of alarm: every one noticed her sudden paleness -as she looked up immediately at her uncle, while Mr. Casaubon looked at -her. - -“He came with me, you know; he is my guest—puts up with me at the -Grange,” said Mr. Brooke, in his easiest tone, nodding at Dorothea, as -if the announcement were just what she might have expected. “And we -have brought the picture at the top of the carriage. I knew you would -be pleased with the surprise, Casaubon. There you are to the very -life—as Aquinas, you know. Quite the right sort of thing. And you will -hear young Ladislaw talk about it. He talks uncommonly well—points out -this, that, and the other—knows art and everything of that -kind—companionable, you know—is up with you in any track—what I’ve been -wanting a long while.” - -Mr. Casaubon bowed with cold politeness, mastering his irritation, but -only so far as to be silent. He remembered Will’s letter quite as well -as Dorothea did; he had noticed that it was not among the letters which -had been reserved for him on his recovery, and secretly concluding that -Dorothea had sent word to Will not to come to Lowick, he had shrunk -with proud sensitiveness from ever recurring to the subject. He now -inferred that she had asked her uncle to invite Will to the Grange; and -she felt it impossible at that moment to enter into any explanation. - -Mrs. Cadwallader’s eyes, diverted from the churchyard, saw a good deal -of dumb show which was not so intelligible to her as she could have -desired, and could not repress the question, “Who is Mr. Ladislaw?” - -“A young relative of Mr. Casaubon’s,” said Sir James, promptly. His -good-nature often made him quick and clear-seeing in personal matters, -and he had divined from Dorothea’s glance at her husband that there was -some alarm in her mind. - -“A very nice young fellow—Casaubon has done everything for him,” -explained Mr. Brooke. “He repays your expense in him, Casaubon,” he -went on, nodding encouragingly. “I hope he will stay with me a long -while and we shall make something of my documents. I have plenty of -ideas and facts, you know, and I can see he is just the man to put them -into shape—remembers what the right quotations are, _omne tulit -punctum_, and that sort of thing—gives subjects a kind of turn. I -invited him some time ago when you were ill, Casaubon; Dorothea said -you couldn’t have anybody in the house, you know, and she asked me to -write.” - -Poor Dorothea felt that every word of her uncle’s was about as pleasant -as a grain of sand in the eye to Mr. Casaubon. It would be altogether -unfitting now to explain that she had not wished her uncle to invite -Will Ladislaw. She could not in the least make clear to herself the -reasons for her husband’s dislike to his presence—a dislike painfully -impressed on her by the scene in the library; but she felt the -unbecomingness of saying anything that might convey a notion of it to -others. Mr. Casaubon, indeed, had not thoroughly represented those -mixed reasons to himself; irritated feeling with him, as with all of -us, seeking rather for justification than for self-knowledge. But he -wished to repress outward signs, and only Dorothea could discern the -changes in her husband’s face before he observed with more of dignified -bending and sing-song than usual— - -“You are exceedingly hospitable, my dear sir; and I owe you -acknowledgments for exercising your hospitality towards a relative of -mine.” - -The funeral was ended now, and the churchyard was being cleared. - -“Now you can see him, Mrs. Cadwallader,” said Celia. “He is just like a -miniature of Mr. Casaubon’s aunt that hangs in Dorothea’s boudoir—quite -nice-looking.” - -“A very pretty sprig,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, dryly. “What is your -nephew to be, Mr. Casaubon?” - -“Pardon me, he is not my nephew. He is my cousin.” - -“Well, you know,” interposed Mr. Brooke, “he is trying his wings. He is -just the sort of young fellow to rise. I should be glad to give him an -opportunity. He would make a good secretary, now, like Hobbes, Milton, -Swift—that sort of man.” - -“I understand,” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “One who can write speeches.” - -“I’ll fetch him in now, eh, Casaubon?” said Mr. Brooke. “He wouldn’t -come in till I had announced him, you know. And we’ll go down and look -at the picture. There you are to the life: a deep subtle sort of -thinker with his fore-finger on the page, while Saint Bonaventure or -somebody else, rather fat and florid, is looking up at the Trinity. -Everything is symbolical, you know—the higher style of art: I like that -up to a certain point, but not too far—it’s rather straining to keep up -with, you know. But you are at home in that, Casaubon. And your -painter’s flesh is good—solidity, transparency, everything of that -sort. I went into that a great deal at one time. However, I’ll go and -fetch Ladislaw.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - -“Non, je ne comprends pas de plus charmant plaisir -Que de voir d’héritiers une troupe affligée -Le maintien interdit, et la mine allongée, -Lire un long testament où pales, étonnés -On leur laisse un bonsoir avec un pied de nez. -Pour voir au naturel leur tristesse profonde -Je reviendrais, je crois, exprès de l’autre monde.” -—REGNARD: _Le Légataire Universel_. - - -When the animals entered the Ark in pairs, one may imagine that allied -species made much private remark on each other, and were tempted to -think that so many forms feeding on the same store of fodder were -eminently superfluous, as tending to diminish the rations. (I fear the -part played by the vultures on that occasion would be too painful for -art to represent, those birds being disadvantageously naked about the -gullet, and apparently without rites and ceremonies.) - -The same sort of temptation befell the Christian Carnivora who formed -Peter Featherstone’s funeral procession; most of them having their -minds bent on a limited store which each would have liked to get the -most of. The long-recognized blood-relations and connections by -marriage made already a goodly number, which, multiplied by -possibilities, presented a fine range for jealous conjecture and -pathetic hopefulness. Jealousy of the Vincys had created a fellowship -in hostility among all persons of the Featherstone blood, so that in -the absence of any decided indication that one of themselves was to -have more than the rest, the dread lest that long-legged Fred Vincy -should have the land was necessarily dominant, though it left abundant -feeling and leisure for vaguer jealousies, such as were entertained -towards Mary Garth. Solomon found time to reflect that Jonah was -undeserving, and Jonah to abuse Solomon as greedy; Jane, the elder -sister, held that Martha’s children ought not to expect so much as the -young Waules; and Martha, more lax on the subject of primogeniture, was -sorry to think that Jane was so “having.” These nearest of kin were -naturally impressed with the unreasonableness of expectations in -cousins and second cousins, and used their arithmetic in reckoning the -large sums that small legacies might mount to, if there were too many -of them. Two cousins were present to hear the will, and a second cousin -besides Mr. Trumbull. This second cousin was a Middlemarch mercer of -polite manners and superfluous aspirates. The two cousins were elderly -men from Brassing, one of them conscious of claims on the score of -inconvenient expense sustained by him in presents of oysters and other -eatables to his rich cousin Peter; the other entirely saturnine, -leaning his hands and chin on a stick, and conscious of claims based on -no narrow performance but on merit generally: both blameless citizens -of Brassing, who wished that Jonah Featherstone did not live there. The -wit of a family is usually best received among strangers. - -“Why, Trumbull himself is pretty sure of five hundred—_that_ you may -depend,—I shouldn’t wonder if my brother promised him,” said Solomon, -musing aloud with his sisters, the evening before the funeral. - -“Dear, dear!” said poor sister Martha, whose imagination of hundreds -had been habitually narrowed to the amount of her unpaid rent. - -But in the morning all the ordinary currents of conjecture were -disturbed by the presence of a strange mourner who had plashed among -them as if from the moon. This was the stranger described by Mrs. -Cadwallader as frog-faced: a man perhaps about two or three and thirty, -whose prominent eyes, thin-lipped, downward-curved mouth, and hair -sleekly brushed away from a forehead that sank suddenly above the ridge -of the eyebrows, certainly gave his face a batrachian unchangeableness -of expression. Here, clearly, was a new legatee; else why was he bidden -as a mourner? Here were new possibilities, raising a new uncertainty, -which almost checked remark in the mourning-coaches. We are all -humiliated by the sudden discovery of a fact which has existed very -comfortably and perhaps been staring at us in private while we have -been making up our world entirely without it. No one had seen this -questionable stranger before except Mary Garth, and she knew nothing -more of him than that he had twice been to Stone Court when Mr. -Featherstone was down-stairs, and had sat alone with him for several -hours. She had found an opportunity of mentioning this to her father, -and perhaps Caleb’s were the only eyes, except the lawyer’s, which -examined the stranger with more of inquiry than of disgust or -suspicion. Caleb Garth, having little expectation and less cupidity, -was interested in the verification of his own guesses, and the calmness -with which he half smilingly rubbed his chin and shot intelligent -glances much as if he were valuing a tree, made a fine contrast with -the alarm or scorn visible in other faces when the unknown mourner, -whose name was understood to be Rigg, entered the wainscoted parlor and -took his seat near the door to make part of the audience when the will -should be read. Just then Mr. Solomon and Mr. Jonah were gone up-stairs -with the lawyer to search for the will; and Mrs. Waule, seeing two -vacant seats between herself and Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, had the spirit -to move next to that great authority, who was handling his watch-seals -and trimming his outlines with a determination not to show anything so -compromising to a man of ability as wonder or surprise. - -“I suppose you know everything about what my poor brother’s done, Mr. -Trumbull,” said Mrs. Waule, in the lowest of her woolly tones, while -she turned her crape-shadowed bonnet towards Mr. Trumbull’s ear. - -“My good lady, whatever was told me was told in confidence,” said the -auctioneer, putting his hand up to screen that secret. - -“Them who’ve made sure of their good-luck may be disappointed yet,” -Mrs. Waule continued, finding some relief in this communication. - -“Hopes are often delusive,” said Mr. Trumbull, still in confidence. - -“Ah!” said Mrs. Waule, looking across at the Vincys, and then moving -back to the side of her sister Martha. - -“It’s wonderful how close poor Peter was,” she said, in the same -undertones. “We none of us know what he might have had on his mind. I -only hope and trust he wasn’t a worse liver than we think of, Martha.” - -Poor Mrs. Cranch was bulky, and, breathing asthmatically, had the -additional motive for making her remarks unexceptionable and giving -them a general bearing, that even her whispers were loud and liable to -sudden bursts like those of a deranged barrel-organ. - -“I never _was_ covetous, Jane,” she replied; “but I have six children -and have buried three, and I didn’t marry into money. The eldest, that -sits there, is but nineteen—so I leave you to guess. And stock always -short, and land most awkward. But if ever I’ve begged and prayed; it’s -been to God above; though where there’s one brother a bachelor and the -other childless after twice marrying—anybody might think!” - -Meanwhile, Mr. Vincy had glanced at the passive face of Mr. Rigg, and -had taken out his snuff-box and tapped it, but had put it again -unopened as an indulgence which, however clarifying to the judgment, -was unsuited to the occasion. “I shouldn’t wonder if Featherstone had -better feelings than any of us gave him credit for,” he observed, in -the ear of his wife. “This funeral shows a thought about everybody: it -looks well when a man wants to be followed by his friends, and if they -are humble, not to be ashamed of them. I should be all the better -pleased if he’d left lots of small legacies. They may be uncommonly -useful to fellows in a small way.” - -“Everything is as handsome as could be, crape and silk and everything,” -said Mrs. Vincy, contentedly. - -But I am sorry to say that Fred was under some difficulty in repressing -a laugh, which would have been more unsuitable than his father’s -snuff-box. Fred had overheard Mr. Jonah suggesting something about a -“love-child,” and with this thought in his mind, the stranger’s face, -which happened to be opposite him, affected him too ludicrously. Mary -Garth, discerning his distress in the twitchings of his mouth, and his -recourse to a cough, came cleverly to his rescue by asking him to -change seats with her, so that he got into a shadowy corner. Fred was -feeling as good-naturedly as possible towards everybody, including -Rigg; and having some relenting towards all these people who were less -lucky than he was aware of being himself, he would not for the world -have behaved amiss; still, it was particularly easy to laugh. - -But the entrance of the lawyer and the two brothers drew every one’s -attention. The lawyer was Mr. Standish, and he had come to Stone Court -this morning believing that he knew thoroughly well who would be -pleased and who disappointed before the day was over. The will he -expected to read was the last of three which he had drawn up for Mr. -Featherstone. Mr. Standish was not a man who varied his manners: he -behaved with the same deep-voiced, off-hand civility to everybody, as -if he saw no difference in them, and talked chiefly of the hay-crop, -which would be “very fine, by God!” of the last bulletins concerning -the King, and of the Duke of Clarence, who was a sailor every inch of -him, and just the man to rule over an island like Britain. - -Old Featherstone had often reflected as he sat looking at the fire that -Standish would be surprised some day: it is true that if he had done as -he liked at the last, and burnt the will drawn up by another lawyer, he -would not have secured that minor end; still he had had his pleasure in -ruminating on it. And certainly Mr. Standish was surprised, but not at -all sorry; on the contrary, he rather enjoyed the zest of a little -curiosity in his own mind, which the discovery of a second will added -to the prospective amazement on the part of the Featherstone family. - -As to the sentiments of Solomon and Jonah, they were held in utter -suspense: it seemed to them that the old will would have a certain -validity, and that there might be such an interlacement of poor Peter’s -former and latter intentions as to create endless “lawing” before -anybody came by their own—an inconvenience which would have at least -the advantage of going all round. Hence the brothers showed a -thoroughly neutral gravity as they re-entered with Mr. Standish; but -Solomon took out his white handkerchief again with a sense that in any -case there would be affecting passages, and crying at funerals, however -dry, was customarily served up in lawn. - -Perhaps the person who felt the most throbbing excitement at this -moment was Mary Garth, in the consciousness that it was she who had -virtually determined the production of this second will, which might -have momentous effects on the lot of some persons present. No soul -except herself knew what had passed on that final night. - -“The will I hold in my hand,” said Mr. Standish, who, seated at the -table in the middle of the room, took his time about everything, -including the coughs with which he showed a disposition to clear his -voice, “was drawn up by myself and executed by our deceased friend on -the 9th of August, 1825. But I find that there is a subsequent -instrument hitherto unknown to me, bearing date the 20th of July, 1826, -hardly a year later than the previous one. And there is farther, I -see”—Mr. Standish was cautiously travelling over the document with his -spectacles—“a codicil to this latter will, bearing date March 1, 1828.” - -“Dear, dear!” said sister Martha, not meaning to be audible, but driven -to some articulation under this pressure of dates. - -“I shall begin by reading the earlier will,” continued Mr. Standish, -“since such, as appears by his not having destroyed the document, was -the intention of the deceased.” - -The preamble was felt to be rather long, and several besides Solomon -shook their heads pathetically, looking on the ground: all eyes avoided -meeting other eyes, and were chiefly fixed either on the spots in the -table-cloth or on Mr. Standish’s bald head; excepting Mary Garth’s. -When all the rest were trying to look nowhere in particular, it was -safe for her to look at them. And at the sound of the first “give and -bequeath” she could see all complexions changing subtly, as if some -faint vibration were passing through them, save that of Mr. Rigg. He -sat in unaltered calm, and, in fact, the company, preoccupied with more -important problems, and with the complication of listening to bequests -which might or might not be revoked, had ceased to think of him. Fred -blushed, and Mr. Vincy found it impossible to do without his snuff-box -in his hand, though he kept it closed. - -The small bequests came first, and even the recollection that there was -another will and that poor Peter might have thought better of it, could -not quell the rising disgust and indignation. One likes to be done well -by in every tense, past, present, and future. And here was Peter -capable five years ago of leaving only two hundred apiece to his own -brothers and sisters, and only a hundred apiece to his own nephews and -nieces: the Garths were not mentioned, but Mrs. Vincy and Rosamond were -each to have a hundred. Mr. Trumbull was to have the gold-headed cane -and fifty pounds; the other second cousins and the cousins present were -each to have the like handsome sum, which, as the saturnine cousin -observed, was a sort of legacy that left a man nowhere; and there was -much more of such offensive dribbling in favor of persons not -present—problematical, and, it was to be feared, low connections. -Altogether, reckoning hastily, here were about three thousand disposed -of. Where then had Peter meant the rest of the money to go—and where -the land? and what was revoked and what not revoked—and was the -revocation for better or for worse? All emotion must be conditional, -and might turn out to be the wrong thing. The men were strong enough to -bear up and keep quiet under this confused suspense; some letting their -lower lip fall, others pursing it up, according to the habit of their -muscles. But Jane and Martha sank under the rush of questions, and -began to cry; poor Mrs. Cranch being half moved with the consolation of -getting any hundreds at all without working for them, and half aware -that her share was scanty; whereas Mrs. Waule’s mind was entirely -flooded with the sense of being an own sister and getting little, while -somebody else was to have much. The general expectation now was that -the “much” would fall to Fred Vincy, but the Vincys themselves were -surprised when ten thousand pounds in specified investments were -declared to be bequeathed to him:—was the land coming too? Fred bit his -lips: it was difficult to help smiling, and Mrs. Vincy felt herself the -happiest of women—possible revocation shrinking out of sight in this -dazzling vision. - -There was still a residue of personal property as well as the land, but -the whole was left to one person, and that person was—O possibilities! -O expectations founded on the favor of “close” old gentlemen! O endless -vocatives that would still leave expression slipping helpless from the -measurement of mortal folly!—that residuary legatee was Joshua Rigg, -who was also sole executor, and who was to take thenceforth the name of -Featherstone. - -There was a rustling which seemed like a shudder running round the -room. Every one stared afresh at Mr. Rigg, who apparently experienced -no surprise. - -“A most singular testamentary disposition!” exclaimed Mr. Trumbull, -preferring for once that he should be considered ignorant in the past. -“But there is a second will—there is a further document. We have not -yet heard the final wishes of the deceased.” - -Mary Garth was feeling that what they had yet to hear were not the -final wishes. The second will revoked everything except the legacies to -the low persons before mentioned (some alterations in these being the -occasion of the codicil), and the bequest of all the land lying in -Lowick parish with all the stock and household furniture, to Joshua -Rigg. The residue of the property was to be devoted to the erection and -endowment of almshouses for old men, to be called Featherstone’s -Alms-Houses, and to be built on a piece of land near Middlemarch -already bought for the purpose by the testator, he wishing—so the -document declared—to please God Almighty. Nobody present had a -farthing; but Mr. Trumbull had the gold-headed cane. It took some time -for the company to recover the power of expression. Mary dared not look -at Fred. - -Mr. Vincy was the first to speak—after using his snuff-box -energetically—and he spoke with loud indignation. “The most -unaccountable will I ever heard! I should say he was not in his right -mind when he made it. I should say this last will was void,” added Mr. -Vincy, feeling that this expression put the thing in the true light. -“Eh Standish?” - -“Our deceased friend always knew what he was about, I think,” said Mr. -Standish. “Everything is quite regular. Here is a letter from Clemmens -of Brassing tied with the will. He drew it up. A very respectable -solicitor.” - -“I never noticed any alienation of mind—any aberration of intellect in -the late Mr. Featherstone,” said Borthrop Trumbull, “but I call this -will eccentric. I was always willingly of service to the old soul; and -he intimated pretty plainly a sense of obligation which would show -itself in his will. The gold-headed cane is farcical considered as an -acknowledgment to me; but happily I am above mercenary considerations.” - -“There’s nothing very surprising in the matter that I can see,” said -Caleb Garth. “Anybody might have had more reason for wondering if the -will had been what you might expect from an open-minded straightforward -man. For my part, I wish there was no such thing as a will.” - -“That’s a strange sentiment to come from a Christian man, by God!” said -the lawyer. “I should like to know how you will back that up, Garth!” - -“Oh,” said Caleb, leaning forward, adjusting his finger-tips with -nicety and looking meditatively on the ground. It always seemed to him -that words were the hardest part of “business.” - -But here Mr. Jonah Featherstone made himself heard. “Well, he always -was a fine hypocrite, was my brother Peter. But this will cuts out -everything. If I’d known, a wagon and six horses shouldn’t have drawn -me from Brassing. I’ll put a white hat and drab coat on to-morrow.” - -“Dear, dear,” wept Mrs. Cranch, “and we’ve been at the expense of -travelling, and that poor lad sitting idle here so long! It’s the first -time I ever heard my brother Peter was so wishful to please God -Almighty; but if I was to be struck helpless I must say it’s hard—I can -think no other.” - -“It’ll do him no good where he’s gone, that’s my belief,” said Solomon, -with a bitterness which was remarkably genuine, though his tone could -not help being sly. “Peter was a bad liver, and almshouses won’t cover -it, when he’s had the impudence to show it at the last.” - -“And all the while had got his own lawful family—brothers and sisters -and nephews and nieces—and has sat in church with ’em whenever he -thought well to come,” said Mrs. Waule. “And might have left his -property so respectable, to them that’s never been used to extravagance -or unsteadiness in no manner of way—and not so poor but what they could -have saved every penny and made more of it. And me—the trouble I’ve -been at, times and times, to come here and be sisterly—and him with -things on his mind all the while that might make anybody’s flesh creep. -But if the Almighty’s allowed it, he means to punish him for it. -Brother Solomon, I shall be going, if you’ll drive me.” - -“I’ve no desire to put my foot on the premises again,” said Solomon. -“I’ve got land of my own and property of my own to will away.” - -“It’s a poor tale how luck goes in the world,” said Jonah. “It never -answers to have a bit of spirit in you. You’d better be a dog in the -manger. But those above ground might learn a lesson. One fool’s will is -enough in a family.” - -“There’s more ways than one of being a fool,” said Solomon. “I shan’t -leave my money to be poured down the sink, and I shan’t leave it to -foundlings from Africay. I like Featherstones that were brewed such, -and not turned Featherstones with sticking the name on ’em.” - -Solomon addressed these remarks in a loud aside to Mrs. Waule as he -rose to accompany her. Brother Jonah felt himself capable of much more -stinging wit than this, but he reflected that there was no use in -offending the new proprietor of Stone Court, until you were certain -that he was quite without intentions of hospitality towards witty men -whose name he was about to bear. - -Mr. Joshua Rigg, in fact, appeared to trouble himself little about any -innuendoes, but showed a notable change of manner, walking coolly up to -Mr. Standish and putting business questions with much coolness. He had -a high chirping voice and a vile accent. Fred, whom he no longer moved -to laughter, thought him the lowest monster he had ever seen. But Fred -was feeling rather sick. The Middlemarch mercer waited for an -opportunity of engaging Mr. Rigg in conversation: there was no knowing -how many pairs of legs the new proprietor might require hose for, and -profits were more to be relied on than legacies. Also, the mercer, as a -second cousin, was dispassionate enough to feel curiosity. - -Mr. Vincy, after his one outburst, had remained proudly silent, though -too much preoccupied with unpleasant feelings to think of moving, till -he observed that his wife had gone to Fred’s side and was crying -silently while she held her darling’s hand. He rose immediately, and -turning his back on the company while he said to her in an -undertone,—“Don’t give way, Lucy; don’t make a fool of yourself, my -dear, before these people,” he added in his usual loud voice—“Go and -order the phaeton, Fred; I have no time to waste.” - -Mary Garth had before this been getting ready to go home with her -father. She met Fred in the hall, and now for the first time had the -courage to look at him. He had that withered sort of paleness which -will sometimes come on young faces, and his hand was very cold when she -shook it. Mary too was agitated; she was conscious that fatally, -without will of her own, she had perhaps made a great difference to -Fred’s lot. - -“Good-by,” she said, with affectionate sadness. “Be brave, Fred. I do -believe you are better without the money. What was the good of it to -Mr. Featherstone?” - -“That’s all very fine,” said Fred, pettishly. “What is a fellow to do? -I must go into the Church now.” (He knew that this would vex Mary: very -well; then she must tell him what else he could do.) “And I thought I -should be able to pay your father at once and make everything right. -And you have not even a hundred pounds left you. What shall you do now, -Mary?” - -“Take another situation, of course, as soon as I can get one. My father -has enough to do to keep the rest, without me. Good-by.” - -In a very short time Stone Court was cleared of well-brewed -Featherstones and other long-accustomed visitors. Another stranger had -been brought to settle in the neighborhood of Middlemarch, but in the -case of Mr. Rigg Featherstone there was more discontent with immediate -visible consequences than speculation as to the effect which his -presence might have in the future. No soul was prophetic enough to have -any foreboding as to what might appear on the trial of Joshua Rigg. - -And here I am naturally led to reflect on the means of elevating a low -subject. Historical parallels are remarkably efficient in this way. The -chief objection to them is, that the diligent narrator may lack space, -or (what is often the same thing) may not be able to think of them with -any degree of particularity, though he may have a philosophical -confidence that if known they would be illustrative. It seems an easier -and shorter way to dignity, to observe that—since there never was a -true story which could not be told in parables, where you might put a -monkey for a margrave, and vice versa—whatever has been or is to be -narrated by me about low people, may be ennobled by being considered a -parable; so that if any bad habits and ugly consequences are brought -into view, the reader may have the relief of regarding them as not more -than figuratively ungenteel, and may feel himself virtually in company -with persons of some style. Thus while I tell the truth about loobies, -my reader’s imagination need not be entirely excluded from an -occupation with lords; and the petty sums which any bankrupt of high -standing would be sorry to retire upon, may be lifted to the level of -high commercial transactions by the inexpensive addition of -proportional ciphers. - -As to any provincial history in which the agents are all of high moral -rank, that must be of a date long posterior to the first Reform Bill, -and Peter Featherstone, you perceive, was dead and buried some months -before Lord Grey came into office. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - -’T is strange to see the humors of these men, -These great aspiring spirits, that should be wise: -. . . . . . . . -For being the nature of great spirits to love -To be where they may be most eminent; -They, rating of themselves so farre above -Us in conceit, with whom they do frequent, -Imagine how we wonder and esteeme -All that they do or say; which makes them strive -To make our admiration more extreme, -Which they suppose they cannot, ’less they give -Notice of their extreme and highest thoughts. -—DANIEL: _Tragedy of Philotas_. - - -Mr. Vincy went home from the reading of the will with his point of view -considerably changed in relation to many subjects. He was an -open-minded man, but given to indirect modes of expressing himself: -when he was disappointed in a market for his silk braids, he swore at -the groom; when his brother-in-law Bulstrode had vexed him, he made -cutting remarks on Methodism; and it was now apparent that he regarded -Fred’s idleness with a sudden increase of severity, by his throwing an -embroidered cap out of the smoking-room on to the hall-floor. - -“Well, sir,” he observed, when that young gentleman was moving off to -bed, “I hope you’ve made up your mind now to go up next term and pass -your examination. I’ve taken my resolution, so I advise you to lose no -time in taking yours.” - -Fred made no answer: he was too utterly depressed. Twenty-four hours -ago he had thought that instead of needing to know what he should do, -he should by this time know that he needed to do nothing: that he -should hunt in pink, have a first-rate hunter, ride to cover on a fine -hack, and be generally respected for doing so; moreover, that he should -be able at once to pay Mr. Garth, and that Mary could no longer have -any reason for not marrying him. And all this was to have come without -study or other inconvenience, purely by the favor of providence in the -shape of an old gentleman’s caprice. But now, at the end of the -twenty-four hours, all those firm expectations were upset. It was -“rather hard lines” that while he was smarting under this -disappointment he should be treated as if he could have helped it. But -he went away silently and his mother pleaded for him. - -“Don’t be hard on the poor boy, Vincy. He’ll turn out well yet, though -that wicked man has deceived him. I feel as sure as I sit here, Fred -will turn out well—else why was he brought back from the brink of the -grave? And I call it a robbery: it was like giving him the land, to -promise it; and what is promising, if making everybody believe is not -promising? And you see he did leave him ten thousand pounds, and then -took it away again.” - -“Took it away again!” said Mr. Vincy, pettishly. “I tell you the lad’s -an unlucky lad, Lucy. And you’ve always spoiled him.” - -“Well, Vincy, he was my first, and you made a fine fuss with him when -he came. You were as proud as proud,” said Mrs. Vincy, easily -recovering her cheerful smile. - -“Who knows what babies will turn to? I was fool enough, I dare say,” -said the husband—more mildly, however. - -“But who has handsomer, better children than ours? Fred is far beyond -other people’s sons: you may hear it in his speech, that he has kept -college company. And Rosamond—where is there a girl like her? She might -stand beside any lady in the land, and only look the better for it. You -see—Mr. Lydgate has kept the highest company and been everywhere, and -he fell in love with her at once. Not but what I could have wished -Rosamond had not engaged herself. She might have met somebody on a -visit who would have been a far better match; I mean at her -schoolfellow Miss Willoughby’s. There are relations in that family -quite as high as Mr. Lydgate’s.” - -“Damn relations!” said Mr. Vincy; “I’ve had enough of them. I don’t -want a son-in-law who has got nothing but his relations to recommend -him.” - -“Why, my dear,” said Mrs. Vincy, “you seemed as pleased as could be -about it. It’s true, I wasn’t at home; but Rosamond told me you hadn’t -a word to say against the engagement. And she has begun to buy in the -best linen and cambric for her underclothing.” - -“Not by my will,” said Mr. Vincy. “I shall have enough to do this year, -with an idle scamp of a son, without paying for wedding-clothes. The -times are as tight as can be; everybody is being ruined; and I don’t -believe Lydgate has got a farthing. I shan’t give my consent to their -marrying. Let ’em wait, as their elders have done before ’em.” - -“Rosamond will take it hard, Vincy, and you know you never could bear -to cross her.” - -“Yes, I could. The sooner the engagement’s off, the better. I don’t -believe he’ll ever make an income, the way he goes on. He makes -enemies; that’s all I hear of his making.” - -“But he stands very high with Mr. Bulstrode, my dear. The marriage -would please _him_, I should think.” - -“Please the deuce!” said Mr. Vincy. “Bulstrode won’t pay for their -keep. And if Lydgate thinks I’m going to give money for them to set up -housekeeping, he’s mistaken, that’s all. I expect I shall have to put -down my horses soon. You’d better tell Rosy what I say.” - -This was a not infrequent procedure with Mr. Vincy—to be rash in jovial -assent, and on becoming subsequently conscious that he had been rash, -to employ others in making the offensive retractation. However, Mrs. -Vincy, who never willingly opposed her husband, lost no time the next -morning in letting Rosamond know what he had said. Rosamond, examining -some muslin-work, listened in silence, and at the end gave a certain -turn of her graceful neck, of which only long experience could teach -you that it meant perfect obstinacy. - -“What do you say, my dear?” said her mother, with affectionate -deference. - -“Papa does not mean anything of the kind,” said Rosamond, quite calmly. -“He has always said that he wished me to marry the man I loved. And I -shall marry Mr. Lydgate. It is seven weeks now since papa gave his -consent. And I hope we shall have Mrs. Bretton’s house.” - -“Well, my dear, I shall leave you to manage your papa. You always do -manage everybody. But if we ever do go and get damask, Sadler’s is the -place—far better than Hopkins’s. Mrs. Bretton’s is very large, though: -I should love you to have such a house; but it will take a great deal -of furniture—carpeting and everything, besides plate and glass. And you -hear, your papa says he will give no money. Do you think Mr. Lydgate -expects it?” - -“You cannot imagine that I should ask him, mamma. Of course he -understands his own affairs.” - -“But he may have been looking for money, my dear, and we all thought of -your having a pretty legacy as well as Fred;—and now everything is so -dreadful—there’s no pleasure in thinking of anything, with that poor -boy disappointed as he is.” - -“That has nothing to do with my marriage, mamma. Fred must leave off -being idle. I am going up-stairs to take this work to Miss Morgan: she -does the open hemming very well. Mary Garth might do some work for me -now, I should think. Her sewing is exquisite; it is the nicest thing I -know about Mary. I should so like to have all my cambric frilling -double-hemmed. And it takes a long time.” - -Mrs. Vincy’s belief that Rosamond could manage her papa was well -founded. Apart from his dinners and his coursing, Mr. Vincy, blustering -as he was, had as little of his own way as if he had been a prime -minister: the force of circumstances was easily too much for him, as it -is for most pleasure-loving florid men; and the circumstance called -Rosamond was particularly forcible by means of that mild persistence -which, as we know, enables a white soft living substance to make its -way in spite of opposing rock. Papa was not a rock: he had no other -fixity than that fixity of alternating impulses sometimes called habit, -and this was altogether unfavorable to his taking the only decisive -line of conduct in relation to his daughter’s engagement—namely, to -inquire thoroughly into Lydgate’s circumstances, declare his own -inability to furnish money, and forbid alike either a speedy marriage -or an engagement which must be too lengthy. That seems very simple and -easy in the statement; but a disagreeable resolve formed in the chill -hours of the morning had as many conditions against it as the early -frost, and rarely persisted under the warming influences of the day. -The indirect though emphatic expression of opinion to which Mr. Vincy -was prone suffered much restraint in this case: Lydgate was a proud man -towards whom innuendoes were obviously unsafe, and throwing his hat on -the floor was out of the question. Mr. Vincy was a little in awe of -him, a little vain that he wanted to marry Rosamond, a little -indisposed to raise a question of money in which his own position was -not advantageous, a little afraid of being worsted in dialogue with a -man better educated and more highly bred than himself, and a little -afraid of doing what his daughter would not like. The part Mr. Vincy -preferred playing was that of the generous host whom nobody criticises. -In the earlier half of the day there was business to hinder any formal -communication of an adverse resolve; in the later there was dinner, -wine, whist, and general satisfaction. And in the mean while the hours -were each leaving their little deposit and gradually forming the final -reason for inaction, namely, that action was too late. The accepted -lover spent most of his evenings in Lowick Gate, and a love-making not -at all dependent on money-advances from fathers-in-law, or prospective -income from a profession, went on flourishingly under Mr. Vincy’s own -eyes. Young love-making—that gossamer web! Even the points it clings -to—the things whence its subtle interlacings are swung—are scarcely -perceptible: momentary touches of fingertips, meetings of rays from -blue and dark orbs, unfinished phrases, lightest changes of cheek and -lip, faintest tremors. The web itself is made of spontaneous beliefs -and indefinable joys, yearnings of one life towards another, visions of -completeness, indefinite trust. And Lydgate fell to spinning that web -from his inward self with wonderful rapidity, in spite of experience -supposed to be finished off with the drama of Laure—in spite too of -medicine and biology; for the inspection of macerated muscle or of eyes -presented in a dish (like Santa Lucia’s), and other incidents of -scientific inquiry, are observed to be less incompatible with poetic -love than a native dulness or a lively addiction to the lowest prose. -As for Rosamond, she was in the water-lily’s expanding wonderment at -its own fuller life, and she too was spinning industriously at the -mutual web. All this went on in the corner of the drawing-room where -the piano stood, and subtle as it was, the light made it a sort of -rainbow visible to many observers besides Mr. Farebrother. The -certainty that Miss Vincy and Mr. Lydgate were engaged became general -in Middlemarch without the aid of formal announcement. - -Aunt Bulstrode was again stirred to anxiety; but this time she -addressed herself to her brother, going to the warehouse expressly to -avoid Mrs. Vincy’s volatility. His replies were not satisfactory. - -“Walter, you never mean to tell me that you have allowed all this to go -on without inquiry into Mr. Lydgate’s prospects?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, -opening her eyes with wider gravity at her brother, who was in his -peevish warehouse humor. “Think of this girl brought up in luxury—in -too worldly a way, I am sorry to say—what will she do on a small -income?” - -“Oh, confound it, Harriet! What can I do when men come into the town -without any asking of mine? Did you shut your house up against Lydgate? -Bulstrode has pushed him forward more than anybody. I never made any -fuss about the young fellow. You should go and talk to your husband -about it, not me.” - -“Well, really, Walter, how can Mr. Bulstrode be to blame? I am sure he -did not wish for the engagement.” - -“Oh, if Bulstrode had not taken him by the hand, I should never have -invited him.” - -“But you called him in to attend on Fred, and I am sure that was a -mercy,” said Mrs. Bulstrode, losing her clew in the intricacies of the -subject. - -“I don’t know about mercy,” said Mr. Vincy, testily. “I know I am -worried more than I like with my family. I was a good brother to you, -Harriet, before you married Bulstrode, and I must say he doesn’t always -show that friendly spirit towards your family that might have been -expected of him.” Mr. Vincy was very little like a Jesuit, but no -accomplished Jesuit could have turned a question more adroitly. Harriet -had to defend her husband instead of blaming her brother, and the -conversation ended at a point as far from the beginning as some recent -sparring between the brothers-in-law at a vestry meeting. - -Mrs. Bulstrode did not repeat her brother’s complaints to her husband, -but in the evening she spoke to him of Lydgate and Rosamond. He did not -share her warm interest, however; and only spoke with resignation of -the risks attendant on the beginning of medical practice and the -desirability of prudence. - -“I am sure we are bound to pray for that thoughtless girl—brought up as -she has been,” said Mrs. Bulstrode, wishing to rouse her husband’s -feelings. - -“Truly, my dear,” said Mr. Bulstrode, assentingly. “Those who are not -of this world can do little else to arrest the errors of the -obstinately worldly. That is what we must accustom ourselves to -recognize with regard to your brother’s family. I could have wished -that Mr. Lydgate had not entered into such a union; but my relations -with him are limited to that use of his gifts for God’s purposes which -is taught us by the divine government under each dispensation.” - -Mrs. Bulstrode said no more, attributing some dissatisfaction which she -felt to her own want of spirituality. She believed that her husband was -one of those men whose memoirs should be written when they died. - -As to Lydgate himself, having been accepted, he was prepared to accept -all the consequences which he believed himself to foresee with perfect -clearness. Of course he must be married in a year—perhaps even in half -a year. This was not what he had intended; but other schemes would not -be hindered: they would simply adjust themselves anew. Marriage, of -course, must be prepared for in the usual way. A house must be taken -instead of the rooms he at present occupied; and Lydgate, having heard -Rosamond speak with admiration of old Mrs. Bretton’s house (situated in -Lowick Gate), took notice when it fell vacant after the old lady’s -death, and immediately entered into treaty for it. - -He did this in an episodic way, very much as he gave orders to his -tailor for every requisite of perfect dress, without any notion of -being extravagant. On the contrary, he would have despised any -ostentation of expense; his profession had familiarized him with all -grades of poverty, and he cared much for those who suffered hardships. -He would have behaved perfectly at a table where the sauce was served -in a jug with the handle off, and he would have remembered nothing -about a grand dinner except that a man was there who talked well. But -it had never occurred to him that he should live in any other than what -he would have called an ordinary way, with green glasses for hock, and -excellent waiting at table. In warming himself at French social -theories he had brought away no smell of scorching. We may handle even -extreme opinions with impunity while our furniture, our dinner-giving, -and preference for armorial bearings in our own case, link us -indissolubly with the established order. And Lydgate’s tendency was not -towards extreme opinions: he would have liked no barefooted doctrines, -being particular about his boots: he was no radical in relation to -anything but medical reform and the prosecution of discovery. In the -rest of practical life he walked by hereditary habit; half from that -personal pride and unreflecting egoism which I have already called -commonness, and half from that naivete which belonged to preoccupation -with favorite ideas. - -Any inward debate Lydgate had as to the consequences of this engagement -which had stolen upon him, turned on the paucity of time rather than of -money. Certainly, being in love and being expected continually by some -one who always turned out to be prettier than memory could represent -her to be, did interfere with the diligent use of spare hours which -might serve some “plodding fellow of a German” to make the great, -imminent discovery. This was really an argument for not deferring the -marriage too long, as he implied to Mr. Farebrother, one day that the -Vicar came to his room with some pond-products which he wanted to -examine under a better microscope than his own, and, finding Lydgate’s -tableful of apparatus and specimens in confusion, said sarcastically— - -“Eros has degenerated; he began by introducing order and harmony, and -now he brings back chaos.” - -“Yes, at some stages,” said Lydgate, lifting his brows and smiling, -while he began to arrange his microscope. “But a better order will -begin after.” - -“Soon?” said the Vicar. - -“I hope so, really. This unsettled state of affairs uses up the time, -and when one has notions in science, every moment is an opportunity. I -feel sure that marriage must be the best thing for a man who wants to -work steadily. He has everything at home then—no teasing with personal -speculations—he can get calmness and freedom.” - -“You are an enviable dog,” said the Vicar, “to have such a -prospect—Rosamond, calmness and freedom, all to your share. Here am I -with nothing but my pipe and pond-animalcules. Now, are you ready?” - -Lydgate did not mention to the Vicar another reason he had for wishing -to shorten the period of courtship. It was rather irritating to him, -even with the wine of love in his veins, to be obliged to mingle so -often with the family party at the Vincys’, and to enter so much into -Middlemarch gossip, protracted good cheer, whist-playing, and general -futility. He had to be deferential when Mr. Vincy decided questions -with trenchant ignorance, especially as to those liquors which were the -best inward pickle, preserving you from the effects of bad air. Mrs. -Vincy’s openness and simplicity were quite unstreaked with suspicion as -to the subtle offence she might give to the taste of her intended -son-in-law; and altogether Lydgate had to confess to himself that he -was descending a little in relation to Rosamond’s family. But that -exquisite creature herself suffered in the same sort of way:—it was at -least one delightful thought that in marrying her, he could give her a -much-needed transplantation. - -“Dear!” he said to her one evening, in his gentlest tone, as he sat -down by her and looked closely at her face— - -But I must first say that he had found her alone in the drawing-room, -where the great old-fashioned window, almost as large as the side of -the room, was opened to the summer scents of the garden at the back of -the house. Her father and mother were gone to a party, and the rest -were all out with the butterflies. - -“Dear! your eyelids are red.” - -“Are they?” said Rosamond. “I wonder why.” It was not in her nature to -pour forth wishes or grievances. They only came forth gracefully on -solicitation. - -“As if you could hide it from me!” said Lydgate, laying his hand -tenderly on both of hers. “Don’t I see a tiny drop on one of the -lashes? Things trouble you, and you don’t tell me. That is unloving.” - -“Why should I tell you what you cannot alter? They are every-day -things:—perhaps they have been a little worse lately.” - -“Family annoyances. Don’t fear speaking. I guess them.” - -“Papa has been more irritable lately. Fred makes him angry, and this -morning there was a fresh quarrel because Fred threatens to throw his -whole education away, and do something quite beneath him. And besides—” - -Rosamond hesitated, and her cheeks were gathering a slight flush. -Lydgate had never seen her in trouble since the morning of their -engagement, and he had never felt so passionately towards her as at -this moment. He kissed the hesitating lips gently, as if to encourage -them. - -“I feel that papa is not quite pleased about our engagement,” Rosamond -continued, almost in a whisper; “and he said last night that he should -certainly speak to you and say it must be given up.” - -“Will you give it up?” said Lydgate, with quick energy—almost angrily. - -“I never give up anything that I choose to do,” said Rosamond, -recovering her calmness at the touching of this chord. - -“God bless you!” said Lydgate, kissing her again. This constancy of -purpose in the right place was adorable. He went on:— - -“It is too late now for your father to say that our engagement must be -given up. You are of age, and I claim you as mine. If anything is done -to make you unhappy,—that is a reason for hastening our marriage.” - -An unmistakable delight shone forth from the blue eyes that met his, -and the radiance seemed to light up all his future with mild sunshine. -Ideal happiness (of the kind known in the Arabian Nights, in which you -are invited to step from the labor and discord of the street into a -paradise where everything is given to you and nothing claimed) seemed -to be an affair of a few weeks’ waiting, more or less. - -“Why should we defer it?” he said, with ardent insistence. “I have -taken the house now: everything else can soon be got ready—can it not? -You will not mind about new clothes. Those can be bought afterwards.” - -“What original notions you clever men have!” said Rosamond, dimpling -with more thorough laughter than usual at this humorous incongruity. -“This is the first time I ever heard of wedding-clothes being bought -after marriage.” - -“But you don’t mean to say you would insist on my waiting months for -the sake of clothes?” said Lydgate, half thinking that Rosamond was -tormenting him prettily, and half fearing that she really shrank from -speedy marriage. “Remember, we are looking forward to a better sort of -happiness even than this—being continually together, independent of -others, and ordering our lives as we will. Come, dear, tell me how soon -you can be altogether mine.” - -There was a serious pleading in Lydgate’s tone, as if he felt that she -would be injuring him by any fantastic delays. Rosamond became serious -too, and slightly meditative; in fact, she was going through many -intricacies of lace-edging and hosiery and petticoat-tucking, in order -to give an answer that would at least be approximative. - -“Six weeks would be ample—say so, Rosamond,” insisted Lydgate, -releasing her hands to put his arm gently round her. - -One little hand immediately went to pat her hair, while she gave her -neck a meditative turn, and then said seriously— - -“There would be the house-linen and the furniture to be prepared. -Still, mamma could see to those while we were away.” - -“Yes, to be sure. We must be away a week or so.” - -“Oh, more than that!” said Rosamond, earnestly. She was thinking of her -evening dresses for the visit to Sir Godwin Lydgate’s, which she had -long been secretly hoping for as a delightful employment of at least -one quarter of the honeymoon, even if she deferred her introduction to -the uncle who was a doctor of divinity (also a pleasing though sober -kind of rank, when sustained by blood). She looked at her lover with -some wondering remonstrance as she spoke, and he readily understood -that she might wish to lengthen the sweet time of double solitude. - -“Whatever you wish, my darling, when the day is fixed. But let us take -a decided course, and put an end to any discomfort you may be -suffering. Six weeks!—I am sure they would be ample.” - -“I could certainly hasten the work,” said Rosamond. “Will you, then, -mention it to papa?—I think it would be better to write to him.” She -blushed and looked at him as the garden flowers look at us when we walk -forth happily among them in the transcendent evening light: is there -not a soul beyond utterance, half nymph, half child, in those delicate -petals which glow and breathe about the centres of deep color? - -He touched her ear and a little bit of neck under it with his lips, and -they sat quite still for many minutes which flowed by them like a small -gurgling brook with the kisses of the sun upon it. Rosamond thought -that no one could be more in love than she was; and Lydgate thought -that after all his wild mistakes and absurd credulity, he had found -perfect womanhood—felt as if already breathed upon by exquisite wedded -affection such as would be bestowed by an accomplished creature who -venerated his high musings and momentous labors and would never -interfere with them; who would create order in the home and accounts -with still magic, yet keep her fingers ready to touch the lute and -transform life into romance at any moment; who was instructed to the -true womanly limit and not a hair’s-breadth beyond—docile, therefore, -and ready to carry out behests which came from that limit. It was -plainer now than ever that his notion of remaining much longer a -bachelor had been a mistake: marriage would not be an obstruction but a -furtherance. And happening the next day to accompany a patient to -Brassing, he saw a dinner-service there which struck him as so exactly -the right thing that he bought it at once. It saved time to do these -things just when you thought of them, and Lydgate hated ugly crockery. -The dinner-service in question was expensive, but that might be in the -nature of dinner-services. Furnishing was necessarily expensive; but -then it had to be done only once. - -“It must be lovely,” said Mrs. Vincy, when Lydgate mentioned his -purchase with some descriptive touches. “Just what Rosy ought to have. -I trust in heaven it won’t be broken!” - -“One must hire servants who will not break things,” said Lydgate. -(Certainly, this was reasoning with an imperfect vision of sequences. -But at that period there was no sort of reasoning which was not more or -less sanctioned by men of science.) - -Of course it was unnecessary to defer the mention of anything to mamma, -who did not readily take views that were not cheerful, and being a -happy wife herself, had hardly any feeling but pride in her daughter’s -marriage. But Rosamond had good reasons for suggesting to Lydgate that -papa should be appealed to in writing. She prepared for the arrival of -the letter by walking with her papa to the warehouse the next morning, -and telling him on the way that Mr. Lydgate wished to be married soon. - -“Nonsense, my dear!” said Mr. Vincy. “What has he got to marry on? -You’d much better give up the engagement. I’ve told you so pretty -plainly before this. What have you had such an education for, if you -are to go and marry a poor man? It’s a cruel thing for a father to -see.” - -“Mr. Lydgate is not poor, papa. He bought Mr. Peacock’s practice, -which, they say, is worth eight or nine hundred a-year.” - -“Stuff and nonsense! What’s buying a practice? He might as well buy -next year’s swallows. It’ll all slip through his fingers.” - -“On the contrary, papa, he will increase the practice. See how he has -been called in by the Chettams and Casaubons.” - -“I hope he knows I shan’t give anything—with this disappointment about -Fred, and Parliament going to be dissolved, and machine-breaking -everywhere, and an election coming on—” - -“Dear papa! what can that have to do with my marriage?” - -“A pretty deal to do with it! We may all be ruined for what I know—the -country’s in that state! Some say it’s the end of the world, and be -hanged if I don’t think it looks like it! Anyhow, it’s not a time for -me to be drawing money out of my business, and I should wish Lydgate to -know that.” - -“I am sure he expects nothing, papa. And he has such very high -connections: he is sure to rise in one way or another. He is engaged in -making scientific discoveries.” - -Mr. Vincy was silent. - -“I cannot give up my only prospect of happiness, papa. Mr. Lydgate is a -gentleman. I could never love any one who was not a perfect gentleman. -You would not like me to go into a consumption, as Arabella Hawley did. -And you know that I never change my mind.” - -Again papa was silent. - -“Promise me, papa, that you will consent to what we wish. We shall -never give each other up; and you know that you have always objected to -long courtships and late marriages.” - -There was a little more urgency of this kind, till Mr. Vincy said, -“Well, well, child, he must write to me first before I can answer -him,”—and Rosamond was certain that she had gained her point. - -Mr. Vincy’s answer consisted chiefly in a demand that Lydgate should -insure his life—a demand immediately conceded. This was a delightfully -reassuring idea supposing that Lydgate died, but in the mean time not a -self-supporting idea. However, it seemed to make everything comfortable -about Rosamond’s marriage; and the necessary purchases went on with -much spirit. Not without prudential considerations, however. A bride -(who is going to visit at a baronet’s) must have a few first-rate -pocket-handkerchiefs; but beyond the absolutely necessary half-dozen, -Rosamond contented herself without the very highest style of embroidery -and Valenciennes. Lydgate also, finding that his sum of eight hundred -pounds had been considerably reduced since he had come to Middlemarch, -restrained his inclination for some plate of an old pattern which was -shown to him when he went into Kibble’s establishment at Brassing to -buy forks and spoons. He was too proud to act as if he presupposed that -Mr. Vincy would advance money to provide furniture; and though, since -it would not be necessary to pay for everything at once, some bills -would be left standing over, he did not waste time in conjecturing how -much his father-in-law would give in the form of dowry, to make payment -easy. He was not going to do anything extravagant, but the requisite -things must be bought, and it would be bad economy to buy them of a -poor quality. All these matters were by the bye. Lydgate foresaw that -science and his profession were the objects he should alone pursue -enthusiastically; but he could not imagine himself pursuing them in -such a home as Wrench had—the doors all open, the oil-cloth worn, the -children in soiled pinafores, and lunch lingering in the form of bones, -black-handled knives, and willow-pattern. But Wrench had a wretched -lymphatic wife who made a mummy of herself indoors in a large shawl; -and he must have altogether begun with an ill-chosen domestic -apparatus. - -Rosamond, however, was on her side much occupied with conjectures, -though her quick imitative perception warned her against betraying them -too crudely. - -“I shall like so much to know your family,” she said one day, when the -wedding journey was being discussed. “We might perhaps take a direction -that would allow us to see them as we returned. Which of your uncles do -you like best?” - -“Oh,—my uncle Godwin, I think. He is a good-natured old fellow.” - -“You were constantly at his house at Quallingham, when you were a boy, -were you not? I should so like to see the old spot and everything you -were used to. Does he know you are going to be married?” - -“No,” said Lydgate, carelessly, turning in his chair and rubbing his -hair up. - -“Do send him word of it, you naughty undutiful nephew. He will perhaps -ask you to take me to Quallingham; and then you could show me about the -grounds, and I could imagine you there when you were a boy. Remember, -you see me in my home, just as it has been since I was a child. It is -not fair that I should be so ignorant of yours. But perhaps you would -be a little ashamed of me. I forgot that.” - -Lydgate smiled at her tenderly, and really accepted the suggestion that -the proud pleasure of showing so charming a bride was worth some -trouble. And now he came to think of it, he would like to see the old -spots with Rosamond. - -“I will write to him, then. But my cousins are bores.” - -It seemed magnificent to Rosamond to be able to speak so slightingly of -a baronet’s family, and she felt much contentment in the prospect of -being able to estimate them contemptuously on her own account. - -But mamma was near spoiling all, a day or two later, by saying— - -“I hope your uncle Sir Godwin will not look down on Rosy, Mr. Lydgate. -I should think he would do something handsome. A thousand or two can be -nothing to a baronet.” - -“Mamma!” said Rosamond, blushing deeply; and Lydgate pitied her so much -that he remained silent and went to the other end of the room to -examine a print curiously, as if he had been absent-minded. Mamma had a -little filial lecture afterwards, and was docile as usual. But Rosamond -reflected that if any of those high-bred cousins who were bores, should -be induced to visit Middlemarch, they would see many things in her own -family which might shock them. Hence it seemed desirable that Lydgate -should by-and-by get some first-rate position elsewhere than in -Middlemarch; and this could hardly be difficult in the case of a man -who had a titled uncle and could make discoveries. Lydgate, you -perceive, had talked fervidly to Rosamond of his hopes as to the -highest uses of his life, and had found it delightful to be listened to -by a creature who would bring him the sweet furtherance of satisfying -affection—beauty—repose—such help as our thoughts get from the summer -sky and the flower-fringed meadows. - -Lydgate relied much on the psychological difference between what for -the sake of variety I will call goose and gander: especially on the -innate submissiveness of the goose as beautifully corresponding to the -strength of the gander. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - -Thrice happy she that is so well assured -Unto herself and settled so in heart -That neither will for better be allured -Ne fears to worse with any chance to start, -But like a steddy ship doth strongly part -The raging waves and keeps her course aright; -Ne aught for tempest doth from it depart, -Ne aught for fairer weather’s false delight. -Such self-assurance need not fear the spight -Of grudging foes; ne favour seek of friends; -But in the stay of her own stedfast might -Neither to one herself nor other bends. - Most happy she that most assured doth rest, - But he most happy who such one loves best. -—SPENSER. - - -The doubt hinted by Mr. Vincy whether it were only the general election -or the end of the world that was coming on, now that George the Fourth -was dead, Parliament dissolved, Wellington and Peel generally -depreciated and the new King apologetic, was a feeble type of the -uncertainties in provincial opinion at that time. With the glow-worm -lights of country places, how could men see which were their own -thoughts in the confusion of a Tory Ministry passing Liberal measures, -of Tory nobles and electors being anxious to return Liberals rather -than friends of the recreant Ministers, and of outcries for remedies -which seemed to have a mysteriously remote bearing on private interest, -and were made suspicious by the advocacy of disagreeable neighbors? -Buyers of the Middlemarch newspapers found themselves in an anomalous -position: during the agitation on the Catholic Question many had given -up the “Pioneer”—which had a motto from Charles James Fox and was in -the van of progress—because it had taken Peel’s side about the Papists, -and had thus blotted its Liberalism with a toleration of Jesuitry and -Baal; but they were ill-satisfied with the “Trumpet,” which—since its -blasts against Rome, and in the general flaccidity of the public mind -(nobody knowing who would support whom)—had become feeble in its -blowing. - -It was a time, according to a noticeable article in the “Pioneer,” when -the crying needs of the country might well counteract a reluctance to -public action on the part of men whose minds had from long experience -acquired breadth as well as concentration, decision of judgment as well -as tolerance, dispassionateness as well as energy—in fact, all those -qualities which in the melancholy experience of mankind have been the -least disposed to share lodgings. - -Mr. Hackbutt, whose fluent speech was at that time floating more widely -than usual, and leaving much uncertainty as to its ultimate channel, -was heard to say in Mr. Hawley’s office that the article in question -“emanated” from Brooke of Tipton, and that Brooke had secretly bought -the “Pioneer” some months ago. - -“That means mischief, eh?” said Mr. Hawley. “He’s got the freak of -being a popular man now, after dangling about like a stray tortoise. So -much the worse for him. I’ve had my eye on him for some time. He shall -be prettily pumped upon. He’s a damned bad landlord. What business has -an old county man to come currying favor with a low set of dark-blue -freemen? As to his paper, I only hope he may do the writing himself. It -would be worth our paying for.” - -“I understand he has got a very brilliant young fellow to edit it, who -can write the highest style of leading article, quite equal to anything -in the London papers. And he means to take very high ground on Reform.” - -“Let Brooke reform his rent-roll. He’s a cursed old screw, and the -buildings all over his estate are going to rack. I suppose this young -fellow is some loose fish from London.” - -“His name is Ladislaw. He is said to be of foreign extraction.” - -“I know the sort,” said Mr. Hawley; “some emissary. He’ll begin with -flourishing about the Rights of Man and end with murdering a wench. -That’s the style.” - -“You must concede that there are abuses, Hawley,” said Mr. Hackbutt, -foreseeing some political disagreement with his family lawyer. “I -myself should never favor immoderate views—in fact I take my stand with -Huskisson—but I cannot blind myself to the consideration that the -non-representation of large towns—” - -“Large towns be damned!” said Mr. Hawley, impatient of exposition. “I -know a little too much about Middlemarch elections. Let ’em quash every -pocket borough to-morrow, and bring in every mushroom town in the -kingdom—they’ll only increase the expense of getting into Parliament. I -go upon facts.” - -Mr. Hawley’s disgust at the notion of the “Pioneer” being edited by an -emissary, and of Brooke becoming actively political—as if a tortoise of -desultory pursuits should protrude its small head ambitiously and -become rampant—was hardly equal to the annoyance felt by some members -of Mr. Brooke’s own family. The result had oozed forth gradually, like -the discovery that your neighbor has set up an unpleasant kind of -manufacture which will be permanently under your nostrils without legal -remedy. The “Pioneer” had been secretly bought even before Will -Ladislaw’s arrival, the expected opportunity having offered itself in -the readiness of the proprietor to part with a valuable property which -did not pay; and in the interval since Mr. Brooke had written his -invitation, those germinal ideas of making his mind tell upon the world -at large which had been present in him from his younger years, but had -hitherto lain in some obstruction, had been sprouting under cover. - -The development was much furthered by a delight in his guest which -proved greater even than he had anticipated. For it seemed that Will -was not only at home in all those artistic and literary subjects which -Mr. Brooke had gone into at one time, but that he was strikingly ready -at seizing the points of the political situation, and dealing with them -in that large spirit which, aided by adequate memory, lends itself to -quotation and general effectiveness of treatment. - -“He seems to me a kind of Shelley, you know,” Mr. Brooke took an -opportunity of saying, for the gratification of Mr. Casaubon. “I don’t -mean as to anything objectionable—laxities or atheism, or anything of -that kind, you know—Ladislaw’s sentiments in every way I am sure are -good—indeed, we were talking a great deal together last night. But he -has the same sort of enthusiasm for liberty, freedom, emancipation—a -fine thing under guidance—under guidance, you know. I think I shall be -able to put him on the right tack; and I am the more pleased because he -is a relation of yours, Casaubon.” - -If the right tack implied anything more precise than the rest of Mr. -Brooke’s speech, Mr. Casaubon silently hoped that it referred to some -occupation at a great distance from Lowick. He had disliked Will while -he helped him, but he had begun to dislike him still more now that Will -had declined his help. That is the way with us when we have any uneasy -jealousy in our disposition: if our talents are chiefly of the -burrowing kind, our honey-sipping cousin (whom we have grave reasons -for objecting to) is likely to have a secret contempt for us, and any -one who admires him passes an oblique criticism on ourselves. Having -the scruples of rectitude in our souls, we are above the meanness of -injuring him—rather we meet all his claims on us by active benefits; -and the drawing of cheques for him, being a superiority which he must -recognize, gives our bitterness a milder infusion. Now Mr. Casaubon had -been deprived of that superiority (as anything more than a remembrance) -in a sudden, capricious manner. His antipathy to Will did not spring -from the common jealousy of a winter-worn husband: it was something -deeper, bred by his lifelong claims and discontents; but Dorothea, now -that she was present—Dorothea, as a young wife who herself had shown an -offensive capability of criticism, necessarily gave concentration to -the uneasiness which had before been vague. - -Will Ladislaw on his side felt that his dislike was flourishing at the -expense of his gratitude, and spent much inward discourse in justifying -the dislike. Casaubon hated him—he knew that very well; on his first -entrance he could discern a bitterness in the mouth and a venom in the -glance which would almost justify declaring war in spite of past -benefits. He was much obliged to Casaubon in the past, but really the -act of marrying this wife was a set-off against the obligation. It was -a question whether gratitude which refers to what is done for one’s -self ought not to give way to indignation at what is done against -another. And Casaubon had done a wrong to Dorothea in marrying her. A -man was bound to know himself better than that, and if he chose to grow -gray crunching bones in a cavern, he had no business to be luring a -girl into his companionship. “It is the most horrible of -virgin-sacrifices,” said Will; and he painted to himself what were -Dorothea’s inward sorrows as if he had been writing a choric wail. But -he would never lose sight of her: he would watch over her—if he gave up -everything else in life he would watch over her, and she should know -that she had one slave in the world. Will had—to use Sir Thomas -Browne’s phrase—a “passionate prodigality” of statement both to himself -and others. The simple truth was that nothing then invited him so -strongly as the presence of Dorothea. - -Invitations of the formal kind had been wanting, however, for Will had -never been asked to go to Lowick. Mr. Brooke, indeed, confident of -doing everything agreeable which Casaubon, poor fellow, was too much -absorbed to think of, had arranged to bring Ladislaw to Lowick several -times (not neglecting meanwhile to introduce him elsewhere on every -opportunity as “a young relative of Casaubon’s”). And though Will had -not seen Dorothea alone, their interviews had been enough to restore -her former sense of young companionship with one who was cleverer than -herself, yet seemed ready to be swayed by her. Poor Dorothea before her -marriage had never found much room in other minds for what she cared -most to say; and she had not, as we know, enjoyed her husband’s -superior instruction so much as she had expected. If she spoke with any -keenness of interest to Mr. Casaubon, he heard her with an air of -patience as if she had given a quotation from the Delectus familiar to -him from his tender years, and sometimes mentioned curtly what ancient -sects or personages had held similar ideas, as if there were too much -of that sort in stock already; at other times he would inform her that -she was mistaken, and reassert what her remark had questioned. - -But Will Ladislaw always seemed to see more in what she said than she -herself saw. Dorothea had little vanity, but she had the ardent woman’s -need to rule beneficently by making the joy of another soul. Hence the -mere chance of seeing Will occasionally was like a lunette opened in -the wall of her prison, giving her a glimpse of the sunny air; and this -pleasure began to nullify her original alarm at what her husband might -think about the introduction of Will as her uncle’s guest. On this -subject Mr. Casaubon had remained dumb. - -But Will wanted to talk with Dorothea alone, and was impatient of slow -circumstance. However slight the terrestrial intercourse between Dante -and Beatrice or Petrarch and Laura, time changes the proportion of -things, and in later days it is preferable to have fewer sonnets and -more conversation. Necessity excused stratagem, but stratagem was -limited by the dread of offending Dorothea. He found out at last that -he wanted to take a particular sketch at Lowick; and one morning when -Mr. Brooke had to drive along the Lowick road on his way to the county -town, Will asked to be set down with his sketch-book and camp-stool at -Lowick, and without announcing himself at the Manor settled himself to -sketch in a position where he must see Dorothea if she came out to -walk—and he knew that she usually walked an hour in the morning. - -But the stratagem was defeated by the weather. Clouds gathered with -treacherous quickness, the rain came down, and Will was obliged to take -shelter in the house. He intended, on the strength of relationship, to -go into the drawing-room and wait there without being announced; and -seeing his old acquaintance the butler in the hall, he said, “Don’t -mention that I am here, Pratt; I will wait till luncheon; I know Mr. -Casaubon does not like to be disturbed when he is in the library.” - -“Master is out, sir; there’s only Mrs. Casaubon in the library. I’d -better tell her you’re here, sir,” said Pratt, a red-cheeked man given -to lively converse with Tantripp, and often agreeing with her that it -must be dull for Madam. - -“Oh, very well; this confounded rain has hindered me from sketching,” -said Will, feeling so happy that he affected indifference with -delightful ease. - -In another minute he was in the library, and Dorothea was meeting him -with her sweet unconstrained smile. - -“Mr. Casaubon has gone to the Archdeacon’s,” she said, at once. “I -don’t know whether he will be at home again long before dinner. He was -uncertain how long he should be. Did you want to say anything -particular to him?” - -“No; I came to sketch, but the rain drove me in. Else I would not have -disturbed you yet. I supposed that Mr. Casaubon was here, and I know he -dislikes interruption at this hour.” - -“I am indebted to the rain, then. I am so glad to see you.” Dorothea -uttered these common words with the simple sincerity of an unhappy -child, visited at school. - -“I really came for the chance of seeing you alone,” said Will, -mysteriously forced to be just as simple as she was. He could not stay -to ask himself, why not? “I wanted to talk about things, as we did in -Rome. It always makes a difference when other people are present.” - -“Yes,” said Dorothea, in her clear full tone of assent. “Sit down.” She -seated herself on a dark ottoman with the brown books behind her, -looking in her plain dress of some thin woollen-white material, without -a single ornament on her besides her wedding-ring, as if she were under -a vow to be different from all other women; and Will sat down opposite -her at two yards’ distance, the light falling on his bright curls and -delicate but rather petulant profile, with its defiant curves of lip -and chin. Each looked at the other as if they had been two flowers -which had opened then and there. Dorothea for the moment forgot her -husband’s mysterious irritation against Will: it seemed fresh water at -her thirsty lips to speak without fear to the one person whom she had -found receptive; for in looking backward through sadness she -exaggerated a past solace. - -“I have often thought that I should like to talk to you again,” she -said, immediately. “It seems strange to me how many things I said to -you.” - -“I remember them all,” said Will, with the unspeakable content in his -soul of feeling that he was in the presence of a creature worthy to be -perfectly loved. I think his own feelings at that moment were perfect, -for we mortals have our divine moments, when love is satisfied in the -completeness of the beloved object. - -“I have tried to learn a great deal since we were in Rome,” said -Dorothea. “I can read Latin a little, and I am beginning to understand -just a little Greek. I can help Mr. Casaubon better now. I can find out -references for him and save his eyes in many ways. But it is very -difficult to be learned; it seems as if people were worn out on the way -to great thoughts, and can never enjoy them because they are too -tired.” - -“If a man has a capacity for great thoughts, he is likely to overtake -them before he is decrepit,” said Will, with irrepressible quickness. -But through certain sensibilities Dorothea was as quick as he, and -seeing her face change, he added, immediately, “But it is quite true -that the best minds have been sometimes overstrained in working out -their ideas.” - -“You correct me,” said Dorothea. “I expressed myself ill. I should have -said that those who have great thoughts get too much worn in working -them out. I used to feel about that, even when I was a little girl; and -it always seemed to me that the use I should like to make of my life -would be to help some one who did great works, so that his burthen -might be lighter.” - -Dorothea was led on to this bit of autobiography without any sense of -making a revelation. But she had never before said anything to Will -which threw so strong a light on her marriage. He did not shrug his -shoulders; and for want of that muscular outlet he thought the more -irritably of beautiful lips kissing holy skulls and other emptinesses -ecclesiastically enshrined. Also he had to take care that his speech -should not betray that thought. - -“But you may easily carry the help too far,” he said, “and get -over-wrought yourself. Are you not too much shut up? You already look -paler. It would be better for Mr. Casaubon to have a secretary; he -could easily get a man who would do half his work for him. It would -save him more effectually, and you need only help him in lighter ways.” - -“How can you think of that?” said Dorothea, in a tone of earnest -remonstrance. “I should have no happiness if I did not help him in his -work. What could I do? There is no good to be done in Lowick. The only -thing I desire is to help him more. And he objects to a secretary: -please not to mention that again.” - -“Certainly not, now I know your feeling. But I have heard both Mr. -Brooke and Sir James Chettam express the same wish.” - -“Yes,” said Dorothea, “but they don’t understand—they want me to be a -great deal on horseback, and have the garden altered and new -conservatories, to fill up my days. I thought you could understand that -one’s mind has other wants,” she added, rather impatiently—“besides, -Mr. Casaubon cannot bear to hear of a secretary.” - -“My mistake is excusable,” said Will. “In old days I used to hear Mr. -Casaubon speak as if he looked forward to having a secretary. Indeed he -held out the prospect of that office to me. But I turned out to be—not -good enough for it.” - -Dorothea was trying to extract out of this an excuse for her husband’s -evident repulsion, as she said, with a playful smile, “You were not a -steady worker enough.” - -“No,” said Will, shaking his head backward somewhat after the manner of -a spirited horse. And then, the old irritable demon prompting him to -give another good pinch at the moth-wings of poor Mr. Casaubon’s glory, -he went on, “And I have seen since that Mr. Casaubon does not like any -one to overlook his work and know thoroughly what he is doing. He is -too doubtful—too uncertain of himself. I may not be good for much, but -he dislikes me because I disagree with him.” - -Will was not without his intentions to be always generous, but our -tongues are little triggers which have usually been pulled before -general intentions can be brought to bear. And it was too intolerable -that Casaubon’s dislike of him should not be fairly accounted for to -Dorothea. Yet when he had spoken he was rather uneasy as to the effect -on her. - -But Dorothea was strangely quiet—not immediately indignant, as she had -been on a like occasion in Rome. And the cause lay deep. She was no -longer struggling against the perception of facts, but adjusting -herself to their clearest perception; and now when she looked steadily -at her husband’s failure, still more at his possible consciousness of -failure, she seemed to be looking along the one track where duty became -tenderness. Will’s want of reticence might have been met with more -severity, if he had not already been recommended to her mercy by her -husband’s dislike, which must seem hard to her till she saw better -reason for it. - -She did not answer at once, but after looking down ruminatingly she -said, with some earnestness, “Mr. Casaubon must have overcome his -dislike of you so far as his actions were concerned: and that is -admirable.” - -“Yes; he has shown a sense of justice in family matters. It was an -abominable thing that my grandmother should have been disinherited -because she made what they called a _mesalliance_, though there was -nothing to be said against her husband except that he was a Polish -refugee who gave lessons for his bread.” - -“I wish I knew all about her!” said Dorothea. “I wonder how she bore -the change from wealth to poverty: I wonder whether she was happy with -her husband! Do you know much about them?” - -“No; only that my grandfather was a patriot—a bright fellow—could speak -many languages—musical—got his bread by teaching all sorts of things. -They both died rather early. And I never knew much of my father, beyond -what my mother told me; but he inherited the musical talents. I -remember his slow walk and his long thin hands; and one day remains -with me when he was lying ill, and I was very hungry, and had only a -little bit of bread.” - -“Ah, what a different life from mine!” said Dorothea, with keen -interest, clasping her hands on her lap. “I have always had too much of -everything. But tell me how it was—Mr. Casaubon could not have known -about you then.” - -“No; but my father had made himself known to Mr. Casaubon, and that was -my last hungry day. My father died soon after, and my mother and I were -well taken care of. Mr. Casaubon always expressly recognized it as his -duty to take care of us because of the harsh injustice which had been -shown to his mother’s sister. But now I am telling you what is not new -to you.” - -In his inmost soul Will was conscious of wishing to tell Dorothea what -was rather new even in his own construction of things—namely, that Mr. -Casaubon had never done more than pay a debt towards him. Will was much -too good a fellow to be easy under the sense of being ungrateful. And -when gratitude has become a matter of reasoning there are many ways of -escaping from its bonds. - -“No,” answered Dorothea; “Mr. Casaubon has always avoided dwelling on -his own honorable actions.” She did not feel that her husband’s conduct -was depreciated; but this notion of what justice had required in his -relations with Will Ladislaw took strong hold on her mind. After a -moment’s pause, she added, “He had never told me that he supported your -mother. Is she still living?” - -“No; she died by an accident—a fall—four years ago. It is curious that -my mother, too, ran away from her family, but not for the sake of her -husband. She never would tell me anything about her family, except that -she forsook them to get her own living—went on the stage, in fact. She -was a dark-eyed creature, with crisp ringlets, and never seemed to be -getting old. You see I come of rebellious blood on both sides,” Will -ended, smiling brightly at Dorothea, while she was still looking with -serious intentness before her, like a child seeing a drama for the -first time. - -But her face, too, broke into a smile as she said, “That is your -apology, I suppose, for having yourself been rather rebellious; I mean, -to Mr. Casaubon’s wishes. You must remember that you have not done what -he thought best for you. And if he dislikes you—you were speaking of -dislike a little while ago—but I should rather say, if he has shown any -painful feelings towards you, you must consider how sensitive he has -become from the wearing effect of study. Perhaps,” she continued, -getting into a pleading tone, “my uncle has not told you how serious -Mr. Casaubon’s illness was. It would be very petty of us who are well -and can bear things, to think much of small offences from those who -carry a weight of trial.” - -“You teach me better,” said Will. “I will never grumble on that subject -again.” There was a gentleness in his tone which came from the -unutterable contentment of perceiving—what Dorothea was hardly -conscious of—that she was travelling into the remoteness of pure pity -and loyalty towards her husband. Will was ready to adore her pity and -loyalty, if she would associate himself with her in manifesting them. -“I have really sometimes been a perverse fellow,” he went on, “but I -will never again, if I can help it, do or say what you would -disapprove.” - -“That is very good of you,” said Dorothea, with another open smile. “I -shall have a little kingdom then, where I shall give laws. But you will -soon go away, out of my rule, I imagine. You will soon be tired of -staying at the Grange.” - -“That is a point I wanted to mention to you—one of the reasons why I -wished to speak to you alone. Mr. Brooke proposes that I should stay in -this neighborhood. He has bought one of the Middlemarch newspapers, and -he wishes me to conduct that, and also to help him in other ways.” - -“Would not that be a sacrifice of higher prospects for you?” said -Dorothea. - -“Perhaps; but I have always been blamed for thinking of prospects, and -not settling to anything. And here is something offered to me. If you -would not like me to accept it, I will give it up. Otherwise I would -rather stay in this part of the country than go away. I belong to -nobody anywhere else.” - -“I should like you to stay very much,” said Dorothea, at once, as -simply and readily as she had spoken at Rome. There was not the shadow -of a reason in her mind at the moment why she should not say so. - -“Then I _will_ stay,” said Ladislaw, shaking his head backward, rising -and going towards the window, as if to see whether the rain had ceased. - -But the next moment, Dorothea, according to a habit which was getting -continually stronger, began to reflect that her husband felt -differently from herself, and she colored deeply under the double -embarrassment of having expressed what might be in opposition to her -husband’s feeling, and of having to suggest this opposition to Will. -His face was not turned towards her, and this made it easier to say— - -“But my opinion is of little consequence on such a subject. I think you -should be guided by Mr. Casaubon. I spoke without thinking of anything -else than my own feeling, which has nothing to do with the real -question. But it now occurs to me—perhaps Mr. Casaubon might see that -the proposal was not wise. Can you not wait now and mention it to him?” - -“I can’t wait to-day,” said Will, inwardly seared by the possibility -that Mr. Casaubon would enter. “The rain is quite over now. I told Mr. -Brooke not to call for me: I would rather walk the five miles. I shall -strike across Halsell Common, and see the gleams on the wet grass. I -like that.” - -He approached her to shake hands quite hurriedly, longing but not -daring to say, “Don’t mention the subject to Mr. Casaubon.” No, he -dared not, could not say it. To ask her to be less simple and direct -would be like breathing on the crystal that you want to see the light -through. And there was always the other great dread—of himself becoming -dimmed and forever ray-shorn in her eyes. - -“I wish you could have stayed,” said Dorothea, with a touch of -mournfulness, as she rose and put out her hand. She also had her -thought which she did not like to express:—Will certainly ought to lose -no time in consulting Mr. Casaubon’s wishes, but for her to urge this -might seem an undue dictation. - -So they only said “Good-by,” and Will quitted the house, striking -across the fields so as not to run any risk of encountering Mr. -Casaubon’s carriage, which, however, did not appear at the gate until -four o’clock. That was an unpropitious hour for coming home: it was too -early to gain the moral support under ennui of dressing his person for -dinner, and too late to undress his mind of the day’s frivolous -ceremony and affairs, so as to be prepared for a good plunge into the -serious business of study. On such occasions he usually threw into an -easy-chair in the library, and allowed Dorothea to read the London -papers to him, closing his eyes the while. To-day, however, he declined -that relief, observing that he had already had too many public details -urged upon him; but he spoke more cheerfully than usual, when Dorothea -asked about his fatigue, and added with that air of formal effort which -never forsook him even when he spoke without his waistcoat and cravat— - -“I have had the gratification of meeting my former acquaintance, Dr. -Spanning, to-day, and of being praised by one who is himself a worthy -recipient of praise. He spoke very handsomely of my late tractate on -the Egyptian Mysteries,—using, in fact, terms which it would not become -me to repeat.” In uttering the last clause, Mr. Casaubon leaned over -the elbow of his chair, and swayed his head up and down, apparently as -a muscular outlet instead of that recapitulation which would not have -been becoming. - -“I am very glad you have had that pleasure,” said Dorothea, delighted -to see her husband less weary than usual at this hour. “Before you came -I had been regretting that you happened to be out to-day.” - -“Why so, my dear?” said Mr. Casaubon, throwing himself backward again. - -“Because Mr. Ladislaw has been here; and he has mentioned a proposal of -my uncle’s which I should like to know your opinion of.” Her husband -she felt was really concerned in this question. Even with her ignorance -of the world she had a vague impression that the position offered to -Will was out of keeping with his family connections, and certainly Mr. -Casaubon had a claim to be consulted. He did not speak, but merely -bowed. - -“Dear uncle, you know, has many projects. It appears that he has bought -one of the Middlemarch newspapers, and he has asked Mr. Ladislaw to -stay in this neighborhood and conduct the paper for him, besides -helping him in other ways.” - -Dorothea looked at her husband while she spoke, but he had at first -blinked and finally closed his eyes, as if to save them; while his lips -became more tense. “What is your opinion?” she added, rather timidly, -after a slight pause. - -“Did Mr. Ladislaw come on purpose to ask my opinion?” said Mr. -Casaubon, opening his eyes narrowly with a knife-edged look at -Dorothea. She was really uncomfortable on the point he inquired about, -but she only became a little more serious, and her eyes did not swerve. - -“No,” she answered immediately, “he did not say that he came to ask -your opinion. But when he mentioned the proposal, he of course expected -me to tell you of it.” - -Mr. Casaubon was silent. - -“I feared that you might feel some objection. But certainly a young man -with so much talent might be very useful to my uncle—might help him to -do good in a better way. And Mr. Ladislaw wishes to have some fixed -occupation. He has been blamed, he says, for not seeking something of -that kind, and he would like to stay in this neighborhood because no -one cares for him elsewhere.” - -Dorothea felt that this was a consideration to soften her husband. -However, he did not speak, and she presently recurred to Dr. Spanning -and the Archdeacon’s breakfast. But there was no longer sunshine on -these subjects. - -The next morning, without Dorothea’s knowledge, Mr. Casaubon despatched -the following letter, beginning “Dear Mr. Ladislaw” (he had always -before addressed him as “Will”):— - -“Mrs. Casaubon informs me that a proposal has been made to you, and -(according to an inference by no means stretched) has on your part been -in some degree entertained, which involves your residence in this -neighborhood in a capacity which I am justified in saying touches my -own position in such a way as renders it not only natural and -warrantable in me when that effect is viewed under the influence of -legitimate feeling, but incumbent on me when the same effect is -considered in the light of my responsibilities, to state at once that -your acceptance of the proposal above indicated would be highly -offensive to me. That I have some claim to the exercise of a veto here, -would not, I believe, be denied by any reasonable person cognizant of -the relations between us: relations which, though thrown into the past -by your recent procedure, are not thereby annulled in their character -of determining antecedents. I will not here make reflections on any -person’s judgment. It is enough for me to point out to yourself that -there are certain social fitnesses and proprieties which should hinder -a somewhat near relative of mine from becoming any wise conspicuous in -this vicinity in a status not only much beneath my own, but associated -at best with the sciolism of literary or political adventurers. At any -rate, the contrary issue must exclude you from further reception at my -house. - - -Yours faithfully, -“EDWARD CASAUBON.” - - -Meanwhile Dorothea’s mind was innocently at work towards the further -embitterment of her husband; dwelling, with a sympathy that grew to -agitation, on what Will had told her about his parents and -grandparents. Any private hours in her day were usually spent in her -blue-green boudoir, and she had come to be very fond of its pallid -quaintness. Nothing had been outwardly altered there; but while the -summer had gradually advanced over the western fields beyond the avenue -of elms, the bare room had gathered within it those memories of an -inward life which fill the air as with a cloud of good or bad angels, -the invisible yet active forms of our spiritual triumphs or our -spiritual falls. She had been so used to struggle for and to find -resolve in looking along the avenue towards the arch of western light -that the vision itself had gained a communicating power. Even the pale -stag seemed to have reminding glances and to mean mutely, “Yes, we -know.” And the group of delicately touched miniatures had made an -audience as of beings no longer disturbed about their own earthly lot, -but still humanly interested. Especially the mysterious “Aunt Julia” -about whom Dorothea had never found it easy to question her husband. - -And now, since her conversation with Will, many fresh images had -gathered round that Aunt Julia who was Will’s grandmother; the presence -of that delicate miniature, so like a living face that she knew, -helping to concentrate her feelings. What a wrong, to cut off the girl -from the family protection and inheritance only because she had chosen -a man who was poor! Dorothea, early troubling her elders with questions -about the facts around her, had wrought herself into some independent -clearness as to the historical, political reasons why eldest sons had -superior rights, and why land should be entailed: those reasons, -impressing her with a certain awe, might be weightier than she knew, -but here was a question of ties which left them uninfringed. Here was a -daughter whose child—even according to the ordinary aping of -aristocratic institutions by people who are no more aristocratic than -retired grocers, and who have no more land to “keep together” than a -lawn and a paddock—would have a prior claim. Was inheritance a question -of liking or of responsibility? All the energy of Dorothea’s nature -went on the side of responsibility—the fulfilment of claims founded on -our own deeds, such as marriage and parentage. - -It was true, she said to herself, that Mr. Casaubon had a debt to the -Ladislaws—that he had to pay back what the Ladislaws had been wronged -of. And now she began to think of her husband’s will, which had been -made at the time of their marriage, leaving the bulk of his property to -her, with proviso in case of her having children. That ought to be -altered; and no time ought to be lost. This very question which had -just arisen about Will Ladislaw’s occupation, was the occasion for -placing things on a new, right footing. Her husband, she felt sure, -according to all his previous conduct, would be ready to take the just -view, if she proposed it—she, in whose interest an unfair concentration -of the property had been urged. His sense of right had surmounted and -would continue to surmount anything that might be called antipathy. She -suspected that her uncle’s scheme was disapproved by Mr. Casaubon, and -this made it seem all the more opportune that a fresh understanding -should be begun, so that instead of Will’s starting penniless and -accepting the first function that offered itself, he should find -himself in possession of a rightful income which should be paid by her -husband during his life, and, by an immediate alteration of the will, -should be secured at his death. The vision of all this as what ought to -be done seemed to Dorothea like a sudden letting in of daylight, waking -her from her previous stupidity and incurious self-absorbed ignorance -about her husband’s relation to others. Will Ladislaw had refused Mr. -Casaubon’s future aid on a ground that no longer appeared right to her; -and Mr. Casaubon had never himself seen fully what was the claim upon -him. “But he will!” said Dorothea. “The great strength of his character -lies here. And what are we doing with our money? We make no use of half -of our income. My own money buys me nothing but an uneasy conscience.” - -There was a peculiar fascination for Dorothea in this division of -property intended for herself, and always regarded by her as excessive. -She was blind, you see, to many things obvious to others—likely to -tread in the wrong places, as Celia had warned her; yet her blindness -to whatever did not lie in her own pure purpose carried her safely by -the side of precipices where vision would have been perilous with fear. - -The thoughts which had gathered vividness in the solitude of her -boudoir occupied her incessantly through the day on which Mr. Casaubon -had sent his letter to Will. Everything seemed hindrance to her till -she could find an opportunity of opening her heart to her husband. To -his preoccupied mind all subjects were to be approached gently, and she -had never since his illness lost from her consciousness the dread of -agitating him. But when young ardor is set brooding over the conception -of a prompt deed, the deed itself seems to start forth with independent -life, mastering ideal obstacles. The day passed in a sombre fashion, -not unusual, though Mr. Casaubon was perhaps unusually silent; but -there were hours of the night which might be counted on as -opportunities of conversation; for Dorothea, when aware of her -husband’s sleeplessness, had established a habit of rising, lighting a -candle, and reading him to sleep again. And this night she was from the -beginning sleepless, excited by resolves. He slept as usual for a few -hours, but she had risen softly and had sat in the darkness for nearly -an hour before he said— - -“Dorothea, since you are up, will you light a candle?” - -“Do you feel ill, dear?” was her first question, as she obeyed him. - -“No, not at all; but I shall be obliged, since you are up, if you will -read me a few pages of Lowth.” - -“May I talk to you a little instead?” said Dorothea. - -“Certainly.” - -“I have been thinking about money all day—that I have always had too -much, and especially the prospect of too much.” - -“These, my dear Dorothea, are providential arrangements.” - -“But if one has too much in consequence of others being wronged, it -seems to me that the divine voice which tells us to set that wrong -right must be obeyed.” - -“What, my love, is the bearing of your remark?” - -“That you have been too liberal in arrangements for me—I mean, with -regard to property; and that makes me unhappy.” - -“How so? I have none but comparatively distant connections.” - -“I have been led to think about your aunt Julia, and how she was left -in poverty only because she married a poor man, an act which was not -disgraceful, since he was not unworthy. It was on that ground, I know, -that you educated Mr. Ladislaw and provided for his mother.” - -Dorothea waited a few moments for some answer that would help her -onward. None came, and her next words seemed the more forcible to her, -falling clear upon the dark silence. - -“But surely we should regard his claim as a much greater one, even to -the half of that property which I know that you have destined for me. -And I think he ought at once to be provided for on that understanding. -It is not right that he should be in the dependence of poverty while we -are rich. And if there is any objection to the proposal he mentioned, -the giving him his true place and his true share would set aside any -motive for his accepting it.” - -“Mr. Ladislaw has probably been speaking to you on this subject?” said -Mr. Casaubon, with a certain biting quickness not habitual to him. - -“Indeed, no!” said Dorothea, earnestly. “How can you imagine it, since -he has so lately declined everything from you? I fear you think too -hardly of him, dear. He only told me a little about his parents and -grandparents, and almost all in answer to my questions. You are so -good, so just—you have done everything you thought to be right. But it -seems to me clear that more than that is right; and I must speak about -it, since I am the person who would get what is called benefit by that -‘more’ not being done.” - -There was a perceptible pause before Mr. Casaubon replied, not quickly -as before, but with a still more biting emphasis. - -“Dorothea, my love, this is not the first occasion, but it were well -that it should be the last, on which you have assumed a judgment on -subjects beyond your scope. Into the question how far conduct, -especially in the matter of alliances, constitutes a forfeiture of -family claims, I do not now enter. Suffice it, that you are not here -qualified to discriminate. What I now wish you to understand is, that I -accept no revision, still less dictation within that range of affairs -which I have deliberated upon as distinctly and properly mine. It is -not for you to interfere between me and Mr. Ladislaw, and still less to -encourage communications from him to you which constitute a criticism -on my procedure.” - -Poor Dorothea, shrouded in the darkness, was in a tumult of conflicting -emotions. Alarm at the possible effect on himself of her husband’s -strongly manifested anger, would have checked any expression of her own -resentment, even if she had been quite free from doubt and compunction -under the consciousness that there might be some justice in his last -insinuation. Hearing him breathe quickly after he had spoken, she sat -listening, frightened, wretched—with a dumb inward cry for help to bear -this nightmare of a life in which every energy was arrested by dread. -But nothing else happened, except that they both remained a long while -sleepless, without speaking again. - -The next day, Mr. Casaubon received the following answer from Will -Ladislaw:— - -“DEAR MR. CASAUBON,—I have given all due consideration to your letter -of yesterday, but I am unable to take precisely your view of our mutual -position. With the fullest acknowledgment of your generous conduct to -me in the past, I must still maintain that an obligation of this kind -cannot fairly fetter me as you appear to expect that it should. Granted -that a benefactor’s wishes may constitute a claim; there must always be -a reservation as to the quality of those wishes. They may possibly -clash with more imperative considerations. Or a benefactor’s veto might -impose such a negation on a man’s life that the consequent blank might -be more cruel than the benefaction was generous. I am merely using -strong illustrations. In the present case I am unable to take your view -of the bearing which my acceptance of occupation—not enriching -certainly, but not dishonorable—will have on your own position which -seems to me too substantial to be affected in that shadowy manner. And -though I do not believe that any change in our relations will occur -(certainly none has yet occurred) which can nullify the obligations -imposed on me by the past, pardon me for not seeing that those -obligations should restrain me from using the ordinary freedom of -living where I choose, and maintaining myself by any lawful occupation -I may choose. Regretting that there exists this difference between us -as to a relation in which the conferring of benefits has been entirely -on your side— - - -I remain, yours with persistent obligation, -WILL LADISLAW.” - - -Poor Mr. Casaubon felt (and must not we, being impartial, feel with him -a little?) that no man had juster cause for disgust and suspicion than -he. Young Ladislaw, he was sure, meant to defy and annoy him, meant to -win Dorothea’s confidence and sow her mind with disrespect, and perhaps -aversion, towards her husband. Some motive beneath the surface had been -needed to account for Will’s sudden change of course in rejecting Mr. -Casaubon’s aid and quitting his travels; and this defiant determination -to fix himself in the neighborhood by taking up something so much at -variance with his former choice as Mr. Brooke’s Middlemarch projects, -revealed clearly enough that the undeclared motive had relation to -Dorothea. Not for one moment did Mr. Casaubon suspect Dorothea of any -doubleness: he had no suspicions of her, but he had (what was little -less uncomfortable) the positive knowledge that her tendency to form -opinions about her husband’s conduct was accompanied with a disposition -to regard Will Ladislaw favorably and be influenced by what he said. -His own proud reticence had prevented him from ever being undeceived in -the supposition that Dorothea had originally asked her uncle to invite -Will to his house. - -And now, on receiving Will’s letter, Mr. Casaubon had to consider his -duty. He would never have been easy to call his action anything else -than duty; but in this case, contending motives thrust him back into -negations. - -Should he apply directly to Mr. Brooke, and demand of that troublesome -gentleman to revoke his proposal? Or should he consult Sir James -Chettam, and get him to concur in remonstrance against a step which -touched the whole family? In either case Mr. Casaubon was aware that -failure was just as probable as success. It was impossible for him to -mention Dorothea’s name in the matter, and without some alarming -urgency Mr. Brooke was as likely as not, after meeting all -representations with apparent assent, to wind up by saying, “Never -fear, Casaubon! Depend upon it, young Ladislaw will do you credit. -Depend upon it, I have put my finger on the right thing.” And Mr. -Casaubon shrank nervously from communicating on the subject with Sir -James Chettam, between whom and himself there had never been any -cordiality, and who would immediately think of Dorothea without any -mention of her. - -Poor Mr. Casaubon was distrustful of everybody’s feeling towards him, -especially as a husband. To let any one suppose that he was jealous -would be to admit their (suspected) view of his disadvantages: to let -them know that he did not find marriage particularly blissful would -imply his conversion to their (probably) earlier disapproval. It would -be as bad as letting Carp, and Brasenose generally, know how backward -he was in organizing the matter for his “Key to all Mythologies.” All -through his life Mr. Casaubon had been trying not to admit even to -himself the inward sores of self-doubt and jealousy. And on the most -delicate of all personal subjects, the habit of proud suspicious -reticence told doubly. - -Thus Mr. Casaubon remained proudly, bitterly silent. But he had -forbidden Will to come to Lowick Manor, and he was mentally preparing -other measures of frustration. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - -“C’est beaucoup que le jugement des hommes sur les actions humaines; -tôt ou tard il devient efficace.”—GUIZOT. - - -Sir James Chettam could not look with any satisfaction on Mr. Brooke’s -new courses; but it was easier to object than to hinder. Sir James -accounted for his having come in alone one day to lunch with the -Cadwalladers by saying— - -“I can’t talk to you as I want, before Celia: it might hurt her. -Indeed, it would not be right.” - -“I know what you mean—the ‘Pioneer’ at the Grange!” darted in Mrs. -Cadwallader, almost before the last word was off her friend’s tongue. -“It is frightful—this taking to buying whistles and blowing them in -everybody’s hearing. Lying in bed all day and playing at dominoes, like -poor Lord Plessy, would be more private and bearable.” - -“I see they are beginning to attack our friend Brooke in the -‘Trumpet,’” said the Rector, lounging back and smiling easily, as he -would have done if he had been attacked himself. “There are tremendous -sarcasms against a landlord not a hundred miles from Middlemarch, who -receives his own rents, and makes no returns.” - -“I do wish Brooke would leave that off,” said Sir James, with his -little frown of annoyance. - -“Is he really going to be put in nomination, though?” said Mr. -Cadwallader. “I saw Farebrother yesterday—he’s Whiggish himself, hoists -Brougham and Useful Knowledge; that’s the worst I know of him;—and he -says that Brooke is getting up a pretty strong party. Bulstrode, the -banker, is his foremost man. But he thinks Brooke would come off badly -at a nomination.” - -“Exactly,” said Sir James, with earnestness. “I have been inquiring -into the thing, for I’ve never known anything about Middlemarch -politics before—the county being my business. What Brooke trusts to, is -that they are going to turn out Oliver because he is a Peelite. But -Hawley tells me that if they send up a Whig at all it is sure to be -Bagster, one of those candidates who come from heaven knows where, but -dead against Ministers, and an experienced Parliamentary man. Hawley’s -rather rough: he forgot that he was speaking to me. He said if Brooke -wanted a pelting, he could get it cheaper than by going to the -hustings.” - -“I warned you all of it,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, waving her hands -outward. “I said to Humphrey long ago, Mr. Brooke is going to make a -splash in the mud. And now he has done it.” - -“Well, he might have taken it into his head to marry,” said the Rector. -“That would have been a graver mess than a little flirtation with -politics.” - -“He may do that afterwards,” said Mrs. Cadwallader—“when he has come -out on the other side of the mud with an ague.” - -“What I care for most is his own dignity,” said Sir James. “Of course I -care the more because of the family. But he’s getting on in life now, -and I don’t like to think of his exposing himself. They will be raking -up everything against him.” - -“I suppose it’s no use trying any persuasion,” said the Rector. -“There’s such an odd mixture of obstinacy and changeableness in Brooke. -Have you tried him on the subject?” - -“Well, no,” said Sir James; “I feel a delicacy in appearing to dictate. -But I have been talking to this young Ladislaw that Brooke is making a -factotum of. Ladislaw seems clever enough for anything. I thought it as -well to hear what he had to say; and he is against Brooke’s standing -this time. I think he’ll turn him round: I think the nomination may be -staved off.” - -“I know,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, nodding. “The independent member -hasn’t got his speeches well enough by heart.” - -“But this Ladislaw—there again is a vexatious business,” said Sir -James. “We have had him two or three times to dine at the Hall (you -have met him, by the bye) as Brooke’s guest and a relation of -Casaubon’s, thinking he was only on a flying visit. And now I find he’s -in everybody’s mouth in Middlemarch as the editor of the ‘Pioneer.’ -There are stories going about him as a quill-driving alien, a foreign -emissary, and what not.” - -“Casaubon won’t like that,” said the Rector. - -“There _is_ some foreign blood in Ladislaw,” returned Sir James. “I -hope he won’t go into extreme opinions and carry Brooke on.” - -“Oh, he’s a dangerous young sprig, that Mr. Ladislaw,” said Mrs. -Cadwallader, “with his opera songs and his ready tongue. A sort of -Byronic hero—an amorous conspirator, it strikes me. And Thomas Aquinas -is not fond of him. I could see that, the day the picture was brought.” - -“I don’t like to begin on the subject with Casaubon,” said Sir James. -“He has more right to interfere than I. But it’s a disagreeable affair -all round. What a character for anybody with decent connections to show -himself in!—one of those newspaper fellows! You have only to look at -Keck, who manages the ‘Trumpet.’ I saw him the other day with Hawley. -His writing is sound enough, I believe, but he’s such a low fellow, -that I wished he had been on the wrong side.” - -“What can you expect with these peddling Middlemarch papers?” said the -Rector. “I don’t suppose you could get a high style of man anywhere to -be writing up interests he doesn’t really care about, and for pay that -hardly keeps him in at elbows.” - -“Exactly: that makes it so annoying that Brooke should have put a man -who has a sort of connection with the family in a position of that -kind. For my part, I think Ladislaw is rather a fool for accepting.” - -“It is Aquinas’s fault,” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “Why didn’t he use his -interest to get Ladislaw made an _attache_ or sent to India? That is -how families get rid of troublesome sprigs.” - -“There is no knowing to what lengths the mischief may go,” said Sir -James, anxiously. “But if Casaubon says nothing, what can I do?” - -“Oh my dear Sir James,” said the Rector, “don’t let us make too much of -all this. It is likely enough to end in mere smoke. After a month or -two Brooke and this Master Ladislaw will get tired of each other; -Ladislaw will take wing; Brooke will sell the ‘Pioneer,’ and everything -will settle down again as usual.” - -“There is one good chance—that he will not like to feel his money -oozing away,” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “If I knew the items of election -expenses I could scare him. It’s no use plying him with wide words like -Expenditure: I wouldn’t talk of phlebotomy, I would empty a pot of -leeches upon him. What we good stingy people don’t like, is having our -sixpences sucked away from us.” - -“And he will not like having things raked up against him,” said Sir -James. “There is the management of his estate. They have begun upon -that already. And it really is painful for me to see. It is a nuisance -under one’s very nose. I do think one is bound to do the best for one’s -land and tenants, especially in these hard times.” - -“Perhaps the ‘Trumpet’ may rouse him to make a change, and some good -may come of it all,” said the Rector. “I know I should be glad. I -should hear less grumbling when my tithe is paid. I don’t know what I -should do if there were not a modus in Tipton.” - -“I want him to have a proper man to look after things—I want him to -take on Garth again,” said Sir James. “He got rid of Garth twelve years -ago, and everything has been going wrong since. I think of getting -Garth to manage for me—he has made such a capital plan for my -buildings; and Lovegood is hardly up to the mark. But Garth would not -undertake the Tipton estate again unless Brooke left it entirely to -him.” - -“In the right of it too,” said the Rector. “Garth is an independent -fellow: an original, simple-minded fellow. One day, when he was doing -some valuation for me, he told me point-blank that clergymen seldom -understood anything about business, and did mischief when they meddled; -but he said it as quietly and respectfully as if he had been talking to -me about sailors. He would make a different parish of Tipton, if Brooke -would let him manage. I wish, by the help of the ‘Trumpet,’ you could -bring that round.” - -“If Dorothea had kept near her uncle, there would have been some -chance,” said Sir James. “She might have got some power over him in -time, and she was always uneasy about the estate. She had wonderfully -good notions about such things. But now Casaubon takes her up entirely. -Celia complains a good deal. We can hardly get her to dine with us, -since he had that fit.” Sir James ended with a look of pitying disgust, -and Mrs. Cadwallader shrugged her shoulders as much as to say that -_she_ was not likely to see anything new in that direction. - -“Poor Casaubon!” the Rector said. “That was a nasty attack. I thought -he looked shattered the other day at the Archdeacon’s.” - -“In point of fact,” resumed Sir James, not choosing to dwell on “fits,” -“Brooke doesn’t mean badly by his tenants or any one else, but he has -got that way of paring and clipping at expenses.” - -“Come, that’s a blessing,” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “That helps him to -find himself in a morning. He may not know his own opinions, but he -does know his own pocket.” - -“I don’t believe a man is in pocket by stinginess on his land,” said -Sir James. - -“Oh, stinginess may be abused like other virtues: it will not do to -keep one’s own pigs lean,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, who had risen to look -out of the window. “But talk of an independent politician and he will -appear.” - -“What! Brooke?” said her husband. - -“Yes. Now, you ply him with the ‘Trumpet,’ Humphrey; and I will put the -leeches on him. What will you do, Sir James?” - -“The fact is, I don’t like to begin about it with Brooke, in our mutual -position; the whole thing is so unpleasant. I do wish people would -behave like gentlemen,” said the good baronet, feeling that this was a -simple and comprehensive programme for social well-being. - -“Here you all are, eh?” said Mr. Brooke, shuffling round and shaking -hands. “I was going up to the Hall by-and-by, Chettam. But it’s -pleasant to find everybody, you know. Well, what do you think of -things?—going on a little fast! It was true enough, what Lafitte -said—‘Since yesterday, a century has passed away:’—they’re in the next -century, you know, on the other side of the water. Going on faster than -we are.” - -“Why, yes,” said the Rector, taking up the newspaper. “Here is the -‘Trumpet’ accusing you of lagging behind—did you see?” - -“Eh? no,” said Mr. Brooke, dropping his gloves into his hat and hastily -adjusting his eye-glass. But Mr. Cadwallader kept the paper in his -hand, saying, with a smile in his eyes— - -“Look here! all this is about a landlord not a hundred miles from -Middlemarch, who receives his own rents. They say he is the most -retrogressive man in the county. I think you must have taught them that -word in the ‘Pioneer.’” - -“Oh, that is Keck—an illiterate fellow, you know. Retrogressive, now! -Come, that’s capital. He thinks it means destructive: they want to make -me out a destructive, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, with that -cheerfulness which is usually sustained by an adversary’s ignorance. - -“I think he knows the meaning of the word. Here is a sharp stroke or -two. _If we had to describe a man who is retrogressive in the most evil -sense of the word—we should say, he is one who would dub himself a -reformer of our constitution, while every interest for which he is -immediately responsible is going to decay: a philanthropist who cannot -bear one rogue to be hanged, but does not mind five honest tenants -being half-starved: a man who shrieks at corruption, and keeps his -farms at rack-rent: who roars himself red at rotten boroughs, and does -not mind if every field on his farms has a rotten gate: a man very -open-hearted to Leeds and Manchester, no doubt; he would give any -number of representatives who will pay for their seats out of their own -pockets: what he objects to giving, is a little return on rent-days to -help a tenant to buy stock, or an outlay on repairs to keep the weather -out at a tenant’s barn-door or make his house look a little less like -an Irish cottier’s. But we all know the wag’s definition of a -philanthropist: a man whose charity increases directly as the square of -the distance._ And so on. All the rest is to show what sort of -legislator a philanthropist is likely to make,” ended the Rector, -throwing down the paper, and clasping his hands at the back of his -head, while he looked at Mr. Brooke with an air of amused neutrality. - -“Come, that’s rather good, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, taking up the -paper and trying to bear the attack as easily as his neighbor did, but -coloring and smiling rather nervously; “that about roaring himself red -at rotten boroughs—I never made a speech about rotten boroughs in my -life. And as to roaring myself red and that kind of thing—these men -never understand what is good satire. Satire, you know, should be true -up to a certain point. I recollect they said that in ‘The Edinburgh’ -somewhere—it must be true up to a certain point.” - -“Well, that is really a hit about the gates,” said Sir James, anxious -to tread carefully. “Dagley complained to me the other day that he -hadn’t got a decent gate on his farm. Garth has invented a new pattern -of gate—I wish you would try it. One ought to use some of one’s timber -in that way.” - -“You go in for fancy farming, you know, Chettam,” said Mr. Brooke, -appearing to glance over the columns of the “Trumpet.” “That’s your -hobby, and you don’t mind the expense.” - -“I thought the most expensive hobby in the world was standing for -Parliament,” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “They said the last unsuccessful -candidate at Middlemarch—Giles, wasn’t his name?—spent ten thousand -pounds and failed because he did not bribe enough. What a bitter -reflection for a man!” - -“Somebody was saying,” said the Rector, laughingly, “that East Retford -was nothing to Middlemarch, for bribery.” - -“Nothing of the kind,” said Mr. Brooke. “The Tories bribe, you know: -Hawley and his set bribe with treating, hot codlings, and that sort of -thing; and they bring the voters drunk to the poll. But they are not -going to have it their own way in future—not in future, you know. -Middlemarch is a little backward, I admit—the freemen are a little -backward. But we shall educate them—we shall bring them on, you know. -The best people there are on our side.” - -“Hawley says you have men on your side who will do you harm,” remarked -Sir James. “He says Bulstrode the banker will do you harm.” - -“And that if you got pelted,” interposed Mrs. Cadwallader, “half the -rotten eggs would mean hatred of your committee-man. Good heavens! -Think what it must be to be pelted for wrong opinions. And I seem to -remember a story of a man they pretended to chair and let him fall into -a dust-heap on purpose!” - -“Pelting is nothing to their finding holes in one’s coat,” said the -Rector. “I confess that’s what I should be afraid of, if we parsons had -to stand at the hustings for preferment. I should be afraid of their -reckoning up all my fishing days. Upon my word, I think the truth is -the hardest missile one can be pelted with.” - -“The fact is,” said Sir James, “if a man goes into public life he must -be prepared for the consequences. He must make himself proof against -calumny.” - -“My dear Chettam, that is all very fine, you know,” said Mr. Brooke. -“But how will you make yourself proof against calumny? You should read -history—look at ostracism, persecution, martyrdom, and that kind of -thing. They always happen to the best men, you know. But what is that -in Horace?—_fiat justitia, ruat_ … something or other.” - -“Exactly,” said Sir James, with a little more heat than usual. “What I -mean by being proof against calumny is being able to point to the fact -as a contradiction.” - -“And it is not martyrdom to pay bills that one has run into one’s -self,” said Mrs. Cadwallader. - -But it was Sir James’s evident annoyance that most stirred Mr. Brooke. -“Well, you know, Chettam,” he said, rising, taking up his hat and -leaning on his stick, “you and I have a different system. You are all -for outlay with your farms. I don’t want to make out that my system is -good under all circumstances—under all circumstances, you know.” - -“There ought to be a new valuation made from time to time,” said Sir -James. “Returns are very well occasionally, but I like a fair -valuation. What do you say, Cadwallader?” - -“I agree with you. If I were Brooke, I would choke the ‘Trumpet’ at -once by getting Garth to make a new valuation of the farms, and giving -him _carte blanche_ about gates and repairs: that’s my view of the -political situation,” said the Rector, broadening himself by sticking -his thumbs in his armholes, and laughing towards Mr. Brooke. - -“That’s a showy sort of thing to do, you know,” said Mr. Brooke. “But I -should like you to tell me of another landlord who has distressed his -tenants for arrears as little as I have. I let the old tenants stay on. -I’m uncommonly easy, let me tell you, uncommonly easy. I have my own -ideas, and I take my stand on them, you know. A man who does that is -always charged with eccentricity, inconsistency, and that kind of -thing. When I change my line of action, I shall follow my own ideas.” - -After that, Mr. Brooke remembered that there was a packet which he had -omitted to send off from the Grange, and he bade everybody hurriedly -good-by. - -“I didn’t want to take a liberty with Brooke,” said Sir James; “I see -he is nettled. But as to what he says about old tenants, in point of -fact no new tenant would take the farms on the present terms.” - -“I have a notion that he will be brought round in time,” said the -Rector. “But you were pulling one way, Elinor, and we were pulling -another. You wanted to frighten him away from expense, and we want to -frighten him into it. Better let him try to be popular and see that his -character as a landlord stands in his way. I don’t think it signifies -two straws about the ‘Pioneer,’ or Ladislaw, or Brooke’s speechifying -to the Middlemarchers. But it does signify about the parishioners in -Tipton being comfortable.” - -“Excuse me, it is you two who are on the wrong tack,” said Mrs. -Cadwallader. “You should have proved to him that he loses money by bad -management, and then we should all have pulled together. If you put him -a-horseback on politics, I warn you of the consequences. It was all -very well to ride on sticks at home and call them ideas.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - -“If, as I have, you also doe, - Vertue attired in woman see, -And dare love that, and say so too, - And forget the He and She; - -And if this love, though placed so, - From prophane men you hide, -Which will no faith on this bestow, - Or, if they doe, deride: - -Then you have done a braver thing - Than all the Worthies did, -And a braver thence will spring, - Which is, to keep that hid.” -—DR. DONNE. - - -Sir James Chettam’s mind was not fruitful in devices, but his growing -anxiety to “act on Brooke,” once brought close to his constant belief -in Dorothea’s capacity for influence, became formative, and issued in a -little plan; namely, to plead Celia’s indisposition as a reason for -fetching Dorothea by herself to the Hall, and to leave her at the -Grange with the carriage on the way, after making her fully aware of -the situation concerning the management of the estate. - -In this way it happened that one day near four o’clock, when Mr. Brooke -and Ladislaw were seated in the library, the door opened and Mrs. -Casaubon was announced. - -Will, the moment before, had been low in the depths of boredom, and, -obliged to help Mr. Brooke in arranging “documents” about hanging -sheep-stealers, was exemplifying the power our minds have of riding -several horses at once by inwardly arranging measures towards getting a -lodging for himself in Middlemarch and cutting short his constant -residence at the Grange; while there flitted through all these steadier -images a tickling vision of a sheep-stealing epic written with Homeric -particularity. When Mrs. Casaubon was announced he started up as from -an electric shock, and felt a tingling at his finger-ends. Any one -observing him would have seen a change in his complexion, in the -adjustment of his facial muscles, in the vividness of his glance, which -might have made them imagine that every molecule in his body had passed -the message of a magic touch. And so it had. For effective magic is -transcendent nature; and who shall measure the subtlety of those -touches which convey the quality of soul as well as body, and make a -man’s passion for one woman differ from his passion for another as joy -in the morning light over valley and river and white mountain-top -differs from joy among Chinese lanterns and glass panels? Will, too, -was made of very impressible stuff. The bow of a violin drawn near him -cleverly, would at one stroke change the aspect of the world for him, -and his point of view shifted as easily as his mood. Dorothea’s -entrance was the freshness of morning. - -“Well, my dear, this is pleasant, now,” said Mr. Brooke, meeting and -kissing her. “You have left Casaubon with his books, I suppose. That’s -right. We must not have you getting too learned for a woman, you know.” - -“There is no fear of that, uncle,” said Dorothea, turning to Will and -shaking hands with open cheerfulness, while she made no other form of -greeting, but went on answering her uncle. “I am very slow. When I want -to be busy with books, I am often playing truant among my thoughts. I -find it is not so easy to be learned as to plan cottages.” - -She seated herself beside her uncle opposite to Will, and was evidently -preoccupied with something that made her almost unmindful of him. He -was ridiculously disappointed, as if he had imagined that her coming -had anything to do with him. - -“Why, yes, my dear, it was quite your hobby to draw plans. But it was -good to break that off a little. Hobbies are apt to run away with us, -you know; it doesn’t do to be run away with. We must keep the reins. I -have never let myself be run away with; I always pulled up. That is -what I tell Ladislaw. He and I are alike, you know: he likes to go into -everything. We are working at capital punishment. We shall do a great -deal together, Ladislaw and I.” - -“Yes,” said Dorothea, with characteristic directness, “Sir James has -been telling me that he is in hope of seeing a great change made soon -in your management of the estate—that you are thinking of having the -farms valued, and repairs made, and the cottages improved, so that -Tipton may look quite another place. Oh, how happy!”—she went on, -clasping her hands, with a return to that more childlike impetuous -manner, which had been subdued since her marriage. “If I were at home -still, I should take to riding again, that I might go about with you -and see all that! And you are going to engage Mr. Garth, who praised my -cottages, Sir James says.” - -“Chettam is a little hasty, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, coloring -slightly; “a little hasty, you know. I never said I should do anything -of the kind. I never said I should _not_ do it, you know.” - -“He only feels confident that you will do it,” said Dorothea, in a -voice as clear and unhesitating as that of a young chorister chanting a -credo, “because you mean to enter Parliament as a member who cares for -the improvement of the people, and one of the first things to be made -better is the state of the land and the laborers. Think of Kit Downes, -uncle, who lives with his wife and seven children in a house with one -sitting room and one bedroom hardly larger than this table!—and those -poor Dagleys, in their tumble-down farmhouse, where they live in the -back kitchen and leave the other rooms to the rats! That is one reason -why I did not like the pictures here, dear uncle—which you think me -stupid about. I used to come from the village with all that dirt and -coarse ugliness like a pain within me, and the simpering pictures in -the drawing-room seemed to me like a wicked attempt to find delight in -what is false, while we don’t mind how hard the truth is for the -neighbors outside our walls. I think we have no right to come forward -and urge wider changes for good, until we have tried to alter the evils -which lie under our own hands.” - -Dorothea had gathered emotion as she went on, and had forgotten -everything except the relief of pouring forth her feelings, unchecked: -an experience once habitual with her, but hardly ever present since her -marriage, which had been a perpetual struggle of energy with fear. For -the moment, Will’s admiration was accompanied with a chilling sense of -remoteness. A man is seldom ashamed of feeling that he cannot love a -woman so well when he sees a certain greatness in her: nature having -intended greatness for men. But nature has sometimes made sad -oversights in carrying out her intention; as in the case of good Mr. -Brooke, whose masculine consciousness was at this moment in rather a -stammering condition under the eloquence of his niece. He could not -immediately find any other mode of expressing himself than that of -rising, fixing his eye-glass, and fingering the papers before him. At -last he said— - -“There is something in what you say, my dear, something in what you -say—but not everything—eh, Ladislaw? You and I don’t like our pictures -and statues being found fault with. Young ladies are a little ardent, -you know—a little one-sided, my dear. Fine art, poetry, that kind of -thing, elevates a nation—_emollit mores_—you understand a little Latin -now. But—eh? what?” - -These interrogatives were addressed to the footman who had come in to -say that the keeper had found one of Dagley’s boys with a leveret in -his hand just killed. - -“I’ll come, I’ll come. I shall let him off easily, you know,” said Mr. -Brooke aside to Dorothea, shuffling away very cheerfully. - -“I hope you feel how right this change is that I—that Sir James wishes -for,” said Dorothea to Will, as soon as her uncle was gone. - -“I do, now I have heard you speak about it. I shall not forget what you -have said. But can you think of something else at this moment? I may -not have another opportunity of speaking to you about what has -occurred,” said Will, rising with a movement of impatience, and holding -the back of his chair with both hands. - -“Pray tell me what it is,” said Dorothea, anxiously, also rising and -going to the open window, where Monk was looking in, panting and -wagging his tail. She leaned her back against the window-frame, and -laid her hand on the dog’s head; for though, as we know, she was not -fond of pets that must be held in the hands or trodden on, she was -always attentive to the feelings of dogs, and very polite if she had to -decline their advances. - -Will followed her only with his eyes and said, “I presume you know that -Mr. Casaubon has forbidden me to go to his house.” - -“No, I did not,” said Dorothea, after a moment’s pause. She was -evidently much moved. “I am very, very sorry,” she added, mournfully. -She was thinking of what Will had no knowledge of—the conversation -between her and her husband in the darkness; and she was anew smitten -with hopelessness that she could influence Mr. Casaubon’s action. But -the marked expression of her sorrow convinced Will that it was not all -given to him personally, and that Dorothea had not been visited by the -idea that Mr. Casaubon’s dislike and jealousy of him turned upon -herself. He felt an odd mixture of delight and vexation: of delight -that he could dwell and be cherished in her thought as in a pure home, -without suspicion and without stint—of vexation because he was of too -little account with her, was not formidable enough, was treated with an -unhesitating benevolence which did not flatter him. But his dread of -any change in Dorothea was stronger than his discontent, and he began -to speak again in a tone of mere explanation. - -“Mr. Casaubon’s reason is, his displeasure at my taking a position here -which he considers unsuited to my rank as his cousin. I have told him -that I cannot give way on this point. It is a little too hard on me to -expect that my course in life is to be hampered by prejudices which I -think ridiculous. Obligation may be stretched till it is no better than -a brand of slavery stamped on us when we were too young to know its -meaning. I would not have accepted the position if I had not meant to -make it useful and honorable. I am not bound to regard family dignity -in any other light.” - -Dorothea felt wretched. She thought her husband altogether in the -wrong, on more grounds than Will had mentioned. - -“It is better for us not to speak on the subject,” she said, with a -tremulousness not common in her voice, “since you and Mr. Casaubon -disagree. You intend to remain?” She was looking out on the lawn, with -melancholy meditation. - -“Yes; but I shall hardly ever see you now,” said Will, in a tone of -almost boyish complaint. - -“No,” said Dorothea, turning her eyes full upon him, “hardly ever. But -I shall hear of you. I shall know what you are doing for my uncle.” - -“I shall know hardly anything about you,” said Will. “No one will tell -me anything.” - -“Oh, my life is very simple,” said Dorothea, her lips curling with an -exquisite smile, which irradiated her melancholy. “I am always at -Lowick.” - -“That is a dreadful imprisonment,” said Will, impetuously. - -“No, don’t think that,” said Dorothea. “I have no longings.” - -He did not speak, but she replied to some change in his expression. “I -mean, for myself. Except that I should like not to have so much more -than my share without doing anything for others. But I have a belief of -my own, and it comforts me.” - -“What is that?” said Will, rather jealous of the belief. - -“That by desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don’t quite know -what it is and cannot do what we would, we are part of the divine power -against evil—widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with -darkness narrower.” - -“That is a beautiful mysticism—it is a—” - -“Please not to call it by any name,” said Dorothea, putting out her -hands entreatingly. “You will say it is Persian, or something else -geographical. It is my life. I have found it out, and cannot part with -it. I have always been finding out my religion since I was a little -girl. I used to pray so much—now I hardly ever pray. I try not to have -desires merely for myself, because they may not be good for others, and -I have too much already. I only told you, that you might know quite -well how my days go at Lowick.” - -“God bless you for telling me!” said Will, ardently, and rather -wondering at himself. They were looking at each other like two fond -children who were talking confidentially of birds. - -“What is _your_ religion?” said Dorothea. “I mean—not what you know -about religion, but the belief that helps you most?” - -“To love what is good and beautiful when I see it,” said Will. “But I -am a rebel: I don’t feel bound, as you do, to submit to what I don’t -like.” - -“But if you like what is good, that comes to the same thing,” said -Dorothea, smiling. - -“Now you are subtle,” said Will. - -“Yes; Mr. Casaubon often says I am too subtle. I don’t feel as if I -were subtle,” said Dorothea, playfully. “But how long my uncle is! I -must go and look for him. I must really go on to the Hall. Celia is -expecting me.” - -Will offered to tell Mr. Brooke, who presently came and said that he -would step into the carriage and go with Dorothea as far as Dagley’s, -to speak about the small delinquent who had been caught with the -leveret. Dorothea renewed the subject of the estate as they drove -along, but Mr. Brooke, not being taken unawares, got the talk under his -own control. - -“Chettam, now,” he replied; “he finds fault with me, my dear; but I -should not preserve my game if it were not for Chettam, and he can’t -say that that expense is for the sake of the tenants, you know. It’s a -little against my feeling:—poaching, now, if you come to look into it—I -have often thought of getting up the subject. Not long ago, Flavell, -the Methodist preacher, was brought up for knocking down a hare that -came across his path when he and his wife were walking out together. He -was pretty quick, and knocked it on the neck.” - -“That was very brutal, I think,” said Dorothea. - -“Well, now, it seemed rather black to me, I confess, in a Methodist -preacher, you know. And Johnson said, ‘You may judge what a hypo_crite_ -he is.’ And upon my word, I thought Flavell looked very little like -‘the highest style of man’—as somebody calls the Christian—Young, the -poet Young, I think—you know Young? Well, now, Flavell in his shabby -black gaiters, pleading that he thought the Lord had sent him and his -wife a good dinner, and he had a right to knock it down, though not a -mighty hunter before the Lord, as Nimrod was—I assure you it was rather -comic: Fielding would have made something of it—or Scott, now—Scott -might have worked it up. But really, when I came to think of it, I -couldn’t help liking that the fellow should have a bit of hare to say -grace over. It’s all a matter of prejudice—prejudice with the law on -its side, you know—about the stick and the gaiters, and so on. However, -it doesn’t do to reason about things; and law is law. But I got Johnson -to be quiet, and I hushed the matter up. I doubt whether Chettam would -not have been more severe, and yet he comes down on me as if I were the -hardest man in the county. But here we are at Dagley’s.” - -Mr. Brooke got down at a farmyard-gate, and Dorothea drove on. It is -wonderful how much uglier things will look when we only suspect that we -are blamed for them. Even our own persons in the glass are apt to -change their aspect for us after we have heard some frank remark on -their less admirable points; and on the other hand it is astonishing -how pleasantly conscience takes our encroachments on those who never -complain or have nobody to complain for them. Dagley’s homestead never -before looked so dismal to Mr. Brooke as it did today, with his mind -thus sore about the fault-finding of the “Trumpet,” echoed by Sir -James. - -It is true that an observer, under that softening influence of the fine -arts which makes other people’s hardships picturesque, might have been -delighted with this homestead called Freeman’s End: the old house had -dormer-windows in the dark red roof, two of the chimneys were choked -with ivy, the large porch was blocked up with bundles of sticks, and -half the windows were closed with gray worm-eaten shutters about which -the jasmine-boughs grew in wild luxuriance; the mouldering garden wall -with hollyhocks peeping over it was a perfect study of highly mingled -subdued color, and there was an aged goat (kept doubtless on -interesting superstitious grounds) lying against the open back-kitchen -door. The mossy thatch of the cow-shed, the broken gray barn-doors, the -pauper laborers in ragged breeches who had nearly finished unloading a -wagon of corn into the barn ready for early thrashing; the scanty dairy -of cows being tethered for milking and leaving one half of the shed in -brown emptiness; the very pigs and white ducks seeming to wander about -the uneven neglected yard as if in low spirits from feeding on a too -meagre quality of rinsings,—all these objects under the quiet light of -a sky marbled with high clouds would have made a sort of picture which -we have all paused over as a “charming bit,” touching other -sensibilities than those which are stirred by the depression of the -agricultural interest, with the sad lack of farming capital, as seen -constantly in the newspapers of that time. But these troublesome -associations were just now strongly present to Mr. Brooke, and spoiled -the scene for him. Mr. Dagley himself made a figure in the landscape, -carrying a pitchfork and wearing his milking-hat—a very old beaver -flattened in front. His coat and breeches were the best he had, and he -would not have been wearing them on this weekday occasion if he had not -been to market and returned later than usual, having given himself the -rare treat of dining at the public table of the Blue Bull. How he came -to fall into this extravagance would perhaps be matter of wonderment to -himself on the morrow; but before dinner something in the state of the -country, a slight pause in the harvest before the Far Dips were cut, -the stories about the new King and the numerous handbills on the walls, -had seemed to warrant a little recklessness. It was a maxim about -Middlemarch, and regarded as self-evident, that good meat should have -good drink, which last Dagley interpreted as plenty of table ale well -followed up by rum-and-water. These liquors have so far truth in them -that they were not false enough to make poor Dagley seem merry: they -only made his discontent less tongue-tied than usual. He had also taken -too much in the shape of muddy political talk, a stimulant dangerously -disturbing to his farming conservatism, which consisted in holding that -whatever is, is bad, and any change is likely to be worse. He was -flushed, and his eyes had a decidedly quarrelsome stare as he stood -still grasping his pitchfork, while the landlord approached with his -easy shuffling walk, one hand in his trouser-pocket and the other -swinging round a thin walking-stick. - -“Dagley, my good fellow,” began Mr. Brooke, conscious that he was going -to be very friendly about the boy. - -“Oh, ay, I’m a good feller, am I? Thank ye, sir, thank ye,” said -Dagley, with a loud snarling irony which made Fag the sheep-dog stir -from his seat and prick his ears; but seeing Monk enter the yard after -some outside loitering, Fag seated himself again in an attitude of -observation. “I’m glad to hear I’m a good feller.” - -Mr. Brooke reflected that it was market-day, and that his worthy tenant -had probably been dining, but saw no reason why he should not go on, -since he could take the precaution of repeating what he had to say to -Mrs. Dagley. - -“Your little lad Jacob has been caught killing a leveret, Dagley: I -have told Johnson to lock him up in the empty stable an hour or two, -just to frighten him, you know. But he will be brought home by-and-by, -before night: and you’ll just look after him, will you, and give him a -reprimand, you know?” - -“No, I woon’t: I’ll be dee’d if I’ll leather my boy to please you or -anybody else, not if you was twenty landlords istid o’ one, and that a -bad un.” - -Dagley’s words were loud enough to summon his wife to the back-kitchen -door—the only entrance ever used, and one always open except in bad -weather—and Mr. Brooke, saying soothingly, “Well, well, I’ll speak to -your wife—I didn’t mean beating, you know,” turned to walk to the -house. But Dagley, only the more inclined to “have his say” with a -gentleman who walked away from him, followed at once, with Fag -slouching at his heels and sullenly evading some small and probably -charitable advances on the part of Monk. - -“How do you do, Mrs. Dagley?” said Mr. Brooke, making some haste. “I -came to tell you about your boy: I don’t want you to give him the -stick, you know.” He was careful to speak quite plainly this time. - -Overworked Mrs. Dagley—a thin, worn woman, from whose life pleasure had -so entirely vanished that she had not even any Sunday clothes which -could give her satisfaction in preparing for church—had already had a -misunderstanding with her husband since he had come home, and was in -low spirits, expecting the worst. But her husband was beforehand in -answering. - -“No, nor he woon’t hev the stick, whether you want it or no,” pursued -Dagley, throwing out his voice, as if he wanted it to hit hard. “You’ve -got no call to come an’ talk about sticks o’ these primises, as you -woon’t give a stick tow’rt mending. Go to Middlemarch to ax for _your_ -charrickter.” - -“You’d far better hold your tongue, Dagley,” said the wife, “and not -kick your own trough over. When a man as is father of a family has been -an’ spent money at market and made himself the worse for liquor, he’s -done enough mischief for one day. But I should like to know what my -boy’s done, sir.” - -“Niver do you mind what he’s done,” said Dagley, more fiercely, “it’s -my business to speak, an’ not yourn. An’ I wull speak, too. I’ll hev my -say—supper or no. An’ what I say is, as I’ve lived upo’ your ground -from my father and grandfather afore me, an’ hev dropped our money -into’t, an’ me an’ my children might lie an’ rot on the ground for -top-dressin’ as we can’t find the money to buy, if the King wasn’t to -put a stop.” - -“My good fellow, you’re drunk, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, -confidentially but not judiciously. “Another day, another day,” he -added, turning as if to go. - -But Dagley immediately fronted him, and Fag at his heels growled low, -as his master’s voice grew louder and more insulting, while Monk also -drew close in silent dignified watch. The laborers on the wagon were -pausing to listen, and it seemed wiser to be quite passive than to -attempt a ridiculous flight pursued by a bawling man. - -“I’m no more drunk nor you are, nor so much,” said Dagley. “I can carry -my liquor, an’ I know what I meean. An’ I meean as the King ’ull put a -stop to ’t, for them say it as knows it, as there’s to be a Rinform, -and them landlords as never done the right thing by their tenants ’ull -be treated i’ that way as they’ll hev to scuttle off. An’ there’s them -i’ Middlemarch knows what the Rinform is—an’ as knows who’ll hev to -scuttle. Says they, ‘I know who _your_ landlord is.’ An’ says I, ‘I -hope you’re the better for knowin’ him, I arn’t.’ Says they, ‘He’s a -close-fisted un.’ ‘Ay ay,’ says I. ‘He’s a man for the Rinform,’ says -they. That’s what they says. An’ I made out what the Rinform were—an’ -it were to send you an’ your likes a-scuttlin’ an’ wi’ pretty -strong-smellin’ things too. An’ you may do as you like now, for I’m -none afeard on you. An’ you’d better let my boy aloan, an’ look to -yoursen, afore the Rinform has got upo’ your back. That’s what I’n got -to say,” concluded Mr. Dagley, striking his fork into the ground with a -firmness which proved inconvenient as he tried to draw it up again. - -At this last action Monk began to bark loudly, and it was a moment for -Mr. Brooke to escape. He walked out of the yard as quickly as he could, -in some amazement at the novelty of his situation. He had never been -insulted on his own land before, and had been inclined to regard -himself as a general favorite (we are all apt to do so, when we think -of our own amiability more than of what other people are likely to want -of us). When he had quarrelled with Caleb Garth twelve years before he -had thought that the tenants would be pleased at the landlord’s taking -everything into his own hands. - -Some who follow the narrative of his experience may wonder at the -midnight darkness of Mr. Dagley; but nothing was easier in those times -than for an hereditary farmer of his grade to be ignorant, in spite -somehow of having a rector in the twin parish who was a gentleman to -the backbone, a curate nearer at hand who preached more learnedly than -the rector, a landlord who had gone into everything, especially fine -art and social improvement, and all the lights of Middlemarch only -three miles off. As to the facility with which mortals escape -knowledge, try an average acquaintance in the intellectual blaze of -London, and consider what that eligible person for a dinner-party would -have been if he had learned scant skill in “summing” from the -parish-clerk of Tipton, and read a chapter in the Bible with immense -difficulty, because such names as Isaiah or Apollos remained -unmanageable after twice spelling. Poor Dagley read a few verses -sometimes on a Sunday evening, and the world was at least not darker to -him than it had been before. Some things he knew thoroughly, namely, -the slovenly habits of farming, and the awkwardness of weather, stock -and crops, at Freeman’s End—so called apparently by way of sarcasm, to -imply that a man was free to quit it if he chose, but that there was no -earthly “beyond” open to him. - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - -Wise in his daily work was he: - To fruits of diligence, -And not to faiths or polity, - He plied his utmost sense. -These perfect in their little parts, - Whose work is all their prize— -Without them how could laws, or arts, - Or towered cities rise? - - -In watching effects, if only of an electric battery, it is often -necessary to change our place and examine a particular mixture or group -at some distance from the point where the movement we are interested in -was set up. The group I am moving towards is at Caleb Garth’s -breakfast-table in the large parlor where the maps and desk were: -father, mother, and five of the children. Mary was just now at home -waiting for a situation, while Christy, the boy next to her, was -getting cheap learning and cheap fare in Scotland, having to his -father’s disappointment taken to books instead of that sacred calling -“business.” - -The letters had come—nine costly letters, for which the postman had -been paid three and twopence, and Mr. Garth was forgetting his tea and -toast while he read his letters and laid them open one above the other, -sometimes swaying his head slowly, sometimes screwing up his mouth in -inward debate, but not forgetting to cut off a large red seal unbroken, -which Letty snatched up like an eager terrier. - -The talk among the rest went on unrestrainedly, for nothing disturbed -Caleb’s absorption except shaking the table when he was writing. - -Two letters of the nine had been for Mary. After reading them, she had -passed them to her mother, and sat playing with her tea-spoon absently, -till with a sudden recollection she returned to her sewing, which she -had kept on her lap during breakfast. - -“Oh, don’t sew, Mary!” said Ben, pulling her arm down. “Make me a -peacock with this bread-crumb.” He had been kneading a small mass for -the purpose. - -“No, no, Mischief!” said Mary, good-humoredly, while she pricked his -hand lightly with her needle. “Try and mould it yourself: you have seen -me do it often enough. I must get this sewing done. It is for Rosamond -Vincy: she is to be married next week, and she can’t be married without -this handkerchief.” Mary ended merrily, amused with the last notion. - -“Why can’t she, Mary?” said Letty, seriously interested in this -mystery, and pushing her head so close to her sister that Mary now -turned the threatening needle towards Letty’s nose. - -“Because this is one of a dozen, and without it there would only be -eleven,” said Mary, with a grave air of explanation, so that Letty sank -back with a sense of knowledge. - -“Have you made up your mind, my dear?” said Mrs. Garth, laying the -letters down. - -“I shall go to the school at York,” said Mary. “I am less unfit to -teach in a school than in a family. I like to teach classes best. And, -you see, I must teach: there is nothing else to be done.” - -“Teaching seems to me the most delightful work in the world,” said Mrs. -Garth, with a touch of rebuke in her tone. “I could understand your -objection to it if you had not knowledge enough, Mary, or if you -disliked children.” - -“I suppose we never quite understand why another dislikes what we like, -mother,” said Mary, rather curtly. “I am not fond of a schoolroom: I -like the outside world better. It is a very inconvenient fault of -mine.” - -“It must be very stupid to be always in a girls’ school,” said Alfred. -“Such a set of nincompoops, like Mrs. Ballard’s pupils walking two and -two.” - -“And they have no games worth playing at,” said Jim. “They can neither -throw nor leap. I don’t wonder at Mary’s not liking it.” - -“What is that Mary doesn’t like, eh?” said the father, looking over his -spectacles and pausing before he opened his next letter. - -“Being among a lot of nincompoop girls,” said Alfred. - -“Is it the situation you had heard of, Mary?” said Caleb, gently, -looking at his daughter. - -“Yes, father: the school at York. I have determined to take it. It is -quite the best. Thirty-five pounds a-year, and extra pay for teaching -the smallest strummers at the piano.” - -“Poor child! I wish she could stay at home with us, Susan,” said Caleb, -looking plaintively at his wife. - -“Mary would not be happy without doing her duty,” said Mrs. Garth, -magisterially, conscious of having done her own. - -“It wouldn’t make me happy to do such a nasty duty as that,” said -Alfred—at which Mary and her father laughed silently, but Mrs. Garth -said, gravely— - -“Do find a fitter word than nasty, my dear Alfred, for everything that -you think disagreeable. And suppose that Mary could help you to go to -Mr. Hanmer’s with the money she gets?” - -“That seems to me a great shame. But she’s an old brick,” said Alfred, -rising from his chair, and pulling Mary’s head backward to kiss her. - -Mary colored and laughed, but could not conceal that the tears were -coming. Caleb, looking on over his spectacles, with the angles of his -eyebrows falling, had an expression of mingled delight and sorrow as he -returned to the opening of his letter; and even Mrs. Garth, her lips -curling with a calm contentment, allowed that inappropriate language to -pass without correction, although Ben immediately took it up, and sang, -“She’s an old brick, old brick, old brick!” to a cantering measure, -which he beat out with his fist on Mary’s arm. - -But Mrs. Garth’s eyes were now drawn towards her husband, who was -already deep in the letter he was reading. His face had an expression -of grave surprise, which alarmed her a little, but he did not like to -be questioned while he was reading, and she remained anxiously watching -till she saw him suddenly shaken by a little joyous laugh as he turned -back to the beginning of the letter, and looking at her above his -spectacles, said, in a low tone, “What do you think, Susan?” - -She went and stood behind him, putting her hand on his shoulder, while -they read the letter together. It was from Sir James Chettam, offering -to Mr. Garth the management of the family estates at Freshitt and -elsewhere, and adding that Sir James had been requested by Mr. Brooke -of Tipton to ascertain whether Mr. Garth would be disposed at the same -time to resume the agency of the Tipton property. The Baronet added in -very obliging words that he himself was particularly desirous of seeing -the Freshitt and Tipton estates under the same management, and he hoped -to be able to show that the double agency might be held on terms -agreeable to Mr. Garth, whom he would be glad to see at the Hall at -twelve o’clock on the following day. - -“He writes handsomely, doesn’t he, Susan?” said Caleb, turning his eyes -upward to his wife, who raised her hand from his shoulder to his ear, -while she rested her chin on his head. “Brooke didn’t like to ask me -himself, I can see,” he continued, laughing silently. - -“Here is an honor to your father, children,” said Mrs. Garth, looking -round at the five pair of eyes, all fixed on the parents. “He is asked -to take a post again by those who dismissed him long ago. That shows -that he did his work well, so that they feel the want of him.” - -“Like Cincinnatus—hooray!” said Ben, riding on his chair, with a -pleasant confidence that discipline was relaxed. - -“Will they come to fetch him, mother?” said Letty, thinking of the -Mayor and Corporation in their robes. - -Mrs. Garth patted Letty’s head and smiled, but seeing that her husband -was gathering up his letters and likely soon to be out of reach in that -sanctuary “business,” she pressed his shoulder and said emphatically— - -“Now, mind you ask fair pay, Caleb.” - -“Oh yes,” said Caleb, in a deep voice of assent, as if it would be -unreasonable to suppose anything else of him. “It’ll come to between -four and five hundred, the two together.” Then with a little start of -remembrance he said, “Mary, write and give up that school. Stay and -help your mother. I’m as pleased as Punch, now I’ve thought of that.” - -No manner could have been less like that of Punch triumphant than -Caleb’s, but his talents did not lie in finding phrases, though he was -very particular about his letter-writing, and regarded his wife as a -treasury of correct language. - -There was almost an uproar among the children now, and Mary held up the -cambric embroidery towards her mother entreatingly, that it might be -put out of reach while the boys dragged her into a dance. Mrs. Garth, -in placid joy, began to put the cups and plates together, while Caleb -pushing his chair from the table, as if he were going to move to the -desk, still sat holding his letters in his hand and looking on the -ground meditatively, stretching out the fingers of his left hand, -according to a mute language of his own. At last he said— - -“It’s a thousand pities Christy didn’t take to business, Susan. I shall -want help by-and-by. And Alfred must go off to the engineering—I’ve -made up my mind to that.” He fell into meditation and finger-rhetoric -again for a little while, and then continued: “I shall make Brooke have -new agreements with the tenants, and I shall draw up a rotation of -crops. And I’ll lay a wager we can get fine bricks out of the clay at -Bott’s corner. I must look into that: it would cheapen the repairs. -It’s a fine bit of work, Susan! A man without a family would be glad to -do it for nothing.” - -“Mind you don’t, though,” said his wife, lifting up her finger. - -“No, no; but it’s a fine thing to come to a man when he’s seen into the -nature of business: to have the chance of getting a bit of the country -into good fettle, as they say, and putting men into the right way with -their farming, and getting a bit of good contriving and solid building -done—that those who are living and those who come after will be the -better for. I’d sooner have it than a fortune. I hold it the most -honorable work that is.” Here Caleb laid down his letters, thrust his -fingers between the buttons of his waistcoat, and sat upright, but -presently proceeded with some awe in his voice and moving his head -slowly aside—“It’s a great gift of God, Susan.” - -“That it is, Caleb,” said his wife, with answering fervor. “And it will -be a blessing to your children to have had a father who did such work: -a father whose good work remains though his name may be forgotten.” She -could not say any more to him then about the pay. - -In the evening, when Caleb, rather tired with his day’s work, was -seated in silence with his pocket-book open on his knee, while Mrs. -Garth and Mary were at their sewing, and Letty in a corner was -whispering a dialogue with her doll, Mr. Farebrother came up the -orchard walk, dividing the bright August lights and shadows with the -tufted grass and the apple-tree boughs. We know that he was fond of his -parishioners the Garths, and had thought Mary worth mentioning to -Lydgate. He used to the full the clergyman’s privilege of disregarding -the Middlemarch discrimination of ranks, and always told his mother -that Mrs. Garth was more of a lady than any matron in the town. Still, -you see, he spent his evenings at the Vincys’, where the matron, though -less of a lady, presided over a well-lit drawing-room and whist. In -those days human intercourse was not determined solely by respect. But -the Vicar did heartily respect the Garths, and a visit from him was no -surprise to that family. Nevertheless he accounted for it even while he -was shaking hands, by saying, “I come as an envoy, Mrs. Garth: I have -something to say to you and Garth on behalf of Fred Vincy. The fact is, -poor fellow,” he continued, as he seated himself and looked round with -his bright glance at the three who were listening to him, “he has taken -me into his confidence.” - -Mary’s heart beat rather quickly: she wondered how far Fred’s -confidence had gone. - -“We haven’t seen the lad for months,” said Caleb. “I couldn’t think -what was become of him.” - -“He has been away on a visit,” said the Vicar, “because home was a -little too hot for him, and Lydgate told his mother that the poor -fellow must not begin to study yet. But yesterday he came and poured -himself out to me. I am very glad he did, because I have seen him grow -up from a youngster of fourteen, and I am so much at home in the house -that the children are like nephews and nieces to me. But it is a -difficult case to advise upon. However, he has asked me to come and -tell you that he is going away, and that he is so miserable about his -debt to you, and his inability to pay, that he can’t bear to come -himself even to bid you good by.” - -“Tell him it doesn’t signify a farthing,” said Caleb, waving his hand. -“We’ve had the pinch and have got over it. And now I’m going to be as -rich as a Jew.” - -“Which means,” said Mrs. Garth, smiling at the Vicar, “that we are -going to have enough to bring up the boys well and to keep Mary at -home.” - -“What is the treasure-trove?” said Mr. Farebrother. - -“I’m going to be agent for two estates, Freshitt and Tipton; and -perhaps for a pretty little bit of land in Lowick besides: it’s all the -same family connection, and employment spreads like water if it’s once -set going. It makes me very happy, Mr. Farebrother”—here Caleb threw -back his head a little, and spread his arms on the elbows of his -chair—“that I’ve got an opportunity again with the letting of the land, -and carrying out a notion or two with improvements. It’s a most -uncommonly cramping thing, as I’ve often told Susan, to sit on -horseback and look over the hedges at the wrong thing, and not be able -to put your hand to it to make it right. What people do who go into -politics I can’t think: it drives me almost mad to see mismanagement -over only a few hundred acres.” - -It was seldom that Caleb volunteered so long a speech, but his -happiness had the effect of mountain air: his eyes were bright, and the -words came without effort. - -“I congratulate you heartily, Garth,” said the Vicar. “This is the best -sort of news I could have had to carry to Fred Vincy, for he dwelt a -good deal on the injury he had done you in causing you to part with -money—robbing you of it, he said—which you wanted for other purposes. I -wish Fred were not such an idle dog; he has some very good points, and -his father is a little hard upon him.” - -“Where is he going?” said Mrs. Garth, rather coldly. - -“He means to try again for his degree, and he is going up to study -before term. I have advised him to do that. I don’t urge him to enter -the Church—on the contrary. But if he will go and work so as to pass, -that will be some guarantee that he has energy and a will; and he is -quite at sea; he doesn’t know what else to do. So far he will please -his father, and I have promised in the mean time to try and reconcile -Vincy to his son’s adopting some other line of life. Fred says frankly -he is not fit for a clergyman, and I would do anything I could to -hinder a man from the fatal step of choosing the wrong profession. He -quoted to me what you said, Miss Garth—do you remember it?” (Mr. -Farebrother used to say “Mary” instead of “Miss Garth,” but it was part -of his delicacy to treat her with the more deference because, according -to Mrs. Vincy’s phrase, she worked for her bread.) - -Mary felt uncomfortable, but, determined to take the matter lightly, -answered at once, “I have said so many impertinent things to Fred—we -are such old playfellows.” - -“You said, according to him, that he would be one of those ridiculous -clergymen who help to make the whole clergy ridiculous. Really, that -was so cutting that I felt a little cut myself.” - -Caleb laughed. “She gets her tongue from you, Susan,” he said, with -some enjoyment. - -“Not its flippancy, father,” said Mary, quickly, fearing that her -mother would be displeased. “It is rather too bad of Fred to repeat my -flippant speeches to Mr. Farebrother.” - -“It was certainly a hasty speech, my dear,” said Mrs. Garth, with whom -speaking evil of dignities was a high misdemeanor. “We should not value -our Vicar the less because there was a ridiculous curate in the next -parish.” - -“There’s something in what she says, though,” said Caleb, not disposed -to have Mary’s sharpness undervalued. “A bad workman of any sort makes -his fellows mistrusted. Things hang together,” he added, looking on the -floor and moving his feet uneasily with a sense that words were -scantier than thoughts. - -“Clearly,” said the Vicar, amused. “By being contemptible we set men’s -minds to the tune of contempt. I certainly agree with Miss Garth’s view -of the matter, whether I am condemned by it or not. But as to Fred -Vincy, it is only fair he should be excused a little: old -Featherstone’s delusive behavior did help to spoil him. There was -something quite diabolical in not leaving him a farthing after all. But -Fred has the good taste not to dwell on that. And what he cares most -about is having offended you, Mrs. Garth; he supposes you will never -think well of him again.” - -“I have been disappointed in Fred,” said Mrs. Garth, with decision. -“But I shall be ready to think well of him again when he gives me good -reason to do so.” - -At this point Mary went out of the room, taking Letty with her. - -“Oh, we must forgive young people when they’re sorry,” said Caleb, -watching Mary close the door. “And as you say, Mr. Farebrother, there -was the very devil in that old man. Now Mary’s gone out, I must tell -you a thing—it’s only known to Susan and me, and you’ll not tell it -again. The old scoundrel wanted Mary to burn one of the wills the very -night he died, when she was sitting up with him by herself, and he -offered her a sum of money that he had in the box by him if she would -do it. But Mary, you understand, could do no such thing—would not be -handling his iron chest, and so on. Now, you see, the will he wanted -burnt was this last, so that if Mary had done what he wanted, Fred -Vincy would have had ten thousand pounds. The old man did turn to him -at the last. That touches poor Mary close; she couldn’t help it—she was -in the right to do what she did, but she feels, as she says, much as if -she had knocked down somebody’s property and broken it against her -will, when she was rightfully defending herself. I feel with her, -somehow, and if I could make any amends to the poor lad, instead of -bearing him a grudge for the harm he did us, I should be glad to do it. -Now, what is your opinion, sir? Susan doesn’t agree with me; she -says—tell what you say, Susan.” - -“Mary could not have acted otherwise, even if she had known what would -be the effect on Fred,” said Mrs. Garth, pausing from her work, and -looking at Mr. Farebrother. - -“And she was quite ignorant of it. It seems to me, a loss which falls -on another because we have done right is not to lie upon our -conscience.” - -The Vicar did not answer immediately, and Caleb said, “It’s the -feeling. The child feels in that way, and I feel with her. You don’t -mean your horse to tread on a dog when you’re backing out of the way; -but it goes through you, when it’s done.” - -“I am sure Mrs. Garth would agree with you there,” said Mr. -Farebrother, who for some reason seemed more inclined to ruminate than -to speak. “One could hardly say that the feeling you mention about Fred -is wrong—or rather, mistaken—though no man ought to make a claim on -such feeling.” - -“Well, well,” said Caleb, “it’s a secret. You will not tell Fred.” - -“Certainly not. But I shall carry the other good news—that you can -afford the loss he caused you.” - -Mr. Farebrother left the house soon after, and seeing Mary in the -orchard with Letty, went to say good-by to her. They made a pretty -picture in the western light which brought out the brightness of the -apples on the old scant-leaved boughs—Mary in her lavender gingham and -black ribbons holding a basket, while Letty in her well-worn nankin -picked up the fallen apples. If you want to know more particularly how -Mary looked, ten to one you will see a face like hers in the crowded -street to-morrow, if you are there on the watch: she will not be among -those daughters of Zion who are haughty, and walk with stretched-out -necks and wanton eyes, mincing as they go: let all those pass, and fix -your eyes on some small plump brownish person of firm but quiet -carriage, who looks about her, but does not suppose that anybody is -looking at her. If she has a broad face and square brow, well-marked -eyebrows and curly dark hair, a certain expression of amusement in her -glance which her mouth keeps the secret of, and for the rest features -entirely insignificant—take that ordinary but not disagreeable person -for a portrait of Mary Garth. If you made her smile, she would show you -perfect little teeth; if you made her angry, she would not raise her -voice, but would probably say one of the bitterest things you have ever -tasted the flavor of; if you did her a kindness, she would never forget -it. Mary admired the keen-faced handsome little Vicar in his -well-brushed threadbare clothes more than any man she had had the -opportunity of knowing. She had never heard him say a foolish thing, -though she knew that he did unwise ones; and perhaps foolish sayings -were more objectionable to her than any of Mr. Farebrother’s unwise -doings. At least, it was remarkable that the actual imperfections of -the Vicar’s clerical character never seemed to call forth the same -scorn and dislike which she showed beforehand for the predicted -imperfections of the clerical character sustained by Fred Vincy. These -irregularities of judgment, I imagine, are found even in riper minds -than Mary Garth’s: our impartiality is kept for abstract merit and -demerit, which none of us ever saw. Will any one guess towards which of -those widely different men Mary had the peculiar woman’s -tenderness?—the one she was most inclined to be severe on, or the -contrary? - -“Have you any message for your old playfellow, Miss Garth?” said the -Vicar, as he took a fragrant apple from the basket which she held -towards him, and put it in his pocket. “Something to soften down that -harsh judgment? I am going straight to see him.” - -“No,” said Mary, shaking her head, and smiling. “If I were to say that -he would not be ridiculous as a clergyman, I must say that he would be -something worse than ridiculous. But I am very glad to hear that he is -going away to work.” - -“On the other hand, I am very glad to hear that _you_ are not going -away to work. My mother, I am sure, will be all the happier if you will -come to see her at the vicarage: you know she is fond of having young -people to talk to, and she has a great deal to tell about old times. -You will really be doing a kindness.” - -“I should like it very much, if I may,” said Mary. “Everything seems -too happy for me all at once. I thought it would always be part of my -life to long for home, and losing that grievance makes me feel rather -empty: I suppose it served instead of sense to fill up my mind?” - -“May I go with you, Mary?” whispered Letty—a most inconvenient child, -who listened to everything. But she was made exultant by having her -chin pinched and her cheek kissed by Mr. Farebrother—an incident which -she narrated to her mother and father. - -As the Vicar walked to Lowick, any one watching him closely might have -seen him twice shrug his shoulders. I think that the rare Englishmen -who have this gesture are never of the heavy type—for fear of any -lumbering instance to the contrary, I will say, hardly ever; they have -usually a fine temperament and much tolerance towards the smaller -errors of men (themselves inclusive). The Vicar was holding an inward -dialogue in which he told himself that there was probably something -more between Fred and Mary Garth than the regard of old playfellows, -and replied with a question whether that bit of womanhood were not a -great deal too choice for that crude young gentleman. The rejoinder to -this was the first shrug. Then he laughed at himself for being likely -to have felt jealous, as if he had been a man able to marry, which, -added he, it is as clear as any balance-sheet that I am not. Whereupon -followed the second shrug. - -What could two men, so different from each other, see in this “brown -patch,” as Mary called herself? It was certainly not her plainness that -attracted them (and let all plain young ladies be warned against the -dangerous encouragement given them by Society to confide in their want -of beauty). A human being in this aged nation of ours is a very -wonderful whole, the slow creation of long interchanging influences: -and charm is a result of two such wholes, the one loving and the one -loved. - -When Mr. and Mrs. Garth were sitting alone, Caleb said, “Susan, guess -what I’m thinking of.” - -“The rotation of crops,” said Mrs. Garth, smiling at him, above her -knitting, “or else the back-doors of the Tipton cottages.” - -“No,” said Caleb, gravely; “I am thinking that I could do a great turn -for Fred Vincy. Christy’s gone, Alfred will be gone soon, and it will -be five years before Jim is ready to take to business. I shall want -help, and Fred might come in and learn the nature of things and act -under me, and it might be the making of him into a useful man, if he -gives up being a parson. What do you think?” - -“I think, there is hardly anything honest that his family would object -to more,” said Mrs. Garth, decidedly. - -“What care I about their objecting?” said Caleb, with a sturdiness -which he was apt to show when he had an opinion. “The lad is of age and -must get his bread. He has sense enough and quickness enough; he likes -being on the land, and it’s my belief that he could learn business well -if he gave his mind to it.” - -“But would he? His father and mother wanted him to be a fine gentleman, -and I think he has the same sort of feeling himself. They all think us -beneath them. And if the proposal came from you, I am sure Mrs. Vincy -would say that we wanted Fred for Mary.” - -“Life is a poor tale, if it is to be settled by nonsense of that sort,” -said Caleb, with disgust. - -“Yes, but there is a certain pride which is proper, Caleb.” - -“I call it improper pride to let fools’ notions hinder you from doing a -good action. There’s no sort of work,” said Caleb, with fervor, putting -out his hand and moving it up and down to mark his emphasis, “that -could ever be done well, if you minded what fools say. You must have it -inside you that your plan is right, and that plan you must follow.” - -“I will not oppose any plan you have set your mind on, Caleb,” said -Mrs. Garth, who was a firm woman, but knew that there were some points -on which her mild husband was yet firmer. “Still, it seems to be fixed -that Fred is to go back to college: will it not be better to wait and -see what he will choose to do after that? It is not easy to keep people -against their will. And you are not yet quite sure enough of your own -position, or what you will want.” - -“Well, it may be better to wait a bit. But as to my getting plenty of -work for two, I’m pretty sure of that. I’ve always had my hands full -with scattered things, and there’s always something fresh turning up. -Why, only yesterday—bless me, I don’t think I told you!—it was rather -odd that two men should have been at me on different sides to do the -same bit of valuing. And who do you think they were?” said Caleb, -taking a pinch of snuff and holding it up between his fingers, as if it -were a part of his exposition. He was fond of a pinch when it occurred -to him, but he usually forgot that this indulgence was at his command. - -His wife held down her knitting and looked attentive. - -“Why, that Rigg, or Rigg Featherstone, was one. But Bulstrode was -before him, so I’m going to do it for Bulstrode. Whether it’s mortgage -or purchase they’re going for, I can’t tell yet.” - -“Can that man be going to sell the land just left him—which he has -taken the name for?” said Mrs. Garth. - -“Deuce knows,” said Caleb, who never referred the knowledge of -discreditable doings to any higher power than the deuce. “But Bulstrode -has long been wanting to get a handsome bit of land under his -fingers—that I know. And it’s a difficult matter to get, in this part -of the country.” - -Caleb scattered his snuff carefully instead of taking it, and then -added, “The ins and outs of things are curious. Here is the land -they’ve been all along expecting for Fred, which it seems the old man -never meant to leave him a foot of, but left it to this side-slip of a -son that he kept in the dark, and thought of his sticking there and -vexing everybody as well as he could have vexed ’em himself if he could -have kept alive. I say, it would be curious if it got into Bulstrode’s -hands after all. The old man hated him, and never would bank with him.” - -“What reason could the miserable creature have for hating a man whom he -had nothing to do with?” said Mrs. Garth. - -“Pooh! where’s the use of asking for such fellows’ reasons? The soul of -man,” said Caleb, with the deep tone and grave shake of the head which -always came when he used this phrase—“The soul of man, when it gets -fairly rotten, will bear you all sorts of poisonous toad-stools, and no -eye can see whence came the seed thereof.” - -It was one of Caleb’s quaintnesses, that in his difficulty of finding -speech for his thought, he caught, as it were, snatches of diction -which he associated with various points of view or states of mind; and -whenever he had a feeling of awe, he was haunted by a sense of Biblical -phraseology, though he could hardly have given a strict quotation. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI. - -By swaggering could I never thrive, -For the rain it raineth every day. -—_Twelfth Night_. - - -The transactions referred to by Caleb Garth as having gone forward -between Mr. Bulstrode and Mr. Joshua Rigg Featherstone concerning the -land attached to Stone Court, had occasioned the interchange of a -letter or two between these personages. - -Who shall tell what may be the effect of writing? If it happens to have -been cut in stone, though it lie face down-most for ages on a forsaken -beach, or “rest quietly under the drums and tramplings of many -conquests,” it may end by letting us into the secret of usurpations and -other scandals gossiped about long empires ago:—this world being -apparently a huge whispering-gallery. Such conditions are often -minutely represented in our petty lifetimes. As the stone which has -been kicked by generations of clowns may come by curious little links -of effect under the eyes of a scholar, through whose labors it may at -last fix the date of invasions and unlock religions, so a bit of ink -and paper which has long been an innocent wrapping or stop-gap may at -last be laid open under the one pair of eyes which have knowledge -enough to turn it into the opening of a catastrophe. To Uriel watching -the progress of planetary history from the sun, the one result would be -just as much of a coincidence as the other. - -Having made this rather lofty comparison I am less uneasy in calling -attention to the existence of low people by whose interference, however -little we may like it, the course of the world is very much determined. -It would be well, certainly, if we could help to reduce their number, -and something might perhaps be done by not lightly giving occasion to -their existence. Socially speaking, Joshua Rigg would have been -generally pronounced a superfluity. But those who like Peter -Featherstone never had a copy of themselves demanded, are the very last -to wait for such a request either in prose or verse. The copy in this -case bore more of outside resemblance to the mother, in whose sex -frog-features, accompanied with fresh-colored cheeks and a well-rounded -figure, are compatible with much charm for a certain order of admirers. -The result is sometimes a frog-faced male, desirable, surely, to no -order of intelligent beings. Especially when he is suddenly brought -into evidence to frustrate other people’s expectations—the very lowest -aspect in which a social superfluity can present himself. - -But Mr. Rigg Featherstone’s low characteristics were all of the sober, -water-drinking kind. From the earliest to the latest hour of the day he -was always as sleek, neat, and cool as the frog he resembled, and old -Peter had secretly chuckled over an offshoot almost more calculating, -and far more imperturbable, than himself. I will add that his -finger-nails were scrupulously attended to, and that he meant to marry -a well-educated young lady (as yet unspecified) whose person was good, -and whose connections, in a solid middle-class way, were undeniable. -Thus his nails and modesty were comparable to those of most gentlemen; -though his ambition had been educated only by the opportunities of a -clerk and accountant in the smaller commercial houses of a seaport. He -thought the rural Featherstones very simple absurd people, and they in -their turn regarded his “bringing up” in a seaport town as an -exaggeration of the monstrosity that their brother Peter, and still -more Peter’s property, should have had such belongings. - -The garden and gravel approach, as seen from the two windows of the -wainscoted parlor at Stone Court, were never in better trim than now, -when Mr. Rigg Featherstone stood, with his hands behind him, looking -out on these grounds as their master. But it seemed doubtful whether he -looked out for the sake of contemplation or of turning his back to a -person who stood in the middle of the room, with his legs considerably -apart and his hands in his trouser-pockets: a person in all respects a -contrast to the sleek and cool Rigg. He was a man obviously on the way -towards sixty, very florid and hairy, with much gray in his bushy -whiskers and thick curly hair, a stoutish body which showed to -disadvantage the somewhat worn joinings of his clothes, and the air of -a swaggerer, who would aim at being noticeable even at a show of -fireworks, regarding his own remarks on any other person’s performance -as likely to be more interesting than the performance itself. - -His name was John Raffles, and he sometimes wrote jocosely W.A.G. after -his signature, observing when he did so, that he was once taught by -Leonard Lamb of Finsbury who wrote B.A. after his name, and that he, -Raffles, originated the witticism of calling that celebrated principal -Ba-Lamb. Such were the appearance and mental flavor of Mr. Raffles, -both of which seemed to have a stale odor of travellers’ rooms in the -commercial hotels of that period. - -“Come, now, Josh,” he was saying, in a full rumbling tone, “look at it -in this light: here is your poor mother going into the vale of years, -and you could afford something handsome now to make her comfortable.” - -“Not while you live. Nothing would make her comfortable while you -live,” returned Rigg, in his cool high voice. “What I give her, you’ll -take.” - -“You bear me a grudge, Josh, that I know. But come, now—as between man -and man—without humbug—a little capital might enable me to make a -first-rate thing of the shop. The tobacco trade is growing. I should -cut my own nose off in not doing the best I could at it. I should stick -to it like a flea to a fleece for my own sake. I should always be on -the spot. And nothing would make your poor mother so happy. I’ve pretty -well done with my wild oats—turned fifty-five. I want to settle down in -my chimney-corner. And if I once buckled to the tobacco trade, I could -bring an amount of brains and experience to bear on it that would not -be found elsewhere in a hurry. I don’t want to be bothering you one -time after another, but to get things once for all into the right -channel. Consider that, Josh—as between man and man—and with your poor -mother to be made easy for her life. I was always fond of the old -woman, by Jove!” - -“Have you done?” said Mr. Rigg, quietly, without looking away from the -window. - -“Yes, _I_’ve done,” said Raffles, taking hold of his hat which stood -before him on the table, and giving it a sort of oratorical push. - -“Then just listen to me. The more you say anything, the less I shall -believe it. The more you want me to do a thing, the more reason I shall -have for never doing it. Do you think I mean to forget your kicking me -when I was a lad, and eating all the best victual away from me and my -mother? Do you think I forget your always coming home to sell and -pocket everything, and going off again leaving us in the lurch? I -should be glad to see you whipped at the cart-tail. My mother was a -fool to you: she’d no right to give me a father-in-law, and she’s been -punished for it. She shall have her weekly allowance paid and no more: -and that shall be stopped if you dare to come on to these premises -again, or to come into this country after me again. The next time you -show yourself inside the gates here, you shall be driven off with the -dogs and the wagoner’s whip.” - -As Rigg pronounced the last words he turned round and looked at Raffles -with his prominent frozen eyes. The contrast was as striking as it -could have been eighteen years before, when Rigg was a most unengaging -kickable boy, and Raffles was the rather thick-set Adonis of bar-rooms -and back-parlors. But the advantage now was on the side of Rigg, and -auditors of this conversation might probably have expected that Raffles -would retire with the air of a defeated dog. Not at all. He made a -grimace which was habitual with him whenever he was “out” in a game; -then subsided into a laugh, and drew a brandy-flask from his pocket. - -“Come, Josh,” he said, in a cajoling tone, “give us a spoonful of -brandy, and a sovereign to pay the way back, and I’ll go. Honor bright! -I’ll go like a bullet, _by_ Jove!” - -“Mind,” said Rigg, drawing out a bunch of keys, “if I ever see you -again, I shan’t speak to you. I don’t own you any more than if I saw a -crow; and if you want to own me you’ll get nothing by it but a -character for being what you are—a spiteful, brassy, bullying rogue.” - -“That’s a pity, now, Josh,” said Raffles, affecting to scratch his head -and wrinkle his brows upward as if he were nonplussed. “I’m very fond -of you; _by_ Jove, I am! There’s nothing I like better than plaguing -you—you’re so like your mother, and I must do without it. But the -brandy and the sovereign’s a bargain.” - -He jerked forward the flask and Rigg went to a fine old oaken bureau -with his keys. But Raffles had reminded himself by his movement with -the flask that it had become dangerously loose from its leather -covering, and catching sight of a folded paper which had fallen within -the fender, he took it up and shoved it under the leather so as to make -the glass firm. - -By that time Rigg came forward with a brandy-bottle, filled the flask, -and handed Raffles a sovereign, neither looking at him nor speaking to -him. After locking up the bureau again, he walked to the window and -gazed out as impassibly as he had done at the beginning of the -interview, while Raffles took a small allowance from the flask, screwed -it up, and deposited it in his side-pocket, with provoking slowness, -making a grimace at his stepson’s back. - -“Farewell, Josh—and if forever!” said Raffles, turning back his head as -he opened the door. - -Rigg saw him leave the grounds and enter the lane. The gray day had -turned to a light drizzling rain, which freshened the hedgerows and the -grassy borders of the by-roads, and hastened the laborers who were -loading the last shocks of corn. Raffles, walking with the uneasy gait -of a town loiterer obliged to do a bit of country journeying on foot, -looked as incongruous amid this moist rural quiet and industry as if he -had been a baboon escaped from a menagerie. But there were none to -stare at him except the long-weaned calves, and none to show dislike of -his appearance except the little water-rats which rustled away at his -approach. - -He was fortunate enough when he got on to the highroad to be overtaken -by the stage-coach, which carried him to Brassing; and there he took -the new-made railway, observing to his fellow-passengers that he -considered it pretty well seasoned now it had done for Huskisson. Mr. -Raffles on most occasions kept up the sense of having been educated at -an academy, and being able, if he chose, to pass well everywhere; -indeed, there was not one of his fellow-men whom he did not feel -himself in a position to ridicule and torment, confident of the -entertainment which he thus gave to all the rest of the company. - -He played this part now with as much spirit as if his journey had been -entirely successful, resorting at frequent intervals to his flask. The -paper with which he had wedged it was a letter signed _Nicholas -Bulstrode_, but Raffles was not likely to disturb it from its present -useful position. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII. - -How much, methinks, I could despise this man -Were I not bound in charity against it! -—SHAKESPEARE: _Henry VIII_. - - -One of the professional calls made by Lydgate soon after his return -from his wedding-journey was to Lowick Manor, in consequence of a -letter which had requested him to fix a time for his visit. - -Mr. Casaubon had never put any question concerning the nature of his -illness to Lydgate, nor had he even to Dorothea betrayed any anxiety as -to how far it might be likely to cut short his labors or his life. On -this point, as on all others, he shrank from pity; and if the suspicion -of being pitied for anything in his lot surmised or known in spite of -himself was embittering, the idea of calling forth a show of compassion -by frankly admitting an alarm or a sorrow was necessarily intolerable -to him. Every proud mind knows something of this experience, and -perhaps it is only to be overcome by a sense of fellowship deep enough -to make all efforts at isolation seem mean and petty instead of -exalting. - -But Mr. Casaubon was now brooding over something through which the -question of his health and life haunted his silence with a more -harassing importunity even than through the autumnal unripeness of his -authorship. It is true that this last might be called his central -ambition; but there are some kinds of authorship in which by far the -largest result is the uneasy susceptibility accumulated in the -consciousness of the author—one knows of the river by a few streaks -amid a long-gathered deposit of uncomfortable mud. That was the way -with Mr. Casaubon’s hard intellectual labors. Their most characteristic -result was not the “Key to all Mythologies,” but a morbid consciousness -that others did not give him the place which he had not demonstrably -merited—a perpetual suspicious conjecture that the views entertained of -him were not to his advantage—a melancholy absence of passion in his -efforts at achievement, and a passionate resistance to the confession -that he had achieved nothing. - -Thus his intellectual ambition which seemed to others to have absorbed -and dried him, was really no security against wounds, least of all -against those which came from Dorothea. And he had begun now to frame -possibilities for the future which were somehow more embittering to him -than anything his mind had dwelt on before. - -Against certain facts he was helpless: against Will Ladislaw’s -existence, his defiant stay in the neighborhood of Lowick, and his -flippant state of mind with regard to the possessors of authentic, -well-stamped erudition: against Dorothea’s nature, always taking on -some new shape of ardent activity, and even in submission and silence -covering fervid reasons which it was an irritation to think of: against -certain notions and likings which had taken possession of her mind in -relation to subjects that he could not possibly discuss with her. There -was no denying that Dorothea was as virtuous and lovely a young lady as -he could have obtained for a wife; but a young lady turned out to be -something more troublesome than he had conceived. She nursed him, she -read to him, she anticipated his wants, and was solicitous about his -feelings; but there had entered into the husband’s mind the certainty -that she judged him, and that her wifely devotedness was like a -penitential expiation of unbelieving thoughts—was accompanied with a -power of comparison by which himself and his doings were seen too -luminously as a part of things in general. His discontent passed -vapor-like through all her gentle loving manifestations, and clung to -that inappreciative world which she had only brought nearer to him. - -Poor Mr. Casaubon! This suffering was the harder to bear because it -seemed like a betrayal: the young creature who had worshipped him with -perfect trust had quickly turned into the critical wife; and early -instances of criticism and resentment had made an impression which no -tenderness and submission afterwards could remove. To his suspicious -interpretation Dorothea’s silence now was a suppressed rebellion; a -remark from her which he had not in any way anticipated was an -assertion of conscious superiority; her gentle answers had an -irritating cautiousness in them; and when she acquiesced it was a -self-approved effort of forbearance. The tenacity with which he strove -to hide this inward drama made it the more vivid for him; as we hear -with the more keenness what we wish others not to hear. - -Instead of wondering at this result of misery in Mr. Casaubon, I think -it quite ordinary. Will not a tiny speck very close to our vision blot -out the glory of the world, and leave only a margin by which we see the -blot? I know no speck so troublesome as self. And who, if Mr. Casaubon -had chosen to expound his discontents—his suspicions that he was not -any longer adored without criticism—could have denied that they were -founded on good reasons? On the contrary, there was a strong reason to -be added, which he had not himself taken explicitly into -account—namely, that he was not unmixedly adorable. He suspected this, -however, as he suspected other things, without confessing it, and like -the rest of us, felt how soothing it would have been to have a -companion who would never find it out. - -This sore susceptibility in relation to Dorothea was thoroughly -prepared before Will Ladislaw had returned to Lowick, and what had -occurred since then had brought Mr. Casaubon’s power of suspicious -construction into exasperated activity. To all the facts which he knew, -he added imaginary facts both present and future which became more real -to him than those because they called up a stronger dislike, a more -predominating bitterness. Suspicion and jealousy of Will Ladislaw’s -intentions, suspicion and jealousy of Dorothea’s impressions, were -constantly at their weaving work. It would be quite unjust to him to -suppose that he could have entered into any coarse misinterpretation of -Dorothea: his own habits of mind and conduct, quite as much as the open -elevation of her nature, saved him from any such mistake. What he was -jealous of was her opinion, the sway that might be given to her ardent -mind in its judgments, and the future possibilities to which these -might lead her. As to Will, though until his last defiant letter he had -nothing definite which he would choose formally to allege against him, -he felt himself warranted in believing that he was capable of any -design which could fascinate a rebellious temper and an undisciplined -impulsiveness. He was quite sure that Dorothea was the cause of Will’s -return from Rome, and his determination to settle in the neighborhood; -and he was penetrating enough to imagine that Dorothea had innocently -encouraged this course. It was as clear as possible that she was ready -to be attached to Will and to be pliant to his suggestions: they had -never had a _tête-à-tête_ without her bringing away from it some new -troublesome impression, and the last interview that Mr. Casaubon was -aware of (Dorothea, on returning from Freshitt Hall, had for the first -time been silent about having seen Will) had led to a scene which -roused an angrier feeling against them both than he had ever known -before. Dorothea’s outpouring of her notions about money, in the -darkness of the night, had done nothing but bring a mixture of more -odious foreboding into her husband’s mind. - -And there was the shock lately given to his health always sadly present -with him. He was certainly much revived; he had recovered all his usual -power of work: the illness might have been mere fatigue, and there -might still be twenty years of achievement before him, which would -justify the thirty years of preparation. That prospect was made the -sweeter by a flavor of vengeance against the hasty sneers of Carp & -Company; for even when Mr. Casaubon was carrying his taper among the -tombs of the past, those modern figures came athwart the dim light, and -interrupted his diligent exploration. To convince Carp of his mistake, -so that he would have to eat his own words with a good deal of -indigestion, would be an agreeable accident of triumphant authorship, -which the prospect of living to future ages on earth and to all -eternity in heaven could not exclude from contemplation. Since, thus, -the prevision of his own unending bliss could not nullify the bitter -savors of irritated jealousy and vindictiveness, it is the less -surprising that the probability of a transient earthly bliss for other -persons, when he himself should have entered into glory, had not a -potently sweetening effect. If the truth should be that some -undermining disease was at work within him, there might be large -opportunity for some people to be the happier when he was gone; and if -one of those people should be Will Ladislaw, Mr. Casaubon objected so -strongly that it seemed as if the annoyance would make part of his -disembodied existence. - -This is a very bare and therefore a very incomplete way of putting the -case. The human soul moves in many channels, and Mr. Casaubon, we know, -had a sense of rectitude and an honorable pride in satisfying the -requirements of honor, which compelled him to find other reasons for -his conduct than those of jealousy and vindictiveness. The way in which -Mr. Casaubon put the case was this:—“In marrying Dorothea Brooke I had -to care for her well-being in case of my death. But well-being is not -to be secured by ample, independent possession of property; on the -contrary, occasions might arise in which such possession might expose -her to the more danger. She is ready prey to any man who knows how to -play adroitly either on her affectionate ardor or her Quixotic -enthusiasm; and a man stands by with that very intention in his mind—a -man with no other principle than transient caprice, and who has a -personal animosity towards me—I am sure of it—an animosity which is fed -by the consciousness of his ingratitude, and which he has constantly -vented in ridicule of which I am as well assured as if I had heard it. -Even if I live I shall not be without uneasiness as to what he may -attempt through indirect influence. This man has gained Dorothea’s ear: -he has fascinated her attention; he has evidently tried to impress her -mind with the notion that he has claims beyond anything I have done for -him. If I die—and he is waiting here on the watch for that—he will -persuade her to marry him. That would be calamity for her and success -for him. _She_ would not think it calamity: he would make her believe -anything; she has a tendency to immoderate attachment which she -inwardly reproaches me for not responding to, and already her mind is -occupied with his fortunes. He thinks of an easy conquest and of -entering into my nest. That I will hinder! Such a marriage would be -fatal to Dorothea. Has he ever persisted in anything except from -contradiction? In knowledge he has always tried to be showy at small -cost. In religion he could be, as long as it suited him, the facile -echo of Dorothea’s vagaries. When was sciolism ever dissociated from -laxity? I utterly distrust his morals, and it is my duty to hinder to -the utmost the fulfilment of his designs.” - -The arrangements made by Mr. Casaubon on his marriage left strong -measures open to him, but in ruminating on them his mind inevitably -dwelt so much on the probabilities of his own life that the longing to -get the nearest possible calculation had at last overcome his proud -reticence, and had determined him to ask Lydgate’s opinion as to the -nature of his illness. - -He had mentioned to Dorothea that Lydgate was coming by appointment at -half-past three, and in answer to her anxious question, whether he had -felt ill, replied,—“No, I merely wish to have his opinion concerning -some habitual symptoms. You need not see him, my dear. I shall give -orders that he may be sent to me in the Yew-tree Walk, where I shall be -taking my usual exercise.” - -When Lydgate entered the Yew-tree Walk he saw Mr. Casaubon slowly -receding with his hands behind him according to his habit, and his head -bent forward. It was a lovely afternoon; the leaves from the lofty -limes were falling silently across the sombre evergreens, while the -lights and shadows slept side by side: there was no sound but the -cawing of the rooks, which to the accustomed ear is a lullaby, or that -last solemn lullaby, a dirge. Lydgate, conscious of an energetic frame -in its prime, felt some compassion when the figure which he was likely -soon to overtake turned round, and in advancing towards him showed more -markedly than ever the signs of premature age—the student’s bent -shoulders, the emaciated limbs, and the melancholy lines of the mouth. -“Poor fellow,” he thought, “some men with his years are like lions; one -can tell nothing of their age except that they are full grown.” - -“Mr. Lydgate,” said Mr. Casaubon, with his invariably polite air, “I am -exceedingly obliged to you for your punctuality. We will, if you -please, carry on our conversation in walking to and fro.” - -“I hope your wish to see me is not due to the return of unpleasant -symptoms,” said Lydgate, filling up a pause. - -“Not immediately—no. In order to account for that wish I must -mention—what it were otherwise needless to refer to—that my life, on -all collateral accounts insignificant, derives a possible importance -from the incompleteness of labors which have extended through all its -best years. In short, I have long had on hand a work which I would fain -leave behind me in such a state, at least, that it might be committed -to the press by—others. Were I assured that this is the utmost I can -reasonably expect, that assurance would be a useful circumscription of -my attempts, and a guide in both the positive and negative -determination of my course.” - -Here Mr. Casaubon paused, removed one hand from his back and thrust it -between the buttons of his single-breasted coat. To a mind largely -instructed in the human destiny hardly anything could be more -interesting than the inward conflict implied in his formal measured -address, delivered with the usual sing-song and motion of the head. -Nay, are there many situations more sublimely tragic than the struggle -of the soul with the demand to renounce a work which has been all the -significance of its life—a significance which is to vanish as the -waters which come and go where no man has need of them? But there was -nothing to strike others as sublime about Mr. Casaubon, and Lydgate, -who had some contempt at hand for futile scholarship, felt a little -amusement mingling with his pity. He was at present too ill acquainted -with disaster to enter into the pathos of a lot where everything is -below the level of tragedy except the passionate egoism of the -sufferer. - -“You refer to the possible hindrances from want of health?” he said, -wishing to help forward Mr. Casaubon’s purpose, which seemed to be -clogged by some hesitation. - -“I do. You have not implied to me that the symptoms which—I am bound to -testify—you watched with scrupulous care, were those of a fatal -disease. But were it so, Mr. Lydgate, I should desire to know the truth -without reservation, and I appeal to you for an exact statement of your -conclusions: I request it as a friendly service. If you can tell me -that my life is not threatened by anything else than ordinary -casualties, I shall rejoice, on grounds which I have already indicated. -If not, knowledge of the truth is even more important to me.” - -“Then I can no longer hesitate as to my course,” said Lydgate; “but the -first thing I must impress on you is that my conclusions are doubly -uncertain—uncertain not only because of my fallibility, but because -diseases of the heart are eminently difficult to found predictions on. -In any case, one can hardly increase appreciably the tremendous -uncertainty of life.” - -Mr. Casaubon winced perceptibly, but bowed. - -“I believe that you are suffering from what is called fatty -degeneration of the heart, a disease which was first divined and -explored by Laennec, the man who gave us the stethoscope, not so very -many years ago. A good deal of experience—a more lengthened -observation—is wanting on the subject. But after what you have said, it -is my duty to tell you that death from this disease is often sudden. At -the same time, no such result can be predicted. Your condition may be -consistent with a tolerably comfortable life for another fifteen years, -or even more. I could add no information to this beyond anatomical or -medical details, which would leave expectation at precisely the same -point.” Lydgate’s instinct was fine enough to tell him that plain -speech, quite free from ostentatious caution, would be felt by Mr. -Casaubon as a tribute of respect. - -“I thank you, Mr. Lydgate,” said Mr. Casaubon, after a moment’s pause. -“One thing more I have still to ask: did you communicate what you have -now told me to Mrs. Casaubon?” - -“Partly—I mean, as to the possible issues.” Lydgate was going to -explain why he had told Dorothea, but Mr. Casaubon, with an -unmistakable desire to end the conversation, waved his hand slightly, -and said again, “I thank you,” proceeding to remark on the rare beauty -of the day. - -Lydgate, certain that his patient wished to be alone, soon left him; -and the black figure with hands behind and head bent forward continued -to pace the walk where the dark yew-trees gave him a mute companionship -in melancholy, and the little shadows of bird or leaf that fleeted -across the isles of sunlight, stole along in silence as in the presence -of a sorrow. Here was a man who now for the first time found himself -looking into the eyes of death—who was passing through one of those -rare moments of experience when we feel the truth of a commonplace, -which is as different from what we call knowing it, as the vision of -waters upon the earth is different from the delirious vision of the -water which cannot be had to cool the burning tongue. When the -commonplace “We must all die” transforms itself suddenly into the acute -consciousness “I must die—and soon,” then death grapples us, and his -fingers are cruel; afterwards, he may come to fold us in his arms as -our mother did, and our last moment of dim earthly discerning may be -like the first. To Mr. Casaubon now, it was as if he suddenly found -himself on the dark river-brink and heard the plash of the oncoming -oar, not discerning the forms, but expecting the summons. In such an -hour the mind does not change its lifelong bias, but carries it onward -in imagination to the other side of death, gazing backward—perhaps with -the divine calm of beneficence, perhaps with the petty anxieties of -self-assertion. What was Mr. Casaubon’s bias his acts will give us a -clew to. He held himself to be, with some private scholarly -reservations, a believing Christian, as to estimates of the present and -hopes of the future. But what we strive to gratify, though we may call -it a distant hope, is an immediate desire: the future estate for which -men drudge up city alleys exists already in their imagination and love. -And Mr. Casaubon’s immediate desire was not for divine communion and -light divested of earthly conditions; his passionate longings, poor -man, clung low and mist-like in very shady places. - -Dorothea had been aware when Lydgate had ridden away, and she had -stepped into the garden, with the impulse to go at once to her husband. -But she hesitated, fearing to offend him by obtruding herself; for her -ardor, continually repulsed, served, with her intense memory, to -heighten her dread, as thwarted energy subsides into a shudder; and she -wandered slowly round the nearer clumps of trees until she saw him -advancing. Then she went towards him, and might have represented a -heaven-sent angel coming with a promise that the short hours remaining -should yet be filled with that faithful love which clings the closer to -a comprehended grief. His glance in reply to hers was so chill that she -felt her timidity increased; yet she turned and passed her hand through -his arm. - -Mr. Casaubon kept his hands behind him and allowed her pliant arm to -cling with difficulty against his rigid arm. - -There was something horrible to Dorothea in the sensation which this -unresponsive hardness inflicted on her. That is a strong word, but not -too strong: it is in these acts called trivialities that the seeds of -joy are forever wasted, until men and women look round with haggard -faces at the devastation their own waste has made, and say, the earth -bears no harvest of sweetness—calling their denial knowledge. You may -ask why, in the name of manliness, Mr. Casaubon should have behaved in -that way. Consider that his was a mind which shrank from pity: have you -ever watched in such a mind the effect of a suspicion that what is -pressing it as a grief may be really a source of contentment, either -actual or future, to the being who already offends by pitying? Besides, -he knew little of Dorothea’s sensations, and had not reflected that on -such an occasion as the present they were comparable in strength to his -own sensibilities about Carp’s criticisms. - -Dorothea did not withdraw her arm, but she could not venture to speak. -Mr. Casaubon did not say, “I wish to be alone,” but he directed his -steps in silence towards the house, and as they entered by the glass -door on this eastern side, Dorothea withdrew her arm and lingered on -the matting, that she might leave her husband quite free. He entered -the library and shut himself in, alone with his sorrow. - -She went up to her boudoir. The open bow-window let in the serene glory -of the afternoon lying in the avenue, where the lime-trees cast long -shadows. But Dorothea knew nothing of the scene. She threw herself on a -chair, not heeding that she was in the dazzling sun-rays: if there were -discomfort in that, how could she tell that it was not part of her -inward misery? - -She was in the reaction of a rebellious anger stronger than any she had -felt since her marriage. Instead of tears there came words:— - -“What have I done—what am I—that he should treat me so? He never knows -what is in my mind—he never cares. What is the use of anything I do? He -wishes he had never married me.” - -She began to hear herself, and was checked into stillness. Like one who -has lost his way and is weary, she sat and saw as in one glance all the -paths of her young hope which she should never find again. And just as -clearly in the miserable light she saw her own and her husband’s -solitude—how they walked apart so that she was obliged to survey him. -If he had drawn her towards him, she would never have surveyed -him—never have said, “Is he worth living for?” but would have felt him -simply a part of her own life. Now she said bitterly, “It is his fault, -not mine.” In the jar of her whole being, Pity was overthrown. Was it -her fault that she had believed in him—had believed in his -worthiness?—And what, exactly, was he?— She was able enough to estimate -him—she who waited on his glances with trembling, and shut her best -soul in prison, paying it only hidden visits, that she might be petty -enough to please him. In such a crisis as this, some women begin to -hate. - -The sun was low when Dorothea was thinking that she would not go down -again, but would send a message to her husband saying that she was not -well and preferred remaining up-stairs. She had never deliberately -allowed her resentment to govern her in this way before, but she -believed now that she could not see him again without telling him the -truth about her feeling, and she must wait till she could do it without -interruption. He might wonder and be hurt at her message. It was good -that he should wonder and be hurt. Her anger said, as anger is apt to -say, that God was with her—that all heaven, though it were crowded with -spirits watching them, must be on her side. She had determined to ring -her bell, when there came a rap at the door. - -Mr. Casaubon had sent to say that he would have his dinner in the -library. He wished to be quite alone this evening, being much occupied. - -“I shall not dine, then, Tantripp.” - -“Oh, madam, let me bring you a little something?” - -“No; I am not well. Get everything ready in my dressing room, but pray -do not disturb me again.” - -Dorothea sat almost motionless in her meditative struggle, while the -evening slowly deepened into night. But the struggle changed -continually, as that of a man who begins with a movement towards -striking and ends with conquering his desire to strike. The energy that -would animate a crime is not more than is wanted to inspire a resolved -submission, when the noble habit of the soul reasserts itself. That -thought with which Dorothea had gone out to meet her husband—her -conviction that he had been asking about the possible arrest of all his -work, and that the answer must have wrung his heart, could not be long -without rising beside the image of him, like a shadowy monitor looking -at her anger with sad remonstrance. It cost her a litany of pictured -sorrows and of silent cries that she might be the mercy for those -sorrows—but the resolved submission did come; and when the house was -still, and she knew that it was near the time when Mr. Casaubon -habitually went to rest, she opened her door gently and stood outside -in the darkness waiting for his coming up-stairs with a light in his -hand. If he did not come soon she thought that she would go down and -even risk incurring another pang. She would never again expect anything -else. But she did hear the library door open, and slowly the light -advanced up the staircase without noise from the footsteps on the -carpet. When her husband stood opposite to her, she saw that his face -was more haggard. He started slightly on seeing her, and she looked up -at him beseechingly, without speaking. - -“Dorothea!” he said, with a gentle surprise in his tone. “Were you -waiting for me?” - -“Yes, I did not like to disturb you.” - -“Come, my dear, come. You are young, and need not to extend your life -by watching.” - -When the kind quiet melancholy of that speech fell on Dorothea’s ears, -she felt something like the thankfulness that might well up in us if we -had narrowly escaped hurting a lamed creature. She put her hand into -her husband’s, and they went along the broad corridor together. - - - - -BOOK V. -THE DEAD HAND. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII. - -“This figure hath high price: ’t was wrought with love -Ages ago in finest ivory; -Nought modish in it, pure and noble lines -Of generous womanhood that fits all time -That too is costly ware; majolica -Of deft design, to please a lordly eye: -The smile, you see, is perfect—wonderful -As mere Faience! a table ornament -To suit the richest mounting.” - - -Dorothea seldom left home without her husband, but she did occasionally -drive into Middlemarch alone, on little errands of shopping or charity -such as occur to every lady of any wealth when she lives within three -miles of a town. Two days after that scene in the Yew-tree Walk, she -determined to use such an opportunity in order if possible to see -Lydgate, and learn from him whether her husband had really felt any -depressing change of symptoms which he was concealing from her, and -whether he had insisted on knowing the utmost about himself. She felt -almost guilty in asking for knowledge about him from another, but the -dread of being without it—the dread of that ignorance which would make -her unjust or hard—overcame every scruple. That there had been some -crisis in her husband’s mind she was certain: he had the very next day -begun a new method of arranging his notes, and had associated her quite -newly in carrying out his plan. Poor Dorothea needed to lay up stores -of patience. - -It was about four o’clock when she drove to Lydgate’s house in Lowick -Gate, wishing, in her immediate doubt of finding him at home, that she -had written beforehand. And he was not at home. - -“Is Mrs. Lydgate at home?” said Dorothea, who had never, that she knew -of, seen Rosamond, but now remembered the fact of the marriage. Yes, -Mrs. Lydgate was at home. - -“I will go in and speak to her, if she will allow me. Will you ask her -if she can see me—see Mrs. Casaubon, for a few minutes?” - -When the servant had gone to deliver that message, Dorothea could hear -sounds of music through an open window—a few notes from a man’s voice -and then a piano bursting into roulades. But the roulades broke off -suddenly, and then the servant came back saying that Mrs. Lydgate would -be happy to see Mrs. Casaubon. - -When the drawing-room door opened and Dorothea entered, there was a -sort of contrast not infrequent in country life when the habits of the -different ranks were less blent than now. Let those who know, tell us -exactly what stuff it was that Dorothea wore in those days of mild -autumn—that thin white woollen stuff soft to the touch and soft to the -eye. It always seemed to have been lately washed, and to smell of the -sweet hedges—was always in the shape of a pelisse with sleeves hanging -all out of the fashion. Yet if she had entered before a still audience -as Imogene or Cato’s daughter, the dress might have seemed right -enough: the grace and dignity were in her limbs and neck; and about her -simply parted hair and candid eyes the large round poke which was then -in the fate of women, seemed no more odd as a head-dress than the gold -trencher we call a halo. By the present audience of two persons, no -dramatic heroine could have been expected with more interest than Mrs. -Casaubon. To Rosamond she was one of those county divinities not mixing -with Middlemarch mortality, whose slightest marks of manner or -appearance were worthy of her study; moreover, Rosamond was not without -satisfaction that Mrs. Casaubon should have an opportunity of studying -_her_. What is the use of being exquisite if you are not seen by the -best judges? and since Rosamond had received the highest compliments at -Sir Godwin Lydgate’s, she felt quite confident of the impression she -must make on people of good birth. Dorothea put out her hand with her -usual simple kindness, and looked admiringly at Lydgate’s lovely -bride—aware that there was a gentleman standing at a distance, but -seeing him merely as a coated figure at a wide angle. The gentleman was -too much occupied with the presence of the one woman to reflect on the -contrast between the two—a contrast that would certainly have been -striking to a calm observer. They were both tall, and their eyes were -on a level; but imagine Rosamond’s infantine blondness and wondrous -crown of hair-plaits, with her pale-blue dress of a fit and fashion so -perfect that no dressmaker could look at it without emotion, a large -embroidered collar which it was to be hoped all beholders would know -the price of, her small hands duly set off with rings, and that -controlled self-consciousness of manner which is the expensive -substitute for simplicity. - -“Thank you very much for allowing me to interrupt you,” said Dorothea, -immediately. “I am anxious to see Mr. Lydgate, if possible, before I go -home, and I hoped that you might possibly tell me where I could find -him, or even allow me to wait for him, if you expect him soon.” - -“He is at the New Hospital,” said Rosamond; “I am not sure how soon he -will come home. But I can send for him.” - -“Will you let me go and fetch him?” said Will Ladislaw, coming forward. -He had already taken up his hat before Dorothea entered. She colored -with surprise, but put out her hand with a smile of unmistakable -pleasure, saying— - -“I did not know it was you: I had no thought of seeing you here.” - -“May I go to the Hospital and tell Mr. Lydgate that you wish to see -him?” said Will. - -“It would be quicker to send the carriage for him,” said Dorothea, “if -you will be kind enough to give the message to the coachman.” - -Will was moving to the door when Dorothea, whose mind had flashed in an -instant over many connected memories, turned quickly and said, “I will -go myself, thank you. I wish to lose no time before getting home again. -I will drive to the Hospital and see Mr. Lydgate there. Pray excuse me, -Mrs. Lydgate. I am very much obliged to you.” - -Her mind was evidently arrested by some sudden thought, and she left -the room hardly conscious of what was immediately around her—hardly -conscious that Will opened the door for her and offered her his arm to -lead her to the carriage. She took the arm but said nothing. Will was -feeling rather vexed and miserable, and found nothing to say on his -side. He handed her into the carriage in silence, they said good-by, -and Dorothea drove away. - -In the five minutes’ drive to the Hospital she had time for some -reflections that were quite new to her. Her decision to go, and her -preoccupation in leaving the room, had come from the sudden sense that -there would be a sort of deception in her voluntarily allowing any -further intercourse between herself and Will which she was unable to -mention to her husband, and already her errand in seeking Lydgate was a -matter of concealment. That was all that had been explicitly in her -mind; but she had been urged also by a vague discomfort. Now that she -was alone in her drive, she heard the notes of the man’s voice and the -accompanying piano, which she had not noted much at the time, returning -on her inward sense; and she found herself thinking with some wonder -that Will Ladislaw was passing his time with Mrs. Lydgate in her -husband’s absence. And then she could not help remembering that he had -passed some time with her under like circumstances, so why should there -be any unfitness in the fact? But Will was Mr. Casaubon’s relative, and -one towards whom she was bound to show kindness. Still there had been -signs which perhaps she ought to have understood as implying that Mr. -Casaubon did not like his cousin’s visits during his own absence. -“Perhaps I have been mistaken in many things,” said poor Dorothea to -herself, while the tears came rolling and she had to dry them quickly. -She felt confusedly unhappy, and the image of Will which had been so -clear to her before was mysteriously spoiled. But the carriage stopped -at the gate of the Hospital. She was soon walking round the grass plots -with Lydgate, and her feelings recovered the strong bent which had made -her seek for this interview. - -Will Ladislaw, meanwhile, was mortified, and knew the reason of it -clearly enough. His chances of meeting Dorothea were rare; and here for -the first time there had come a chance which had set him at a -disadvantage. It was not only, as it had been hitherto, that she was -not supremely occupied with him, but that she had seen him under -circumstances in which he might appear not to be supremely occupied -with her. He felt thrust to a new distance from her, amongst the -circles of Middlemarchers who made no part of her life. But that was -not his fault: of course, since he had taken his lodgings in the town, -he had been making as many acquaintances as he could, his position -requiring that he should know everybody and everything. Lydgate was -really better worth knowing than any one else in the neighborhood, and -he happened to have a wife who was musical and altogether worth calling -upon. Here was the whole history of the situation in which Diana had -descended too unexpectedly on her worshipper. It was mortifying. Will -was conscious that he should not have been at Middlemarch but for -Dorothea; and yet his position there was threatening to divide him from -her with those barriers of habitual sentiment which are more fatal to -the persistence of mutual interest than all the distance between Rome -and Britain. Prejudices about rank and status were easy enough to defy -in the form of a tyrannical letter from Mr. Casaubon; but prejudices, -like odorous bodies, have a double existence both solid and -subtle—solid as the pyramids, subtle as the twentieth echo of an echo, -or as the memory of hyacinths which once scented the darkness. And Will -was of a temperament to feel keenly the presence of subtleties: a man -of clumsier perceptions would not have felt, as he did, that for the -first time some sense of unfitness in perfect freedom with him had -sprung up in Dorothea’s mind, and that their silence, as he conducted -her to the carriage, had had a chill in it. Perhaps Casaubon, in his -hatred and jealousy, had been insisting to Dorothea that Will had slid -below her socially. Confound Casaubon! - -Will re-entered the drawing-room, took up his hat, and looking -irritated as he advanced towards Mrs. Lydgate, who had seated herself -at her work-table, said— - -“It is always fatal to have music or poetry interrupted. May I come -another day and just finish about the rendering of ‘Lungi dal caro -bene’?” - -“I shall be happy to be taught,” said Rosamond. “But I am sure you -admit that the interruption was a very beautiful one. I quite envy your -acquaintance with Mrs. Casaubon. Is she very clever? She looks as if -she were.” - -“Really, I never thought about it,” said Will, sulkily. - -“That is just the answer Tertius gave me, when I first asked him if she -were handsome. What is it that you gentlemen are thinking of when you -are with Mrs. Casaubon?” - -“Herself,” said Will, not indisposed to provoke the charming Mrs. -Lydgate. “When one sees a perfect woman, one never thinks of her -attributes—one is conscious of her presence.” - -“I shall be jealous when Tertius goes to Lowick,” said Rosamond, -dimpling, and speaking with aery lightness. “He will come back and -think nothing of me.” - -“That does not seem to have been the effect on Lydgate hitherto. Mrs. -Casaubon is too unlike other women for them to be compared with her.” - -“You are a devout worshipper, I perceive. You often see her, I -suppose.” - -“No,” said Will, almost pettishly. “Worship is usually a matter of -theory rather than of practice. But I am practising it to excess just -at this moment—I must really tear myself away.” - -“Pray come again some evening: Mr. Lydgate will like to hear the music, -and I cannot enjoy it so well without him.” - -When her husband was at home again, Rosamond said, standing in front of -him and holding his coat-collar with both her hands, “Mr. Ladislaw was -here singing with me when Mrs. Casaubon came in. He seemed vexed. Do -you think he disliked her seeing him at our house? Surely your position -is more than equal to his—whatever may be his relation to the -Casaubons.” - -“No, no; it must be something else if he were really vexed. Ladislaw is -a sort of gypsy; he thinks nothing of leather and prunella.” - -“Music apart, he is not always very agreeable. Do you like him?” - -“Yes: I think he is a good fellow: rather miscellaneous and -bric-a-brac, but likable.” - -“Do you know, I think he adores Mrs. Casaubon.” - -“Poor devil!” said Lydgate, smiling and pinching his wife’s ears. - -Rosamond felt herself beginning to know a great deal of the world, -especially in discovering what when she was in her unmarried girlhood -had been inconceivable to her except as a dim tragedy in by-gone -costumes—that women, even after marriage, might make conquests and -enslave men. At that time young ladies in the country, even when -educated at Mrs. Lemon’s, read little French literature later than -Racine, and public prints had not cast their present magnificent -illumination over the scandals of life. Still, vanity, with a woman’s -whole mind and day to work in, can construct abundantly on slight -hints, especially on such a hint as the possibility of indefinite -conquests. How delightful to make captives from the throne of marriage -with a husband as crown-prince by your side—himself in fact a -subject—while the captives look up forever hopeless, losing their rest -probably, and if their appetite too, so much the better! But Rosamond’s -romance turned at present chiefly on her crown-prince, and it was -enough to enjoy his assured subjection. When he said, “Poor devil!” she -asked, with playful curiosity— - -“Why so?” - -“Why, what can a man do when he takes to adoring one of you mermaids? -He only neglects his work and runs up bills.” - -“I am sure you do not neglect your work. You are always at the -Hospital, or seeing poor patients, or thinking about some doctor’s -quarrel; and then at home you always want to pore over your microscope -and phials. Confess you like those things better than me.” - -“Haven’t you ambition enough to wish that your husband should be -something better than a Middlemarch doctor?” said Lydgate, letting his -hands fall on to his wife’s shoulders, and looking at her with -affectionate gravity. “I shall make you learn my favorite bit from an -old poet— - -‘Why should our pride make such a stir to be -And be forgot? What good is like to this, -To do worthy the writing, and to write -Worthy the reading and the worlds delight?’ - - -What I want, Rosy, is to do worthy the writing,—and to write out myself -what I have done. A man must work, to do that, my pet.” - -“Of course, I wish you to make discoveries: no one could more wish you -to attain a high position in some better place than Middlemarch. You -cannot say that I have ever tried to hinder you from working. But we -cannot live like hermits. You are not discontented with me, Tertius?” - -“No, dear, no. I am too entirely contented.” - -“But what did Mrs. Casaubon want to say to you?” - -“Merely to ask about her husband’s health. But I think she is going to -be splendid to our New Hospital: I think she will give us two hundred -a-year.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV. - -I would not creep along the coast but steer -Out in mid-sea, by guidance of the stars. - - -When Dorothea, walking round the laurel-planted plots of the New -Hospital with Lydgate, had learned from him that there were no signs of -change in Mr. Casaubon’s bodily condition beyond the mental sign of -anxiety to know the truth about his illness, she was silent for a few -moments, wondering whether she had said or done anything to rouse this -new anxiety. Lydgate, not willing to let slip an opportunity of -furthering a favorite purpose, ventured to say— - -“I don’t know whether your or Mr. Casaubon’s attention has been drawn -to the needs of our New Hospital. Circumstances have made it seem -rather egotistic in me to urge the subject; but that is not my fault: -it is because there is a fight being made against it by the other -medical men. I think you are generally interested in such things, for I -remember that when I first had the pleasure of seeing you at Tipton -Grange before your marriage, you were asking me some questions about -the way in which the health of the poor was affected by their miserable -housing.” - -“Yes, indeed,” said Dorothea, brightening. “I shall be quite grateful -to you if you will tell me how I can help to make things a little -better. Everything of that sort has slipped away from me since I have -been married. I mean,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation, “that the -people in our village are tolerably comfortable, and my mind has been -too much taken up for me to inquire further. But here—in such a place -as Middlemarch—there must be a great deal to be done.” - -“There is everything to be done,” said Lydgate, with abrupt energy. -“And this Hospital is a capital piece of work, due entirely to Mr. -Bulstrode’s exertions, and in a great degree to his money. But one man -can’t do everything in a scheme of this sort. Of course he looked -forward to help. And now there’s a mean, petty feud set up against the -thing in the town, by certain persons who want to make it a failure.” - -“What can be their reasons?” said Dorothea, with naive surprise. - -“Chiefly Mr. Bulstrode’s unpopularity, to begin with. Half the town -would almost take trouble for the sake of thwarting him. In this stupid -world most people never consider that a thing is good to be done unless -it is done by their own set. I had no connection with Bulstrode before -I came here. I look at him quite impartially, and I see that he has -some notions—that he has set things on foot—which I can turn to good -public purpose. If a fair number of the better educated men went to -work with the belief that their observations might contribute to the -reform of medical doctrine and practice, we should soon see a change -for the better. That’s my point of view. I hold that by refusing to -work with Mr. Bulstrode I should be turning my back on an opportunity -of making my profession more generally serviceable.” - -“I quite agree with you,” said Dorothea, at once fascinated by the -situation sketched in Lydgate’s words. “But what is there against Mr. -Bulstrode? I know that my uncle is friendly with him.” - -“People don’t like his religious tone,” said Lydgate, breaking off -there. - -“That is all the stronger reason for despising such an opposition,” -said Dorothea, looking at the affairs of Middlemarch by the light of -the great persecutions. - -“To put the matter quite fairly, they have other objections to him:—he -is masterful and rather unsociable, and he is concerned with trade, -which has complaints of its own that I know nothing about. But what has -that to do with the question whether it would not be a fine thing to -establish here a more valuable hospital than any they have in the -county? The immediate motive to the opposition, however, is the fact -that Bulstrode has put the medical direction into my hands. Of course I -am glad of that. It gives me an opportunity of doing some good -work,—and I am aware that I have to justify his choice of me. But the -consequence is, that the whole profession in Middlemarch have set -themselves tooth and nail against the Hospital, and not only refuse to -cooperate themselves, but try to blacken the whole affair and hinder -subscriptions.” - -“How very petty!” exclaimed Dorothea, indignantly. - -“I suppose one must expect to fight one’s way: there is hardly anything -to be done without it. And the ignorance of people about here is -stupendous. I don’t lay claim to anything else than having used some -opportunities which have not come within everybody’s reach; but there -is no stifling the offence of being young, and a new-comer, and -happening to know something more than the old inhabitants. Still, if I -believe that I can set going a better method of treatment—if I believe -that I can pursue certain observations and inquiries which may be a -lasting benefit to medical practice, I should be a base truckler if I -allowed any consideration of personal comfort to hinder me. And the -course is all the clearer from there being no salary in question to put -my persistence in an equivocal light.” - -“I am glad you have told me this, Mr. Lydgate,” said Dorothea, -cordially. “I feel sure I can help a little. I have some money, and -don’t know what to do with it—that is often an uncomfortable thought to -me. I am sure I can spare two hundred a-year for a grand purpose like -this. How happy you must be, to know things that you feel sure will do -great good! I wish I could awake with that knowledge every morning. -There seems to be so much trouble taken that one can hardly see the -good of!” - -There was a melancholy cadence in Dorothea’s voice as she spoke these -last words. But she presently added, more cheerfully, “Pray come to -Lowick and tell us more of this. I will mention the subject to Mr. -Casaubon. I must hasten home now.” - -She did mention it that evening, and said that she should like to -subscribe two hundred a-year—she had seven hundred a-year as the -equivalent of her own fortune, settled on her at her marriage. Mr. -Casaubon made no objection beyond a passing remark that the sum might -be disproportionate in relation to other good objects, but when -Dorothea in her ignorance resisted that suggestion, he acquiesced. He -did not care himself about spending money, and was not reluctant to -give it. If he ever felt keenly any question of money it was through -the medium of another passion than the love of material property. - -Dorothea told him that she had seen Lydgate, and recited the gist of -her conversation with him about the Hospital. Mr. Casaubon did not -question her further, but he felt sure that she had wished to know what -had passed between Lydgate and himself. “She knows that I know,” said -the ever-restless voice within; but that increase of tacit knowledge -only thrust further off any confidence between them. He distrusted her -affection; and what loneliness is more lonely than distrust? - - - - -CHAPTER XLV. - -It is the humor of many heads to extol the days of their forefathers, -and declaim against the wickedness of times present. Which -notwithstanding they cannot handsomely do, without the borrowed help -and satire of times past; condemning the vices of their own times, by -the expressions of vices in times which they commend, which cannot but -argue the community of vice in both. Horace, therefore, Juvenal, and -Persius, were no prophets, although their lines did seem to indigitate -and point at our times.—SIR THOMAS BROWNE: _Pseudodoxia Epidemica_. - - -That opposition to the New Fever Hospital which Lydgate had sketched to -Dorothea was, like other oppositions, to be viewed in many different -lights. He regarded it as a mixture of jealousy and dunderheaded -prejudice. Mr. Bulstrode saw in it not only medical jealousy but a -determination to thwart himself, prompted mainly by a hatred of that -vital religion of which he had striven to be an effectual lay -representative—a hatred which certainly found pretexts apart from -religion such as were only too easy to find in the entanglements of -human action. These might be called the ministerial views. But -oppositions have the illimitable range of objections at command, which -need never stop short at the boundary of knowledge, but can draw -forever on the vasts of ignorance. What the opposition in Middlemarch -said about the New Hospital and its administration had certainly a -great deal of echo in it, for heaven has taken care that everybody -shall not be an originator; but there were differences which -represented every social shade between the polished moderation of Dr. -Minchin and the trenchant assertion of Mrs. Dollop, the landlady of the -Tankard in Slaughter Lane. - -Mrs. Dollop became more and more convinced by her own asseveration, -that Dr. Lydgate meant to let the people die in the Hospital, if not to -poison them, for the sake of cutting them up without saying by your -leave or with your leave; for it was a known “fac” that he had wanted -to cut up Mrs. Goby, as respectable a woman as any in Parley Street, -who had money in trust before her marriage—a poor tale for a doctor, -who if he was good for anything should know what was the matter with -you before you died, and not want to pry into your inside after you -were gone. If that was not reason, Mrs. Dollop wished to know what was; -but there was a prevalent feeling in her audience that her opinion was -a bulwark, and that if it were overthrown there would be no limits to -the cutting-up of bodies, as had been well seen in Burke and Hare with -their pitch-plaisters—such a hanging business as that was not wanted in -Middlemarch! - -And let it not be supposed that opinion at the Tankard in Slaughter -Lane was unimportant to the medical profession: that old authentic -public-house—the original Tankard, known by the name of Dollop’s—was -the resort of a great Benefit Club, which had some months before put to -the vote whether its long-standing medical man, “Doctor Gambit,” should -not be cashiered in favor of “this Doctor Lydgate,” who was capable of -performing the most astonishing cures, and rescuing people altogether -given up by other practitioners. But the balance had been turned -against Lydgate by two members, who for some private reasons held that -this power of resuscitating persons as good as dead was an equivocal -recommendation, and might interfere with providential favors. In the -course of the year, however, there had been a change in the public -sentiment, of which the unanimity at Dollop’s was an index. - -A good deal more than a year ago, before anything was known of -Lydgate’s skill, the judgments on it had naturally been divided, -depending on a sense of likelihood, situated perhaps in the pit of the -stomach or in the pineal gland, and differing in its verdicts, but not -the less valuable as a guide in the total deficit of evidence. Patients -who had chronic diseases or whose lives had long been worn threadbare, -like old Featherstone’s, had been at once inclined to try him; also, -many who did not like paying their doctor’s bills, thought agreeably of -opening an account with a new doctor and sending for him without stint -if the children’s temper wanted a dose, occasions when the old -practitioners were often crusty; and all persons thus inclined to -employ Lydgate held it likely that he was clever. Some considered that -he might do more than others “where there was liver;”—at least there -would be no harm in getting a few bottles of “stuff” from him, since if -these proved useless it would still be possible to return to the -Purifying Pills, which kept you alive if they did not remove the -yellowness. But these were people of minor importance. Good Middlemarch -families were of course not going to change their doctor without reason -shown; and everybody who had employed Mr. Peacock did not feel obliged -to accept a new man merely in the character of his successor, objecting -that he was “not likely to be equal to Peacock.” - -But Lydgate had not been long in the town before there were particulars -enough reported of him to breed much more specific expectations and to -intensify differences into partisanship; some of the particulars being -of that impressive order of which the significance is entirely hidden, -like a statistical amount without a standard of comparison, but with a -note of exclamation at the end. The cubic feet of oxygen yearly -swallowed by a full-grown man—what a shudder they might have created in -some Middlemarch circles! “Oxygen! nobody knows what that may be—is it -any wonder the cholera has got to Dantzic? And yet there are people who -say quarantine is no good!” - -One of the facts quickly rumored was that Lydgate did not dispense -drugs. This was offensive both to the physicians whose exclusive -distinction seemed infringed on, and to the surgeon-apothecaries with -whom he ranged himself; and only a little while before, they might have -counted on having the law on their side against a man who without -calling himself a London-made M.D. dared to ask for pay except as a -charge on drugs. But Lydgate had not been experienced enough to foresee -that his new course would be even more offensive to the laity; and to -Mr. Mawmsey, an important grocer in the Top Market, who, though not one -of his patients, questioned him in an affable manner on the subject, he -was injudicious enough to give a hasty popular explanation of his -reasons, pointing out to Mr. Mawmsey that it must lower the character -of practitioners, and be a constant injury to the public, if their only -mode of getting paid for their work was by their making out long bills -for draughts, boluses, and mixtures. - -“It is in that way that hard-working medical men may come to be almost -as mischievous as quacks,” said Lydgate, rather thoughtlessly. “To get -their own bread they must overdose the king’s lieges; and that’s a bad -sort of treason, Mr. Mawmsey—undermines the constitution in a fatal -way.” - -Mr. Mawmsey was not only an overseer (it was about a question of -outdoor pay that he was having an interview with Lydgate), he was also -asthmatic and had an increasing family: thus, from a medical point of -view, as well as from his own, he was an important man; indeed, an -exceptional grocer, whose hair was arranged in a flame-like pyramid, -and whose retail deference was of the cordial, encouraging -kind—jocosely complimentary, and with a certain considerate abstinence -from letting out the full force of his mind. It was Mr. Mawmsey’s -friendly jocoseness in questioning him which had set the tone of -Lydgate’s reply. But let the wise be warned against too great readiness -at explanation: it multiplies the sources of mistake, lengthening the -sum for reckoners sure to go wrong. - -Lydgate smiled as he ended his speech, putting his foot into the -stirrup, and Mr. Mawmsey laughed more than he would have done if he had -known who the king’s lieges were, giving his “Good morning, sir, -good-morning, sir,” with the air of one who saw everything clearly -enough. But in truth his views were perturbed. For years he had been -paying bills with strictly made items, so that for every half-crown and -eighteen-pence he was certain something measurable had been delivered. -He had done this with satisfaction, including it among his -responsibilities as a husband and father, and regarding a longer bill -than usual as a dignity worth mentioning. Moreover, in addition to the -massive benefit of the drugs to “self and family,” he had enjoyed the -pleasure of forming an acute judgment as to their immediate effects, so -as to give an intelligent statement for the guidance of Mr. Gambit—a -practitioner just a little lower in status than Wrench or Toller, and -especially esteemed as an accoucheur, of whose ability Mr. Mawmsey had -the poorest opinion on all other points, but in doctoring, he was wont -to say in an undertone, he placed Gambit above any of them. - -Here were deeper reasons than the superficial talk of a new man, which -appeared still flimsier in the drawing-room over the shop, when they -were recited to Mrs. Mawmsey, a woman accustomed to be made much of as -a fertile mother,—generally under attendance more or less frequent from -Mr. Gambit, and occasionally having attacks which required Dr. Minchin. - -“Does this Mr. Lydgate mean to say there is no use in taking medicine?” -said Mrs. Mawmsey, who was slightly given to drawling. “I should like -him to tell me how I could bear up at Fair time, if I didn’t take -strengthening medicine for a month beforehand. Think of what I have to -provide for calling customers, my dear!”—here Mrs. Mawmsey turned to an -intimate female friend who sat by—“a large veal pie—a stuffed fillet—a -round of beef—ham, tongue, et cetera, et cetera! But what keeps me up -best is the pink mixture, not the brown. I wonder, Mr. Mawmsey, with -_your_ experience, you could have patience to listen. I should have -told him at once that I knew a little better than that.” - -“No, no, no,” said Mr. Mawmsey; “I was not going to tell him my -opinion. Hear everything and judge for yourself is my motto. But he -didn’t know who he was talking to. I was not to be turned on _his_ -finger. People often pretend to tell me things, when they might as well -say, ‘Mawmsey, you’re a fool.’ But I smile at it: I humor everybody’s -weak place. If physic had done harm to self and family, I should have -found it out by this time.” - -The next day Mr. Gambit was told that Lydgate went about saying physic -was of no use. - -“Indeed!” said he, lifting his eyebrows with cautious surprise. (He was -a stout husky man with a large ring on his fourth finger.) “How will he -cure his patients, then?” - -“That is what I say,” returned Mrs. Mawmsey, who habitually gave weight -to her speech by loading her pronouns. “Does _he_ suppose that people -will pay him only to come and sit with them and go away again?” - -Mrs. Mawmsey had had a great deal of sitting from Mr. Gambit, including -very full accounts of his own habits of body and other affairs; but of -course he knew there was no innuendo in her remark, since his spare -time and personal narrative had never been charged for. So he replied, -humorously— - -“Well, Lydgate is a good-looking young fellow, you know.” - -“Not one that _I_ would employ,” said Mrs. Mawmsey. “_Others_ may do as -they please.” - -Hence Mr. Gambit could go away from the chief grocer’s without fear of -rivalry, but not without a sense that Lydgate was one of those -hypocrites who try to discredit others by advertising their own -honesty, and that it might be worth some people’s while to show him up. -Mr. Gambit, however, had a satisfactory practice, much pervaded by the -smells of retail trading which suggested the reduction of cash payments -to a balance. And he did not think it worth his while to show Lydgate -up until he knew how. He had not indeed great resources of education, -and had had to work his own way against a good deal of professional -contempt; but he made none the worse accoucheur for calling the -breathing apparatus “longs.” - -Other medical men felt themselves more capable. Mr. Toller shared the -highest practice in the town and belonged to an old Middlemarch family: -there were Tollers in the law and everything else above the line of -retail trade. Unlike our irascible friend Wrench, he had the easiest -way in the world of taking things which might be supposed to annoy him, -being a well-bred, quietly facetious man, who kept a good house, was -very fond of a little sporting when he could get it, very friendly with -Mr. Hawley, and hostile to Mr. Bulstrode. It may seem odd that with -such pleasant habits he should have been given to the heroic treatment, -bleeding and blistering and starving his patients, with a dispassionate -disregard to his personal example; but the incongruity favored the -opinion of his ability among his patients, who commonly observed that -Mr. Toller had lazy manners, but his treatment was as active as you -could desire: no man, said they, carried more seriousness into his -profession: he was a little slow in coming, but when he came, he _did_ -something. He was a great favorite in his own circle, and whatever he -implied to any one’s disadvantage told doubly from his careless -ironical tone. - -He naturally got tired of smiling and saying, “Ah!” when he was told -that Mr. Peacock’s successor did not mean to dispense medicines; and -Mr. Hackbutt one day mentioning it over the wine at a dinner-party, Mr. -Toller said, laughingly, “Dibbitts will get rid of his stale drugs, -then. I’m fond of little Dibbitts—I’m glad he’s in luck.” - -“I see your meaning, Toller,” said Mr. Hackbutt, “and I am entirely of -your opinion. I shall take an opportunity of expressing myself to that -effect. A medical man should be responsible for the quality of the -drugs consumed by his patients. That is the rationale of the system of -charging which has hitherto obtained; and nothing is more offensive -than this ostentation of reform, where there is no real amelioration.” - -“Ostentation, Hackbutt?” said Mr. Toller, ironically. “I don’t see -that. A man can’t very well be ostentatious of what nobody believes in. -There’s no reform in the matter: the question is, whether the profit on -the drugs is paid to the medical man by the druggist or by the patient, -and whether there shall be extra pay under the name of attendance.” - -“Ah, to be sure; one of your damned new versions of old humbug,” said -Mr. Hawley, passing the decanter to Mr. Wrench. - -Mr. Wrench, generally abstemious, often drank wine rather freely at a -party, getting the more irritable in consequence. - -“As to humbug, Hawley,” he said, “that’s a word easy to fling about. -But what I contend against is the way medical men are fouling their own -nest, and setting up a cry about the country as if a general -practitioner who dispenses drugs couldn’t be a gentleman. I throw back -the imputation with scorn. I say, the most ungentlemanly trick a man -can be guilty of is to come among the members of his profession with -innovations which are a libel on their time-honored procedure. That is -my opinion, and I am ready to maintain it against any one who -contradicts me.” Mr. Wrench’s voice had become exceedingly sharp. - -“I can’t oblige you there, Wrench,” said Mr. Hawley, thrusting his -hands into his trouser-pockets. - -“My dear fellow,” said Mr. Toller, striking in pacifically, and looking -at Mr. Wrench, “the physicians have their toes trodden on more than we -have. If you come to dignity it is a question for Minchin and Sprague.” - -“Does medical jurisprudence provide nothing against these -infringements?” said Mr. Hackbutt, with a disinterested desire to offer -his lights. “How does the law stand, eh, Hawley?” - -“Nothing to be done there,” said Mr. Hawley. “I looked into it for -Sprague. You’d only break your nose against a damned judge’s decision.” - -“Pooh! no need of law,” said Mr. Toller. “So far as practice is -concerned the attempt is an absurdity. No patient will like -it—certainly not Peacock’s, who have been used to depletion. Pass the -wine.” - -Mr. Toller’s prediction was partly verified. If Mr. and Mrs. Mawmsey, -who had no idea of employing Lydgate, were made uneasy by his supposed -declaration against drugs, it was inevitable that those who called him -in should watch a little anxiously to see whether he did “use all the -means he might use” in the case. Even good Mr. Powderell, who in his -constant charity of interpretation was inclined to esteem Lydgate the -more for what seemed a conscientious pursuit of a better plan, had his -mind disturbed with doubts during his wife’s attack of erysipelas, and -could not abstain from mentioning to Lydgate that Mr. Peacock on a -similar occasion had administered a series of boluses which were not -otherwise definable than by their remarkable effect in bringing Mrs. -Powderell round before Michaelmas from an illness which had begun in a -remarkably hot August. At last, indeed, in the conflict between his -desire not to hurt Lydgate and his anxiety that no “means” should be -lacking, he induced his wife privately to take Widgeon’s Purifying -Pills, an esteemed Middlemarch medicine, which arrested every disease -at the fountain by setting to work at once upon the blood. This -co-operative measure was not to be mentioned to Lydgate, and Mr. -Powderell himself had no certain reliance on it, only hoping that it -might be attended with a blessing. - -But in this doubtful stage of Lydgate’s introduction he was helped by -what we mortals rashly call good fortune. I suppose no doctor ever came -newly to a place without making cures that surprised somebody—cures -which may be called fortune’s testimonials, and deserve as much credit -as the written or printed kind. Various patients got well while Lydgate -was attending them, some even of dangerous illnesses; and it was -remarked that the new doctor with his new ways had at least the merit -of bringing people back from the brink of death. The trash talked on -such occasions was the more vexatious to Lydgate, because it gave -precisely the sort of prestige which an incompetent and unscrupulous -man would desire, and was sure to be imputed to him by the simmering -dislike of the other medical men as an encouragement on his own part of -ignorant puffing. But even his proud outspokenness was checked by the -discernment that it was as useless to fight against the interpretations -of ignorance as to whip the fog; and “good fortune” insisted on using -those interpretations. - -Mrs. Larcher having just become charitably concerned about alarming -symptoms in her charwoman, when Dr. Minchin called, asked him to see -her then and there, and to give her a certificate for the Infirmary; -whereupon after examination he wrote a statement of the case as one of -tumor, and recommended the bearer Nancy Nash as an out-patient. Nancy, -calling at home on her way to the Infirmary, allowed the stay maker and -his wife, in whose attic she lodged, to read Dr. Minchin’s paper, and -by this means became a subject of compassionate conversation in the -neighboring shops of Churchyard Lane as being afflicted with a tumor at -first declared to be as large and hard as a duck’s egg, but later in -the day to be about the size of “your fist.” Most hearers agreed that -it would have to be cut out, but one had known of oil and another of -“squitchineal” as adequate to soften and reduce any lump in the body -when taken enough of into the inside—the oil by gradually “soopling,” -the squitchineal by eating away. - -Meanwhile when Nancy presented herself at the Infirmary, it happened to -be one of Lydgate’s days there. After questioning and examining her, -Lydgate said to the house-surgeon in an undertone, “It’s not tumor: -it’s cramp.” He ordered her a blister and some steel mixture, and told -her to go home and rest, giving her at the same time a note to Mrs. -Larcher, who, she said, was her best employer, to testify that she was -in need of good food. - -But by-and-by Nancy, in her attic, became portentously worse, the -supposed tumor having indeed given way to the blister, but only -wandered to another region with angrier pain. The staymaker’s wife went -to fetch Lydgate, and he continued for a fortnight to attend Nancy in -her own home, until under his treatment she got quite well and went to -work again. But the case continued to be described as one of tumor in -Churchyard Lane and other streets—nay, by Mrs. Larcher also; for when -Lydgate’s remarkable cure was mentioned to Dr. Minchin, he naturally -did not like to say, “The case was not one of tumor, and I was mistaken -in describing it as such,” but answered, “Indeed! ah! I saw it was a -surgical case, not of a fatal kind.” He had been inwardly annoyed, -however, when he had asked at the Infirmary about the woman he had -recommended two days before, to hear from the house-surgeon, a -youngster who was not sorry to vex Minchin with impunity, exactly what -had occurred: he privately pronounced that it was indecent in a general -practitioner to contradict a physician’s diagnosis in that open manner, -and afterwards agreed with Wrench that Lydgate was disagreeably -inattentive to etiquette. Lydgate did not make the affair a ground for -valuing himself or (very particularly) despising Minchin, such -rectification of misjudgments often happening among men of equal -qualifications. But report took up this amazing case of tumor, not -clearly distinguished from cancer, and considered the more awful for -being of the wandering sort; till much prejudice against Lydgate’s -method as to drugs was overcome by the proof of his marvellous skill in -the speedy restoration of Nancy Nash after she had been rolling and -rolling in agonies from the presence of a tumor both hard and -obstinate, but nevertheless compelled to yield. - -How could Lydgate help himself? It is offensive to tell a lady when she -is expressing her amazement at your skill, that she is altogether -mistaken and rather foolish in her amazement. And to have entered into -the nature of diseases would only have added to his breaches of medical -propriety. Thus he had to wince under a promise of success given by -that ignorant praise which misses every valid quality. - -In the case of a more conspicuous patient, Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, -Lydgate was conscious of having shown himself something better than an -every-day doctor, though here too it was an equivocal advantage that he -won. The eloquent auctioneer was seized with pneumonia, and having been -a patient of Mr. Peacock’s, sent for Lydgate, whom he had expressed his -intention to patronize. Mr Trumbull was a robust man, a good subject -for trying the expectant theory upon—watching the course of an -interesting disease when left as much as possible to itself, so that -the stages might be noted for future guidance; and from the air with -which he described his sensations Lydgate surmised that he would like -to be taken into his medical man’s confidence, and be represented as a -partner in his own cure. The auctioneer heard, without much surprise, -that his was a constitution which (always with due watching) might be -left to itself, so as to offer a beautiful example of a disease with -all its phases seen in clear delineation, and that he probably had the -rare strength of mind voluntarily to become the test of a rational -procedure, and thus make the disorder of his pulmonary functions a -general benefit to society. - -Mr. Trumbull acquiesced at once, and entered strongly into the view -that an illness of his was no ordinary occasion for medical science. - -“Never fear, sir; you are not speaking to one who is altogether -ignorant of the _vis medicatrix_,” said he, with his usual superiority -of expression, made rather pathetic by difficulty of breathing. And he -went without shrinking through his abstinence from drugs, much -sustained by application of the thermometer which implied the -importance of his temperature, by the sense that he furnished objects -for the microscope, and by learning many new words which seemed suited -to the dignity of his secretions. For Lydgate was acute enough to -indulge him with a little technical talk. - -It may be imagined that Mr. Trumbull rose from his couch with a -disposition to speak of an illness in which he had manifested the -strength of his mind as well as constitution; and he was not backward -in awarding credit to the medical man who had discerned the quality of -patient he had to deal with. The auctioneer was not an ungenerous man, -and liked to give others their due, feeling that he could afford it. He -had caught the words “expectant method,” and rang chimes on this and -other learned phrases to accompany the assurance that Lydgate “knew a -thing or two more than the rest of the doctors—was far better versed in -the secrets of his profession than the majority of his compeers.” - -This had happened before the affair of Fred Vincy’s illness had given -to Mr. Wrench’s enmity towards Lydgate more definite personal ground. -The new-comer already threatened to be a nuisance in the shape of -rivalry, and was certainly a nuisance in the shape of practical -criticism or reflections on his hard-driven elders, who had had -something else to do than to busy themselves with untried notions. His -practice had spread in one or two quarters, and from the first the -report of his high family had led to his being pretty generally -invited, so that the other medical men had to meet him at dinner in the -best houses; and having to meet a man whom you dislike is not observed -always to end in a mutual attachment. There was hardly ever so much -unanimity among them as in the opinion that Lydgate was an arrogant -young fellow, and yet ready for the sake of ultimately predominating to -show a crawling subservience to Bulstrode. That Mr. Farebrother, whose -name was a chief flag of the anti-Bulstrode party, always defended -Lydgate and made a friend of him, was referred to Farebrother’s -unaccountable way of fighting on both sides. - -Here was plenty of preparation for the outburst of professional disgust -at the announcement of the laws Mr. Bulstrode was laying down for the -direction of the New Hospital, which were the more exasperating because -there was no present possibility of interfering with his will and -pleasure, everybody except Lord Medlicote having refused help towards -the building, on the ground that they preferred giving to the Old -Infirmary. Mr. Bulstrode met all the expenses, and had ceased to be -sorry that he was purchasing the right to carry out his notions of -improvement without hindrance from prejudiced coadjutors; but he had -had to spend large sums, and the building had lingered. Caleb Garth had -undertaken it, had failed during its progress, and before the interior -fittings were begun had retired from the management of the business; -and when referring to the Hospital he often said that however Bulstrode -might ring if you tried him, he liked good solid carpentry and masonry, -and had a notion both of drains and chimneys. In fact, the Hospital had -become an object of intense interest to Bulstrode, and he would -willingly have continued to spare a large yearly sum that he might rule -it dictatorially without any Board; but he had another favorite object -which also required money for its accomplishment: he wished to buy some -land in the neighborhood of Middlemarch, and therefore he wished to get -considerable contributions towards maintaining the Hospital. Meanwhile -he framed his plan of management. The Hospital was to be reserved for -fever in all its forms; Lydgate was to be chief medical superintendent, -that he might have free authority to pursue all comparative -investigations which his studies, particularly in Paris, had shown him -the importance of, the other medical visitors having a consultative -influence, but no power to contravene Lydgate’s ultimate decisions; and -the general management was to be lodged exclusively in the hands of -five directors associated with Mr. Bulstrode, who were to have votes in -the ratio of their contributions, the Board itself filling up any -vacancy in its numbers, and no mob of small contributors being admitted -to a share of government. - -There was an immediate refusal on the part of every medical man in the -town to become a visitor at the Fever Hospital. - -“Very well,” said Lydgate to Mr. Bulstrode, “we have a capital -house-surgeon and dispenser, a clear-headed, neat-handed fellow; we’ll -get Webbe from Crabsley, as good a country practitioner as any of them, -to come over twice a-week, and in case of any exceptional operation, -Protheroe will come from Brassing. I must work the harder, that’s all, -and I have given up my post at the Infirmary. The plan will flourish in -spite of them, and then they’ll be glad to come in. Things can’t last -as they are: there must be all sorts of reform soon, and then young -fellows may be glad to come and study here.” Lydgate was in high -spirits. - -“I shall not flinch, you may depend upon it, Mr. Lydgate,” said Mr. -Bulstrode. “While I see you carrying out high intentions with vigor, -you shall have my unfailing support. And I have humble confidence that -the blessing which has hitherto attended my efforts against the spirit -of evil in this town will not be withdrawn. Suitable directors to -assist me I have no doubt of securing. Mr. Brooke of Tipton has already -given me his concurrence, and a pledge to contribute yearly: he has not -specified the sum—probably not a great one. But he will be a useful -member of the board.” - -A useful member was perhaps to be defined as one who would originate -nothing, and always vote with Mr. Bulstrode. - -The medical aversion to Lydgate was hardly disguised now. Neither Dr. -Sprague nor Dr. Minchin said that he disliked Lydgate’s knowledge, or -his disposition to improve treatment: what they disliked was his -arrogance, which nobody felt to be altogether deniable. They implied -that he was insolent, pretentious, and given to that reckless -innovation for the sake of noise and show which was the essence of the -charlatan. - -The word charlatan once thrown on the air could not be let drop. In -those days the world was agitated about the wondrous doings of Mr. St. -John Long, “noblemen and gentlemen” attesting his extraction of a fluid -like mercury from the temples of a patient. - -Mr. Toller remarked one day, smilingly, to Mrs. Taft, that “Bulstrode -had found a man to suit him in Lydgate; a charlatan in religion is sure -to like other sorts of charlatans.” - -“Yes, indeed, I can imagine,” said Mrs. Taft, keeping the number of -thirty stitches carefully in her mind all the while; “there are so many -of that sort. I remember Mr. Cheshire, with his irons, trying to make -people straight when the Almighty had made them crooked.” - -“No, no,” said Mr. Toller, “Cheshire was all right—all fair and above -board. But there’s St. John Long—that’s the kind of fellow we call a -charlatan, advertising cures in ways nobody knows anything about: a -fellow who wants to make a noise by pretending to go deeper than other -people. The other day he was pretending to tap a man’s brain and get -quicksilver out of it.” - -“Good gracious! what dreadful trifling with people’s constitutions!” -said Mrs. Taft. - -After this, it came to be held in various quarters that Lydgate played -even with respectable constitutions for his own purposes, and how much -more likely that in his flighty experimenting he should make sixes and -sevens of hospital patients. Especially it was to be expected, as the -landlady of the Tankard had said, that he would recklessly cut up their -dead bodies. For Lydgate having attended Mrs. Goby, who died apparently -of a heart-disease not very clearly expressed in the symptoms, too -daringly asked leave of her relatives to open the body, and thus gave -an offence quickly spreading beyond Parley Street, where that lady had -long resided on an income such as made this association of her body -with the victims of Burke and Hare a flagrant insult to her memory. - -Affairs were in this stage when Lydgate opened the subject of the -Hospital to Dorothea. We see that he was bearing enmity and silly -misconception with much spirit, aware that they were partly created by -his good share of success. - -“They will not drive me away,” he said, talking confidentially in Mr. -Farebrother’s study. “I have got a good opportunity here, for the ends -I care most about; and I am pretty sure to get income enough for our -wants. By-and-by I shall go on as quietly as possible: I have no -seductions now away from home and work. And I am more and more -convinced that it will be possible to demonstrate the homogeneous -origin of all the tissues. Raspail and others are on the same track, -and I have been losing time.” - -“I have no power of prophecy there,” said Mr. Farebrother, who had been -puffing at his pipe thoughtfully while Lydgate talked; “but as to the -hostility in the town, you’ll weather it if you are prudent.” - -“How am I to be prudent?” said Lydgate, “I just do what comes before me -to do. I can’t help people’s ignorance and spite, any more than -Vesalius could. It isn’t possible to square one’s conduct to silly -conclusions which nobody can foresee.” - -“Quite true; I didn’t mean that. I meant only two things. One is, keep -yourself as separable from Bulstrode as you can: of course, you can go -on doing good work of your own by his help; but don’t get tied. Perhaps -it seems like personal feeling in me to say so—and there’s a good deal -of that, I own—but personal feeling is not always in the wrong if you -boil it down to the impressions which make it simply an opinion.” - -“Bulstrode is nothing to me,” said Lydgate, carelessly, “except on -public grounds. As to getting very closely united to him, I am not fond -enough of him for that. But what was the other thing you meant?” said -Lydgate, who was nursing his leg as comfortably as possible, and -feeling in no great need of advice. - -“Why, this. Take care—_experto crede_—take care not to get hampered -about money matters. I know, by a word you let fall one day, that you -don’t like my playing at cards so much for money. You are right enough -there. But try and keep clear of wanting small sums that you haven’t -got. I am perhaps talking rather superfluously; but a man likes to -assume superiority over himself, by holding up his bad example and -sermonizing on it.” - -Lydgate took Mr. Farebrother’s hints very cordially, though he would -hardly have borne them from another man. He could not help remembering -that he had lately made some debts, but these had seemed inevitable, -and he had no intention now to do more than keep house in a simple way. -The furniture for which he owed would not want renewing; nor even the -stock of wine for a long while. - -Many thoughts cheered him at that time—and justly. A man conscious of -enthusiasm for worthy aims is sustained under petty hostilities by the -memory of great workers who had to fight their way not without wounds, -and who hover in his mind as patron saints, invisibly helping. At home, -that same evening when he had been chatting with Mr. Farebrother, he -had his long legs stretched on the sofa, his head thrown back, and his -hands clasped behind it according to his favorite ruminating attitude, -while Rosamond sat at the piano, and played one tune after another, of -which her husband only knew (like the emotional elephant he was!) that -they fell in with his mood as if they had been melodious sea-breezes. - -There was something very fine in Lydgate’s look just then, and any one -might have been encouraged to bet on his achievement. In his dark eyes -and on his mouth and brow there was that placidity which comes from the -fulness of contemplative thought—the mind not searching, but beholding, -and the glance seeming to be filled with what is behind it. - -Presently Rosamond left the piano and seated herself on a chair close -to the sofa and opposite her husband’s face. - -“Is that enough music for you, my lord?” she said, folding her hands -before her and putting on a little air of meekness. - -“Yes, dear, if you are tired,” said Lydgate, gently, turning his eyes -and resting them on her, but not otherwise moving. Rosamond’s presence -at that moment was perhaps no more than a spoonful brought to the lake, -and her woman’s instinct in this matter was not dull. - -“What is absorbing you?” she said, leaning forward and bringing her -face nearer to his. - -He moved his hands and placed them gently behind her shoulders. - -“I am thinking of a great fellow, who was about as old as I am three -hundred years ago, and had already begun a new era in anatomy.” - -“I can’t guess,” said Rosamond, shaking her head. “We used to play at -guessing historical characters at Mrs. Lemon’s, but not anatomists.” - -“I’ll tell you. His name was Vesalius. And the only way he could get to -know anatomy as he did, was by going to snatch bodies at night, from -graveyards and places of execution.” - -“Oh!” said Rosamond, with a look of disgust on her pretty face, “I am -very glad you are not Vesalius. I should have thought he might find -some less horrible way than that.” - -“No, he couldn’t,” said Lydgate, going on too earnestly to take much -notice of her answer. “He could only get a complete skeleton by -snatching the whitened bones of a criminal from the gallows, and -burying them, and fetching them away by bits secretly, in the dead of -night.” - -“I hope he is not one of your great heroes,” said Rosamond, half -playfully, half anxiously, “else I shall have you getting up in the -night to go to St. Peter’s churchyard. You know how angry you told me -the people were about Mrs. Goby. You have enemies enough already.” - -“So had Vesalius, Rosy. No wonder the medical fogies in Middlemarch are -jealous, when some of the greatest doctors living were fierce upon -Vesalius because they had believed in Galen, and he showed that Galen -was wrong. They called him a liar and a poisonous monster. But the -facts of the human frame were on his side; and so he got the better of -them.” - -“And what happened to him afterwards?” said Rosamond, with some -interest. - -“Oh, he had a good deal of fighting to the last. And they did -exasperate him enough at one time to make him burn a good deal of his -work. Then he got shipwrecked just as he was coming from Jerusalem to -take a great chair at Padua. He died rather miserably.” - -There was a moment’s pause before Rosamond said, “Do you know, Tertius, -I often wish you had not been a medical man.” - -“Nay, Rosy, don’t say that,” said Lydgate, drawing her closer to him. -“That is like saying you wish you had married another man.” - -“Not at all; you are clever enough for anything: you might easily have -been something else. And your cousins at Quallingham all think that you -have sunk below them in your choice of a profession.” - -“The cousins at Quallingham may go to the devil!” said Lydgate, with -scorn. “It was like their impudence if they said anything of the sort -to you.” - -“Still,” said Rosamond, “I do _not_ think it is a nice profession, -dear.” We know that she had much quiet perseverance in her opinion. - -“It is the grandest profession in the world, Rosamond,” said Lydgate, -gravely. “And to say that you love me without loving the medical man in -me, is the same sort of thing as to say that you like eating a peach -but don’t like its flavor. Don’t say that again, dear, it pains me.” - -“Very well, Doctor Grave-face,” said Rosy, dimpling, “I will declare in -future that I dote on skeletons, and body-snatchers, and bits of things -in phials, and quarrels with everybody, that end in your dying -miserably.” - -“No, no, not so bad as that,” said Lydgate, giving up remonstrance and -petting her resignedly. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI. - -Pues no podemos haber aquello que queremos, queramos aquello que -podremos. - -Since we cannot get what we like, let us like what we can get.—_Spanish -Proverb_. - - -While Lydgate, safely married and with the Hospital under his command, -felt himself struggling for Medical Reform against Middlemarch, -Middlemarch was becoming more and more conscious of the national -struggle for another kind of Reform. - -By the time that Lord John Russell’s measure was being debated in the -House of Commons, there was a new political animation in Middlemarch, -and a new definition of parties which might show a decided change of -balance if a new election came. And there were some who already -predicted this event, declaring that a Reform Bill would never be -carried by the actual Parliament. This was what Will Ladislaw dwelt on -to Mr. Brooke as a reason for congratulation that he had not yet tried -his strength at the hustings. - -“Things will grow and ripen as if it were a comet year,” said Will. -“The public temper will soon get to a cometary heat, now the question -of Reform has set in. There is likely to be another election before -long, and by that time Middlemarch will have got more ideas into its -head. What we have to work at now is the ‘Pioneer’ and political -meetings.” - -“Quite right, Ladislaw; we shall make a new thing of opinion here,” -said Mr. Brooke. “Only I want to keep myself independent about Reform, -you know; I don’t want to go too far. I want to take up Wilberforce’s -and Romilly’s line, you know, and work at Negro Emancipation, Criminal -Law—that kind of thing. But of course I should support Grey.” - -“If you go in for the principle of Reform, you must be prepared to take -what the situation offers,” said Will. “If everybody pulled for his own -bit against everybody else, the whole question would go to tatters.” - -“Yes, yes, I agree with you—I quite take that point of view. I should -put it in that light. I should support Grey, you know. But I don’t want -to change the balance of the constitution, and I don’t think Grey -would.” - -“But that is what the country wants,” said Will. “Else there would be -no meaning in political unions or any other movement that knows what -it’s about. It wants to have a House of Commons which is not weighted -with nominees of the landed class, but with representatives of the -other interests. And as to contending for a reform short of that, it is -like asking for a bit of an avalanche which has already begun to -thunder.” - -“That is fine, Ladislaw: that is the way to put it. Write that down, -now. We must begin to get documents about the feeling of the country, -as well as the machine-breaking and general distress.” - -“As to documents,” said Will, “a two-inch card will hold plenty. A few -rows of figures are enough to deduce misery from, and a few more will -show the rate at which the political determination of the people is -growing.” - -“Good: draw that out a little more at length, Ladislaw. That is an -idea, now: write it out in the ‘Pioneer.’ Put the figures and deduce -the misery, you know; and put the other figures and deduce—and so on. -You have a way of putting things. Burke, now:—when I think of Burke, I -can’t help wishing somebody had a pocket-borough to give you, Ladislaw. -You’d never get elected, you know. And we shall always want talent in -the House: reform as we will, we shall always want talent. That -avalanche and the thunder, now, was really a little like Burke. I want -that sort of thing—not ideas, you know, but a way of putting them.” - -“Pocket-boroughs would be a fine thing,” said Ladislaw, “if they were -always in the right pocket, and there were always a Burke at hand.” - -Will was not displeased with that complimentary comparison, even from -Mr. Brooke; for it is a little too trying to human flesh to be -conscious of expressing one’s self better than others and never to have -it noticed, and in the general dearth of admiration for the right -thing, even a chance bray of applause falling exactly in time is rather -fortifying. Will felt that his literary refinements were usually beyond -the limits of Middlemarch perception; nevertheless, he was beginning -thoroughly to like the work of which when he began he had said to -himself rather languidly, “Why not?”—and he studied the political -situation with as ardent an interest as he had ever given to poetic -metres or mediaevalism. It is undeniable that but for the desire to be -where Dorothea was, and perhaps the want of knowing what else to do, -Will would not at this time have been meditating on the needs of the -English people or criticising English statesmanship: he would probably -have been rambling in Italy sketching plans for several dramas, trying -prose and finding it too jejune, trying verse and finding it too -artificial, beginning to copy “bits” from old pictures, leaving off -because they were “no good,” and observing that, after all, -self-culture was the principal point; while in politics he would have -been sympathizing warmly with liberty and progress in general. Our -sense of duty must often wait for some work which shall take the place -of dilettanteism and make us feel that the quality of our action is not -a matter of indifference. - -Ladislaw had now accepted his bit of work, though it was not that -indeterminate loftiest thing which he had once dreamed of as alone -worthy of continuous effort. His nature warmed easily in the presence -of subjects which were visibly mixed with life and action, and the -easily stirred rebellion in him helped the glow of public spirit. In -spite of Mr. Casaubon and the banishment from Lowick, he was rather -happy; getting a great deal of fresh knowledge in a vivid way and for -practical purposes, and making the “Pioneer” celebrated as far as -Brassing (never mind the smallness of the area; the writing was not -worse than much that reaches the four corners of the earth). - -Mr. Brooke was occasionally irritating; but Will’s impatience was -relieved by the division of his time between visits to the Grange and -retreats to his Middlemarch lodgings, which gave variety to his life. - -“Shift the pegs a little,” he said to himself, “and Mr. Brooke might be -in the Cabinet, while I was Under-Secretary. That is the common order -of things: the little waves make the large ones and are of the same -pattern. I am better here than in the sort of life Mr. Casaubon would -have trained me for, where the doing would be all laid down by a -precedent too rigid for me to react upon. I don’t care for prestige or -high pay.” - -As Lydgate had said of him, he was a sort of gypsy, rather enjoying the -sense of belonging to no class; he had a feeling of romance in his -position, and a pleasant consciousness of creating a little surprise -wherever he went. That sort of enjoyment had been disturbed when he had -felt some new distance between himself and Dorothea in their accidental -meeting at Lydgate’s, and his irritation had gone out towards Mr. -Casaubon, who had declared beforehand that Will would lose caste. “I -never had any caste,” he would have said, if that prophecy had been -uttered to him, and the quick blood would have come and gone like -breath in his transparent skin. But it is one thing to like defiance, -and another thing to like its consequences. - -Meanwhile, the town opinion about the new editor of the “Pioneer” was -tending to confirm Mr. Casaubon’s view. Will’s relationship in that -distinguished quarter did not, like Lydgate’s high connections, serve -as an advantageous introduction: if it was rumored that young Ladislaw -was Mr. Casaubon’s nephew or cousin, it was also rumored that “Mr. -Casaubon would have nothing to do with him.” - -“Brooke has taken him up,” said Mr. Hawley, “because that is what no -man in his senses could have expected. Casaubon has devilish good -reasons, you may be sure, for turning the cold shoulder on a young -fellow whose bringing-up he paid for. Just like Brooke—one of those -fellows who would praise a cat to sell a horse.” - -And some oddities of Will’s, more or less poetical, appeared to support -Mr. Keck, the editor of the “Trumpet,” in asserting that Ladislaw, if -the truth were known, was not only a Polish emissary but crack-brained, -which accounted for the preternatural quickness and glibness of his -speech when he got on to a platform—as he did whenever he had an -opportunity, speaking with a facility which cast reflections on solid -Englishmen generally. It was disgusting to Keck to see a strip of a -fellow, with light curls round his head, get up and speechify by the -hour against institutions “which had existed when he was in his -cradle.” And in a leading article of the “Trumpet,” Keck characterized -Ladislaw’s speech at a Reform meeting as “the violence of an -energumen—a miserable effort to shroud in the brilliancy of fireworks -the daring of irresponsible statements and the poverty of a knowledge -which was of the cheapest and most recent description.” - -“That was a rattling article yesterday, Keck,” said Dr. Sprague, with -sarcastic intentions. “But what is an energumen?” - -“Oh, a term that came up in the French Revolution,” said Keck. - -This dangerous aspect of Ladislaw was strangely contrasted with other -habits which became matter of remark. He had a fondness, half artistic, -half affectionate, for little children—the smaller they were on -tolerably active legs, and the funnier their clothing, the better Will -liked to surprise and please them. We know that in Rome he was given to -ramble about among the poor people, and the taste did not quit him in -Middlemarch. - -He had somehow picked up a troop of droll children, little hatless boys -with their galligaskins much worn and scant shirting to hang out, -little girls who tossed their hair out of their eyes to look at him, -and guardian brothers at the mature age of seven. This troop he had led -out on gypsy excursions to Halsell Wood at nutting-time, and since the -cold weather had set in he had taken them on a clear day to gather -sticks for a bonfire in the hollow of a hillside, where he drew out a -small feast of gingerbread for them, and improvised a Punch-and-Judy -drama with some private home-made puppets. Here was one oddity. Another -was, that in houses where he got friendly, he was given to stretch -himself at full length on the rug while he talked, and was apt to be -discovered in this attitude by occasional callers for whom such an -irregularity was likely to confirm the notions of his dangerously mixed -blood and general laxity. - -But Will’s articles and speeches naturally recommended him in families -which the new strictness of party division had marked off on the side -of Reform. He was invited to Mr. Bulstrode’s; but here he could not lie -down on the rug, and Mrs. Bulstrode felt that his mode of talking about -Catholic countries, as if there were any truce with Antichrist, -illustrated the usual tendency to unsoundness in intellectual men. - -At Mr. Farebrother’s, however, whom the irony of events had brought on -the same side with Bulstrode in the national movement, Will became a -favorite with the ladies; especially with little Miss Noble, whom it -was one of his oddities to escort when he met her in the street with -her little basket, giving her his arm in the eyes of the town, and -insisting on going with her to pay some call where she distributed her -small filchings from her own share of sweet things. - -But the house where he visited oftenest and lay most on the rug was -Lydgate’s. The two men were not at all alike, but they agreed none the -worse. Lydgate was abrupt but not irritable, taking little notice of -megrims in healthy people; and Ladislaw did not usually throw away his -susceptibilities on those who took no notice of them. With Rosamond, on -the other hand, he pouted and was wayward—nay, often uncomplimentary, -much to her inward surprise; nevertheless he was gradually becoming -necessary to her entertainment by his companionship in her music, his -varied talk, and his freedom from the grave preoccupation which, with -all her husband’s tenderness and indulgence, often made his manners -unsatisfactory to her, and confirmed her dislike of the medical -profession. - -Lydgate, inclined to be sarcastic on the superstitious faith of the -people in the efficacy of “the bill,” while nobody cared about the low -state of pathology, sometimes assailed Will with troublesome questions. -One evening in March, Rosamond in her cherry-colored dress with -swansdown trimming about the throat sat at the tea-table; Lydgate, -lately come in tired from his outdoor work, was seated sideways on an -easy-chair by the fire with one leg over the elbow, his brow looking a -little troubled as his eyes rambled over the columns of the “Pioneer,” -while Rosamond, having noticed that he was perturbed, avoided looking -at him, and inwardly thanked heaven that she herself had not a moody -disposition. Will Ladislaw was stretched on the rug contemplating the -curtain-pole abstractedly, and humming very low the notes of “When -first I saw thy face;” while the house spaniel, also stretched out with -small choice of room, looked from between his paws at the usurper of -the rug with silent but strong objection. - -Rosamond bringing Lydgate his cup of tea, he threw down the paper, and -said to Will, who had started up and gone to the table— - -“It’s no use your puffing Brooke as a reforming landlord, Ladislaw: -they only pick the more holes in his coat in the ‘Trumpet.’” - -“No matter; those who read the ‘Pioneer’ don’t read the ‘Trumpet,’” -said Will, swallowing his tea and walking about. “Do you suppose the -public reads with a view to its own conversion? We should have a -witches’ brewing with a vengeance then—‘Mingle, mingle, mingle, mingle, -You that mingle may’—and nobody would know which side he was going to -take.” - -“Farebrother says, he doesn’t believe Brooke would get elected if the -opportunity came: the very men who profess to be for him would bring -another member out of the bag at the right moment.” - -“There’s no harm in trying. It’s good to have resident members.” - -“Why?” said Lydgate, who was much given to use that inconvenient word -in a curt tone. - -“They represent the local stupidity better,” said Will, laughing, and -shaking his curls; “and they are kept on their best behavior in the -neighborhood. Brooke is not a bad fellow, but he has done some good -things on his estate that he never would have done but for this -Parliamentary bite.” - -“He’s not fitted to be a public man,” said Lydgate, with contemptuous -decision. “He would disappoint everybody who counted on him: I can see -that at the Hospital. Only, there Bulstrode holds the reins and drives -him.” - -“That depends on how you fix your standard of public men,” said Will. -“He’s good enough for the occasion: when the people have made up their -mind as they are making it up now, they don’t want a man—they only want -a vote.” - -“That is the way with you political writers, Ladislaw—crying up a -measure as if it were a universal cure, and crying up men who are a -part of the very disease that wants curing.” - -“Why not? Men may help to cure themselves off the face of the land -without knowing it,” said Will, who could find reasons impromptu, when -he had not thought of a question beforehand. - -“That is no excuse for encouraging the superstitious exaggeration of -hopes about this particular measure, helping the cry to swallow it -whole and to send up voting popinjays who are good for nothing but to -carry it. You go against rottenness, and there is nothing more -thoroughly rotten than making people believe that society can be cured -by a political hocus-pocus.” - -“That’s very fine, my dear fellow. But your cure must begin somewhere, -and put it that a thousand things which debase a population can never -be reformed without this particular reform to begin with. Look what -Stanley said the other day—that the House had been tinkering long -enough at small questions of bribery, inquiring whether this or that -voter has had a guinea when everybody knows that the seats have been -sold wholesale. Wait for wisdom and conscience in public -agents—fiddlestick! The only conscience we can trust to is the massive -sense of wrong in a class, and the best wisdom that will work is the -wisdom of balancing claims. That’s my text—which side is injured? I -support the man who supports their claims; not the virtuous upholder of -the wrong.” - -“That general talk about a particular case is mere question begging, -Ladislaw. When I say, I go in for the dose that cures, it doesn’t -follow that I go in for opium in a given case of gout.” - -“I am not begging the question we are upon—whether we are to try for -nothing till we find immaculate men to work with. Should you go on that -plan? If there were one man who would carry you a medical reform and -another who would oppose it, should you inquire which had the better -motives or even the better brains?” - -“Oh, of course,” said Lydgate, seeing himself checkmated by a move -which he had often used himself, “if one did not work with such men as -are at hand, things must come to a dead-lock. Suppose the worst opinion -in the town about Bulstrode were a true one, that would not make it -less true that he has the sense and the resolution to do what I think -ought to be done in the matters I know and care most about; but that is -the only ground on which I go with him,” Lydgate added rather proudly, -bearing in mind Mr. Farebrother’s remarks. “He is nothing to me -otherwise; I would not cry him up on any personal ground—I would keep -clear of that.” - -“Do you mean that I cry up Brooke on any personal ground?” said Will -Ladislaw, nettled, and turning sharp round. For the first time he felt -offended with Lydgate; not the less so, perhaps, because he would have -declined any close inquiry into the growth of his relation to Mr. -Brooke. - -“Not at all,” said Lydgate, “I was simply explaining my own action. I -meant that a man may work for a special end with others whose motives -and general course are equivocal, if he is quite sure of his personal -independence, and that he is not working for his private -interest—either place or money.” - -“Then, why don’t you extend your liberality to others?” said Will, -still nettled. “My personal independence is as important to me as yours -is to you. You have no more reason to imagine that I have personal -expectations from Brooke, than I have to imagine that you have personal -expectations from Bulstrode. Motives are points of honor, I -suppose—nobody can prove them. But as to money and place in the world,” -Will ended, tossing back his head, “I think it is pretty clear that I -am not determined by considerations of that sort.” - -“You quite mistake me, Ladislaw,” said Lydgate, surprised. He had been -preoccupied with his own vindication, and had been blind to what -Ladislaw might infer on his own account. “I beg your pardon for -unintentionally annoying you. In fact, I should rather attribute to you -a romantic disregard of your own worldly interests. On the political -question, I referred simply to intellectual bias.” - -“How very unpleasant you both are this evening!” said Rosamond. “I -cannot conceive why money should have been referred to. Politics and -Medicine are sufficiently disagreeable to quarrel upon. You can both of -you go on quarrelling with all the world and with each other on those -two topics.” - -Rosamond looked mildly neutral as she said this, rising to ring the -bell, and then crossing to her work-table. - -“Poor Rosy!” said Lydgate, putting out his hand to her as she was -passing him. “Disputation is not amusing to cherubs. Have some music. -Ask Ladislaw to sing with you.” - -When Will was gone Rosamond said to her husband, “What put you out of -temper this evening, Tertius?” - -“Me? It was Ladislaw who was out of temper. He is like a bit of -tinder.” - -“But I mean, before that. Something had vexed you before you came in, -you looked cross. And that made you begin to dispute with Mr. Ladislaw. -You hurt me very much when you look so, Tertius.” - -“Do I? Then I am a brute,” said Lydgate, caressing her penitently. - -“What vexed you?” - -“Oh, outdoor things—business.” It was really a letter insisting on the -payment of a bill for furniture. But Rosamond was expecting to have a -baby, and Lydgate wished to save her from any perturbation. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII. - -Was never true love loved in vain, -For truest love is highest gain. -No art can make it: it must spring -Where elements are fostering. -So in heaven’s spot and hour -Springs the little native flower, -Downward root and upward eye, -Shapen by the earth and sky. - - -It happened to be on a Saturday evening that Will Ladislaw had that -little discussion with Lydgate. Its effect when he went to his own -rooms was to make him sit up half the night, thinking over again, under -a new irritation, all that he had before thought of his having settled -in Middlemarch and harnessed himself with Mr. Brooke. Hesitations -before he had taken the step had since turned into susceptibility to -every hint that he would have been wiser not to take it; and hence came -his heat towards Lydgate—a heat which still kept him restless. Was he -not making a fool of himself?—and at a time when he was more than ever -conscious of being something better than a fool? And for what end? - -Well, for no definite end. True, he had dreamy visions of -possibilities: there is no human being who having both passions and -thoughts does not think in consequence of his passions—does not find -images rising in his mind which soothe the passion with hope or sting -it with dread. But this, which happens to us all, happens to some with -a wide difference; and Will was not one of those whose wit “keeps the -roadway:” he had his bypaths where there were little joys of his own -choosing, such as gentlemen cantering on the highroad might have -thought rather idiotic. The way in which he made a sort of happiness -for himself out of his feeling for Dorothea was an example of this. It -may seem strange, but it is the fact, that the ordinary vulgar vision -of which Mr. Casaubon suspected him—namely, that Dorothea might become -a widow, and that the interest he had established in her mind might -turn into acceptance of him as a husband—had no tempting, arresting -power over him; he did not live in the scenery of such an event, and -follow it out, as we all do with that imagined “otherwise” which is our -practical heaven. It was not only that he was unwilling to entertain -thoughts which could be accused of baseness, and was already uneasy in -the sense that he had to justify himself from the charge of -ingratitude—the latent consciousness of many other barriers between -himself and Dorothea besides the existence of her husband, had helped -to turn away his imagination from speculating on what might befall Mr. -Casaubon. And there were yet other reasons. Will, we know, could not -bear the thought of any flaw appearing in his crystal: he was at once -exasperated and delighted by the calm freedom with which Dorothea -looked at him and spoke to him, and there was something so exquisite in -thinking of her just as she was, that he could not long for a change -which must somehow change her. Do we not shun the street version of a -fine melody?—or shrink from the news that the rarity—some bit of -chiselling or engraving perhaps—which we have dwelt on even with -exultation in the trouble it has cost us to snatch glimpses of it, is -really not an uncommon thing, and may be obtained as an every-day -possession? Our good depends on the quality and breadth of our emotion; -and to Will, a creature who cared little for what are called the solid -things of life and greatly for its subtler influences, to have within -him such a feeling as he had towards Dorothea, was like the inheritance -of a fortune. What others might have called the futility of his -passion, made an additional delight for his imagination: he was -conscious of a generous movement, and of verifying in his own -experience that higher love-poetry which had charmed his fancy. -Dorothea, he said to himself, was forever enthroned in his soul: no -other woman could sit higher than her footstool; and if he could have -written out in immortal syllables the effect she wrought within him, he -might have boasted after the example of old Drayton, that,— - -“Queens hereafter might be glad to live -Upon the alms of her superfluous praise.” - - -But this result was questionable. And what else could he do for -Dorothea? What was his devotion worth to her? It was impossible to -tell. He would not go out of her reach. He saw no creature among her -friends to whom he could believe that she spoke with the same simple -confidence as to him. She had once said that she would like him to -stay; and stay he would, whatever fire-breathing dragons might hiss -around her. - -This had always been the conclusion of Will’s hesitations. But he was -not without contradictoriness and rebellion even towards his own -resolve. He had often got irritated, as he was on this particular -night, by some outside demonstration that his public exertions with Mr. -Brooke as a chief could not seem as heroic as he would like them to be, -and this was always associated with the other ground of irritation—that -notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for Dorothea’s sake, he could -hardly ever see her. Whereupon, not being able to contradict these -unpleasant facts, he contradicted his own strongest bias and said, “I -am a fool.” - -Nevertheless, since the inward debate necessarily turned on Dorothea, -he ended, as he had done before, only by getting a livelier sense of -what her presence would be to him; and suddenly reflecting that the -morrow would be Sunday, he determined to go to Lowick Church and see -her. He slept upon that idea, but when he was dressing in the rational -morning light, Objection said— - -“That will be a virtual defiance of Mr. Casaubon’s prohibition to visit -Lowick, and Dorothea will be displeased.” - -“Nonsense!” argued Inclination, “it would be too monstrous for him to -hinder me from going out to a pretty country church on a spring -morning. And Dorothea will be glad.” - -“It will be clear to Mr. Casaubon that you have come either to annoy -him or to see Dorothea.” - -“It is not true that I go to annoy him, and why should I not go to see -Dorothea? Is he to have everything to himself and be always -comfortable? Let him smart a little, as other people are obliged to do. -I have always liked the quaintness of the church and congregation; -besides, I know the Tuckers: I shall go into their pew.” - -Having silenced Objection by force of unreason, Will walked to Lowick -as if he had been on the way to Paradise, crossing Halsell Common and -skirting the wood, where the sunlight fell broadly under the budding -boughs, bringing out the beauties of moss and lichen, and fresh green -growths piercing the brown. Everything seemed to know that it was -Sunday, and to approve of his going to Lowick Church. Will easily felt -happy when nothing crossed his humor, and by this time the thought of -vexing Mr. Casaubon had become rather amusing to him, making his face -break into its merry smile, pleasant to see as the breaking of sunshine -on the water—though the occasion was not exemplary. But most of us are -apt to settle within ourselves that the man who blocks our way is -odious, and not to mind causing him a little of the disgust which his -personality excites in ourselves. Will went along with a small book -under his arm and a hand in each side-pocket, never reading, but -chanting a little, as he made scenes of what would happen in church and -coming out. He was experimenting in tunes to suit some words of his -own, sometimes trying a ready-made melody, sometimes improvising. The -words were not exactly a hymn, but they certainly fitted his Sunday -experience:— - -“O me, O me, what frugal cheer - My love doth feed upon! -A touch, a ray, that is not here, - A shadow that is gone: - -“A dream of breath that might be near, - An inly-echoed tone, -The thought that one may think me dear, - The place where one was known, - -“The tremor of a banished fear, - An ill that was not done— -O me, O me, what frugal cheer - My love doth feed upon!” - - -Sometimes, when he took off his hat, shaking his head backward, and -showing his delicate throat as he sang, he looked like an incarnation -of the spring whose spirit filled the air—a bright creature, abundant -in uncertain promises. - -The bells were still ringing when he got to Lowick, and he went into -the curate’s pew before any one else arrived there. But he was still -left alone in it when the congregation had assembled. The curate’s pew -was opposite the rector’s at the entrance of the small chancel, and -Will had time to fear that Dorothea might not come while he looked -round at the group of rural faces which made the congregation from year -to year within the white-washed walls and dark old pews, hardly with -more change than we see in the boughs of a tree which breaks here and -there with age, but yet has young shoots. Mr. Rigg’s frog-face was -something alien and unaccountable, but notwithstanding this shock to -the order of things, there were still the Waules and the rural stock of -the Powderells in their pews side by side; brother Samuel’s cheek had -the same purple round as ever, and the three generations of decent -cottagers came as of old with a sense of duty to their betters -generally—the smaller children regarding Mr. Casaubon, who wore the -black gown and mounted to the highest box, as probably the chief of all -betters, and the one most awful if offended. Even in 1831 Lowick was at -peace, not more agitated by Reform than by the solemn tenor of the -Sunday sermon. The congregation had been used to seeing Will at church -in former days, and no one took much note of him except the choir, who -expected him to make a figure in the singing. - -Dorothea did at last appear on this quaint background, walking up the -short aisle in her white beaver bonnet and gray cloak—the same she had -worn in the Vatican. Her face being, from her entrance, towards the -chancel, even her shortsighted eyes soon discerned Will, but there was -no outward show of her feeling except a slight paleness and a grave bow -as she passed him. To his own surprise Will felt suddenly -uncomfortable, and dared not look at her after they had bowed to each -other. Two minutes later, when Mr. Casaubon came out of the vestry, -and, entering the pew, seated himself in face of Dorothea, Will felt -his paralysis more complete. He could look nowhere except at the choir -in the little gallery over the vestry-door: Dorothea was perhaps -pained, and he had made a wretched blunder. It was no longer amusing to -vex Mr. Casaubon, who had the advantage probably of watching him and -seeing that he dared not turn his head. Why had he not imagined this -beforehand?—but he could not expect that he should sit in that square -pew alone, unrelieved by any Tuckers, who had apparently departed from -Lowick altogether, for a new clergyman was in the desk. Still he called -himself stupid now for not foreseeing that it would be impossible for -him to look towards Dorothea—nay, that she might feel his coming an -impertinence. There was no delivering himself from his cage, however; -and Will found his places and looked at his book as if he had been a -school-mistress, feeling that the morning service had never been so -immeasurably long before, that he was utterly ridiculous, out of -temper, and miserable. This was what a man got by worshipping the sight -of a woman! The clerk observed with surprise that Mr. Ladislaw did not -join in the tune of Hanover, and reflected that he might have a cold. - -Mr. Casaubon did not preach that morning, and there was no change in -Will’s situation until the blessing had been pronounced and every one -rose. It was the fashion at Lowick for “the betters” to go out first. -With a sudden determination to break the spell that was upon him, Will -looked straight at Mr. Casaubon. But that gentleman’s eyes were on the -button of the pew-door, which he opened, allowing Dorothea to pass, and -following her immediately without raising his eyelids. Will’s glance -had caught Dorothea’s as she turned out of the pew, and again she -bowed, but this time with a look of agitation, as if she were -repressing tears. Will walked out after them, but they went on towards -the little gate leading out of the churchyard into the shrubbery, never -looking round. - -It was impossible for him to follow them, and he could only walk back -sadly at mid-day along the same road which he had trodden hopefully in -the morning. The lights were all changed for him both without and -within. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII. - -Surely the golden hours are turning gray -And dance no more, and vainly strive to run: -I see their white locks streaming in the wind— -Each face is haggard as it looks at me, -Slow turning in the constant clasping round -Storm-driven. - - -Dorothea’s distress when she was leaving the church came chiefly from -the perception that Mr. Casaubon was determined not to speak to his -cousin, and that Will’s presence at church had served to mark more -strongly the alienation between them. Will’s coming seemed to her quite -excusable, nay, she thought it an amiable movement in him towards a -reconciliation which she herself had been constantly wishing for. He -had probably imagined, as she had, that if Mr. Casaubon and he could -meet easily, they would shake hands and friendly intercourse might -return. But now Dorothea felt quite robbed of that hope. Will was -banished further than ever, for Mr. Casaubon must have been newly -embittered by this thrusting upon him of a presence which he refused to -recognize. - -He had not been very well that morning, suffering from some difficulty -in breathing, and had not preached in consequence; she was not -surprised, therefore, that he was nearly silent at luncheon, still less -that he made no allusion to Will Ladislaw. For her own part she felt -that she could never again introduce that subject. They usually spent -apart the hours between luncheon and dinner on a Sunday; Mr. Casaubon -in the library dozing chiefly, and Dorothea in her boudoir, where she -was wont to occupy herself with some of her favorite books. There was a -little heap of them on the table in the bow-window—of various sorts, -from Herodotus, which she was learning to read with Mr. Casaubon, to -her old companion Pascal, and Keble’s “Christian Year.” But to-day she -opened one after another, and could read none of them. Everything -seemed dreary: the portents before the birth of Cyrus—Jewish -antiquities—oh dear!—devout epigrams—the sacred chime of favorite -hymns—all alike were as flat as tunes beaten on wood: even the spring -flowers and the grass had a dull shiver in them under the afternoon -clouds that hid the sun fitfully; even the sustaining thoughts which -had become habits seemed to have in them the weariness of long future -days in which she would still live with them for her sole companions. -It was another or rather a fuller sort of companionship that poor -Dorothea was hungering for, and the hunger had grown from the perpetual -effort demanded by her married life. She was always trying to be what -her husband wished, and never able to repose on his delight in what she -was. The thing that she liked, that she spontaneously cared to have, -seemed to be always excluded from her life; for if it was only granted -and not shared by her husband it might as well have been denied. About -Will Ladislaw there had been a difference between them from the first, -and it had ended, since Mr. Casaubon had so severely repulsed -Dorothea’s strong feeling about his claims on the family property, by -her being convinced that she was in the right and her husband in the -wrong, but that she was helpless. This afternoon the helplessness was -more wretchedly benumbing than ever: she longed for objects who could -be dear to her, and to whom she could be dear. She longed for work -which would be directly beneficent like the sunshine and the rain, and -now it appeared that she was to live more and more in a virtual tomb, -where there was the apparatus of a ghastly labor producing what would -never see the light. Today she had stood at the door of the tomb and -seen Will Ladislaw receding into the distant world of warm activity and -fellowship—turning his face towards her as he went. - -Books were of no use. Thinking was of no use. It was Sunday, and she -could not have the carriage to go to Celia, who had lately had a baby. -There was no refuge now from spiritual emptiness and discontent, and -Dorothea had to bear her bad mood, as she would have borne a headache. - -After dinner, at the hour when she usually began to read aloud, Mr. -Casaubon proposed that they should go into the library, where, he said, -he had ordered a fire and lights. He seemed to have revived, and to be -thinking intently. - -In the library Dorothea observed that he had newly arranged a row of -his note-books on a table, and now he took up and put into her hand a -well-known volume, which was a table of contents to all the others. - -“You will oblige me, my dear,” he said, seating himself, “if instead of -other reading this evening, you will go through this aloud, pencil in -hand, and at each point where I say ‘mark,’ will make a cross with your -pencil. This is the first step in a sifting process which I have long -had in view, and as we go on I shall be able to indicate to you certain -principles of selection whereby you will, I trust, have an intelligent -participation in my purpose.” - -This proposal was only one more sign added to many since his memorable -interview with Lydgate, that Mr. Casaubon’s original reluctance to let -Dorothea work with him had given place to the contrary disposition, -namely, to demand much interest and labor from her. - -After she had read and marked for two hours, he said, “We will take the -volume up-stairs—and the pencil, if you please—and in case of reading -in the night, we can pursue this task. It is not wearisome to you, I -trust, Dorothea?” - -“I prefer always reading what you like best to hear,” said Dorothea, -who told the simple truth; for what she dreaded was to exert herself in -reading or anything else which left him as joyless as ever. - -It was a proof of the force with which certain characteristics in -Dorothea impressed those around her, that her husband, with all his -jealousy and suspicion, had gathered implicit trust in the integrity of -her promises, and her power of devoting herself to her idea of the -right and best. Of late he had begun to feel that these qualities were -a peculiar possession for himself, and he wanted to engross them. - -The reading in the night did come. Dorothea in her young weariness had -slept soon and fast: she was awakened by a sense of light, which seemed -to her at first like a sudden vision of sunset after she had climbed a -steep hill: she opened her eyes and saw her husband wrapped in his warm -gown seating himself in the arm-chair near the fire-place where the -embers were still glowing. He had lit two candles, expecting that -Dorothea would awake, but not liking to rouse her by more direct means. - -“Are you ill, Edward?” she said, rising immediately. - -“I felt some uneasiness in a reclining posture. I will sit here for a -time.” She threw wood on the fire, wrapped herself up, and said, “You -would like me to read to you?” - -“You would oblige me greatly by doing so, Dorothea,” said Mr. Casaubon, -with a shade more meekness than usual in his polite manner. “I am -wakeful: my mind is remarkably lucid.” - -“I fear that the excitement may be too great for you,” said Dorothea, -remembering Lydgate’s cautions. - -“No, I am not conscious of undue excitement. Thought is easy.” Dorothea -dared not insist, and she read for an hour or more on the same plan as -she had done in the evening, but getting over the pages with more -quickness. Mr. Casaubon’s mind was more alert, and he seemed to -anticipate what was coming after a very slight verbal indication, -saying, “That will do—mark that”—or “Pass on to the next head—I omit -the second excursus on Crete.” Dorothea was amazed to think of the -bird-like speed with which his mind was surveying the ground where it -had been creeping for years. At last he said— - -“Close the book now, my dear. We will resume our work to-morrow. I have -deferred it too long, and would gladly see it completed. But you -observe that the principle on which my selection is made, is to give -adequate, and not disproportionate illustration to each of the theses -enumerated in my introduction, as at present sketched. You have -perceived that distinctly, Dorothea?” - -“Yes,” said Dorothea, rather tremulously. She felt sick at heart. - -“And now I think that I can take some repose,” said Mr. Casaubon. He -laid down again and begged her to put out the lights. When she had lain -down too, and there was a darkness only broken by a dull glow on the -hearth, he said— - -“Before I sleep, I have a request to make, Dorothea.” - -“What is it?” said Dorothea, with dread in her mind. - -“It is that you will let me know, deliberately, whether, in case of my -death, you will carry out my wishes: whether you will avoid doing what -I should deprecate, and apply yourself to do what I should desire.” - -Dorothea was not taken by surprise: many incidents had been leading her -to the conjecture of some intention on her husband’s part which might -make a new yoke for her. She did not answer immediately. - -“You refuse?” said Mr. Casaubon, with more edge in his tone. - -“No, I do not yet refuse,” said Dorothea, in a clear voice, the need of -freedom asserting itself within her; “but it is too solemn—I think it -is not right—to make a promise when I am ignorant what it will bind me -to. Whatever affection prompted I would do without promising.” - -“But you would use your own judgment: I ask you to obey mine; you -refuse.” - -“No, dear, no!” said Dorothea, beseechingly, crushed by opposing fears. -“But may I wait and reflect a little while? I desire with my whole soul -to do what will comfort you; but I cannot give any pledge -suddenly—still less a pledge to do I know not what.” - -“You cannot then confide in the nature of my wishes?” - -“Grant me till to-morrow,” said Dorothea, beseechingly. - -“Till to-morrow then,” said Mr. Casaubon. - -Soon she could hear that he was sleeping, but there was no more sleep -for her. While she constrained herself to lie still lest she should -disturb him, her mind was carrying on a conflict in which imagination -ranged its forces first on one side and then on the other. She had no -presentiment that the power which her husband wished to establish over -her future action had relation to anything else than his work. But it -was clear enough to her that he would expect her to devote herself to -sifting those mixed heaps of material, which were to be the doubtful -illustration of principles still more doubtful. The poor child had -become altogether unbelieving as to the trustworthiness of that Key -which had made the ambition and the labor of her husband’s life. It was -not wonderful that, in spite of her small instruction, her judgment in -this matter was truer than his: for she looked with unbiassed -comparison and healthy sense at probabilities on which he had risked -all his egoism. And now she pictured to herself the days, and months, -and years which she must spend in sorting what might be called -shattered mummies, and fragments of a tradition which was itself a -mosaic wrought from crushed ruins—sorting them as food for a theory -which was already withered in the birth like an elfin child. Doubtless -a vigorous error vigorously pursued has kept the embryos of truth -a-breathing: the quest of gold being at the same time a questioning of -substances, the body of chemistry is prepared for its soul, and -Lavoisier is born. But Mr. Casaubon’s theory of the elements which made -the seed of all tradition was not likely to bruise itself unawares -against discoveries: it floated among flexible conjectures no more -solid than those etymologies which seemed strong because of likeness in -sound until it was shown that likeness in sound made them impossible: -it was a method of interpretation which was not tested by the necessity -of forming anything which had sharper collisions than an elaborate -notion of Gog and Magog: it was as free from interruption as a plan for -threading the stars together. And Dorothea had so often had to check -her weariness and impatience over this questionable riddle-guessing, as -it revealed itself to her instead of the fellowship in high knowledge -which was to make life worthier! She could understand well enough now -why her husband had come to cling to her, as possibly the only hope -left that his labors would ever take a shape in which they could be -given to the world. At first it had seemed that he wished to keep even -her aloof from any close knowledge of what he was doing; but gradually -the terrible stringency of human need—the prospect of a too speedy -death— - -And here Dorothea’s pity turned from her own future to her husband’s -past—nay, to his present hard struggle with a lot which had grown out -of that past: the lonely labor, the ambition breathing hardly under the -pressure of self-distrust; the goal receding, and the heavier limbs; -and now at last the sword visibly trembling above him! And had she not -wished to marry him that she might help him in his life’s labor?—But -she had thought the work was to be something greater, which she could -serve in devoutly for its own sake. Was it right, even to soothe his -grief—would it be possible, even if she promised—to work as in a -treadmill fruitlessly? - -And yet, could she deny him? Could she say, “I refuse to content this -pining hunger?” It would be refusing to do for him dead, what she was -almost sure to do for him living. If he lived as Lydgate had said he -might, for fifteen years or more, her life would certainly be spent in -helping him and obeying him. - -Still, there was a deep difference between that devotion to the living -and that indefinite promise of devotion to the dead. While he lived, he -could claim nothing that she would not still be free to remonstrate -against, and even to refuse. But—the thought passed through her mind -more than once, though she could not believe in it—might he not mean to -demand something more from her than she had been able to imagine, since -he wanted her pledge to carry out his wishes without telling her -exactly what they were? No; his heart was bound up in his work only: -that was the end for which his failing life was to be eked out by hers. - -And now, if she were to say, “No! if you die, I will put no finger to -your work”—it seemed as if she would be crushing that bruised heart. - -For four hours Dorothea lay in this conflict, till she felt ill and -bewildered, unable to resolve, praying mutely. Helpless as a child -which has sobbed and sought too long, she fell into a late morning -sleep, and when she waked Mr. Casaubon was already up. Tantripp told -her that he had read prayers, breakfasted, and was in the library. - -“I never saw you look so pale, madam,” said Tantripp, a solid-figured -woman who had been with the sisters at Lausanne. - -“Was I ever high-colored, Tantripp?” said Dorothea, smiling faintly. - -“Well, not to say high-colored, but with a bloom like a Chiny rose. But -always smelling those leather books, what can be expected? Do rest a -little this morning, madam. Let me say you are ill and not able to go -into that close library.” - -“Oh no, no! let me make haste,” said Dorothea. “Mr. Casaubon wants me -particularly.” - -When she went down she felt sure that she should promise to fulfil his -wishes; but that would be later in the day—not yet. - -As Dorothea entered the library, Mr. Casaubon turned round from the -table where he had been placing some books, and said— - -“I was waiting for your appearance, my dear. I had hoped to set to work -at once this morning, but I find myself under some indisposition, -probably from too much excitement yesterday. I am going now to take a -turn in the shrubbery, since the air is milder.” - -“I am glad to hear that,” said Dorothea. “Your mind, I feared, was too -active last night.” - -“I would fain have it set at rest on the point I last spoke of, -Dorothea. You can now, I hope, give me an answer.” - -“May I come out to you in the garden presently?” said Dorothea, winning -a little breathing space in that way. - -“I shall be in the Yew-tree Walk for the next half-hour,” said Mr. -Casaubon, and then he left her. - -Dorothea, feeling very weary, rang and asked Tantripp to bring her some -wraps. She had been sitting still for a few minutes, but not in any -renewal of the former conflict: she simply felt that she was going to -say “Yes” to her own doom: she was too weak, too full of dread at the -thought of inflicting a keen-edged blow on her husband, to do anything -but submit completely. She sat still and let Tantripp put on her bonnet -and shawl, a passivity which was unusual with her, for she liked to -wait on herself. - -“God bless you, madam!” said Tantripp, with an irrepressible movement -of love towards the beautiful, gentle creature for whom she felt unable -to do anything more, now that she had finished tying the bonnet. - -This was too much for Dorothea’s highly-strung feeling, and she burst -into tears, sobbing against Tantripp’s arm. But soon she checked -herself, dried her eyes, and went out at the glass door into the -shrubbery. - -“I wish every book in that library was built into a caticom for your -master,” said Tantripp to Pratt, the butler, finding him in the -breakfast-room. She had been at Rome, and visited the antiquities, as -we know; and she always declined to call Mr. Casaubon anything but -“your master,” when speaking to the other servants. - -Pratt laughed. He liked his master very well, but he liked Tantripp -better. - -When Dorothea was out on the gravel walks, she lingered among the -nearer clumps of trees, hesitating, as she had done once before, though -from a different cause. Then she had feared lest her effort at -fellowship should be unwelcome; now she dreaded going to the spot where -she foresaw that she must bind herself to a fellowship from which she -shrank. Neither law nor the world’s opinion compelled her to this—only -her husband’s nature and her own compassion, only the ideal and not the -real yoke of marriage. She saw clearly enough the whole situation, yet -she was fettered: she could not smite the stricken soul that entreated -hers. If that were weakness, Dorothea was weak. But the half-hour was -passing, and she must not delay longer. When she entered the Yew-tree -Walk she could not see her husband; but the walk had bends, and she -went, expecting to catch sight of his figure wrapped in a blue cloak, -which, with a warm velvet cap, was his outer garment on chill days for -the garden. It occurred to her that he might be resting in the -summer-house, towards which the path diverged a little. Turning the -angle, she could see him seated on the bench, close to a stone table. -His arms were resting on the table, and his brow was bowed down on -them, the blue cloak being dragged forward and screening his face on -each side. - -“He exhausted himself last night,” Dorothea said to herself, thinking -at first that he was asleep, and that the summer-house was too damp a -place to rest in. But then she remembered that of late she had seen him -take that attitude when she was reading to him, as if he found it -easier than any other; and that he would sometimes speak, as well as -listen, with his face down in that way. She went into the summerhouse -and said, “I am come, Edward; I am ready.” - -He took no notice, and she thought that he must be fast asleep. She -laid her hand on his shoulder, and repeated, “I am ready!” Still he was -motionless; and with a sudden confused fear, she leaned down to him, -took off his velvet cap, and leaned her cheek close to his head, crying -in a distressed tone— - -“Wake, dear, wake! Listen to me. I am come to answer.” But Dorothea -never gave her answer. - -Later in the day, Lydgate was seated by her bedside, and she was -talking deliriously, thinking aloud, and recalling what had gone -through her mind the night before. She knew him, and called him by his -name, but appeared to think it right that she should explain everything -to him; and again, and again, begged him to explain everything to her -husband. - -“Tell him I shall go to him soon: I am ready to promise. Only, thinking -about it was so dreadful—it has made me ill. Not very ill. I shall soon -be better. Go and tell him.” - -But the silence in her husband’s ear was never more to be broken. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIX. - -“A task too strong for wizard spells -This squire had brought about; -’T is easy dropping stones in wells, -But who shall get them out?” - - -“I wish to God we could hinder Dorothea from knowing this,” said Sir -James Chettam, with a little frown on his brow, and an expression of -intense disgust about his mouth. - -He was standing on the hearth-rug in the library at Lowick Grange, and -speaking to Mr. Brooke. It was the day after Mr. Casaubon had been -buried, and Dorothea was not yet able to leave her room. - -“That would be difficult, you know, Chettam, as she is an executrix, -and she likes to go into these things—property, land, that kind of -thing. She has her notions, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, sticking his -eye-glasses on nervously, and exploring the edges of a folded paper -which he held in his hand; “and she would like to act—depend upon it, -as an executrix Dorothea would want to act. And she was twenty-one last -December, you know. I can hinder nothing.” - -Sir James looked at the carpet for a minute in silence, and then -lifting his eyes suddenly fixed them on Mr. Brooke, saying, “I will -tell you what we can do. Until Dorothea is well, all business must be -kept from her, and as soon as she is able to be moved she must come to -us. Being with Celia and the baby will be the best thing in the world -for her, and will pass away the time. And meanwhile you must get rid of -Ladislaw: you must send him out of the country.” Here Sir James’s look -of disgust returned in all its intensity. - -Mr. Brooke put his hands behind him, walked to the window and -straightened his back with a little shake before he replied. - -“That is easily said, Chettam, easily said, you know.” - -“My dear sir,” persisted Sir James, restraining his indignation within -respectful forms, “it was you who brought him here, and you who keep -him here—I mean by the occupation you give him.” - -“Yes, but I can’t dismiss him in an instant without assigning reasons, -my dear Chettam. Ladislaw has been invaluable, most satisfactory. I -consider that I have done this part of the country a service by -bringing him—by bringing him, you know.” Mr. Brooke ended with a nod, -turning round to give it. - -“It’s a pity this part of the country didn’t do without him, that’s all -I have to say about it. At any rate, as Dorothea’s brother-in-law, I -feel warranted in objecting strongly to his being kept here by any -action on the part of her friends. You admit, I hope, that I have a -right to speak about what concerns the dignity of my wife’s sister?” - -Sir James was getting warm. - -“Of course, my dear Chettam, of course. But you and I have different -ideas—different—” - -“Not about this action of Casaubon’s, I should hope,” interrupted Sir -James. “I say that he has most unfairly compromised Dorothea. I say -that there never was a meaner, more ungentlemanly action than this—a -codicil of this sort to a will which he made at the time of his -marriage with the knowledge and reliance of her family—a positive -insult to Dorothea!” - -“Well, you know, Casaubon was a little twisted about Ladislaw. Ladislaw -has told me the reason—dislike of the bent he took, you know—Ladislaw -didn’t think much of Casaubon’s notions, Thoth and Dagon—that sort of -thing: and I fancy that Casaubon didn’t like the independent position -Ladislaw had taken up. I saw the letters between them, you know. Poor -Casaubon was a little buried in books—he didn’t know the world.” - -“It’s all very well for Ladislaw to put that color on it,” said Sir -James. “But I believe Casaubon was only jealous of him on Dorothea’s -account, and the world will suppose that she gave him some reason; and -that is what makes it so abominable—coupling her name with this young -fellow’s.” - -“My dear Chettam, it won’t lead to anything, you know,” said Mr. -Brooke, seating himself and sticking on his eye-glass again. “It’s all -of a piece with Casaubon’s oddity. This paper, now, ‘Synoptical -Tabulation’ and so on, ‘for the use of Mrs. Casaubon,’ it was locked up -in the desk with the will. I suppose he meant Dorothea to publish his -researches, eh? and she’ll do it, you know; she has gone into his -studies uncommonly.” - -“My dear sir,” said Sir James, impatiently, “that is neither here nor -there. The question is, whether you don’t see with me the propriety of -sending young Ladislaw away?” - -“Well, no, not the urgency of the thing. By-and-by, perhaps, it may -come round. As to gossip, you know, sending him away won’t hinder -gossip. People say what they like to say, not what they have chapter -and verse for,” said Mr Brooke, becoming acute about the truths that -lay on the side of his own wishes. “I might get rid of Ladislaw up to a -certain point—take away the ‘Pioneer’ from him, and that sort of thing; -but I couldn’t send him out of the country if he didn’t choose to -go—didn’t choose, you know.” - -Mr. Brooke, persisting as quietly as if he were only discussing the -nature of last year’s weather, and nodding at the end with his usual -amenity, was an exasperating form of obstinacy. - -“Good God!” said Sir James, with as much passion as he ever showed, -“let us get him a post; let us spend money on him. If he could go in -the suite of some Colonial Governor! Grampus might take him—and I could -write to Fulke about it.” - -“But Ladislaw won’t be shipped off like a head of cattle, my dear -fellow; Ladislaw has his ideas. It’s my opinion that if he were to part -from me to-morrow, you’d only hear the more of him in the country. With -his talent for speaking and drawing up documents, there are few men who -could come up to him as an agitator—an agitator, you know.” - -“Agitator!” said Sir James, with bitter emphasis, feeling that the -syllables of this word properly repeated were a sufficient exposure of -its hatefulness. - -“But be reasonable, Chettam. Dorothea, now. As you say, she had better -go to Celia as soon as possible. She can stay under your roof, and in -the mean time things may come round quietly. Don’t let us be firing off -our guns in a hurry, you know. Standish will keep our counsel, and the -news will be old before it’s known. Twenty things may happen to carry -off Ladislaw—without my doing anything, you know.” - -“Then I am to conclude that you decline to do anything?” - -“Decline, Chettam?—no—I didn’t say decline. But I really don’t see what -I could do. Ladislaw is a gentleman.” - -“I am glad to hear it!” said Sir James, his irritation making him -forget himself a little. “I am sure Casaubon was not.” - -“Well, it would have been worse if he had made the codicil to hinder -her from marrying again at all, you know.” - -“I don’t know that,” said Sir James. “It would have been less -indelicate.” - -“One of poor Casaubon’s freaks! That attack upset his brain a little. -It all goes for nothing. She doesn’t _want_ to marry Ladislaw.” - -“But this codicil is framed so as to make everybody believe that she -did. I don’t believe anything of the sort about Dorothea,” said Sir -James—then frowningly, “but I suspect Ladislaw. I tell you frankly, I -suspect Ladislaw.” - -“I couldn’t take any immediate action on that ground, Chettam. In fact, -if it were possible to pack him off—send him to Norfolk Island—that -sort of thing—it would look all the worse for Dorothea to those who -knew about it. It would seem as if we distrusted her—distrusted her, -you know.” - -That Mr. Brooke had hit on an undeniable argument, did not tend to -soothe Sir James. He put out his hand to reach his hat, implying that -he did not mean to contend further, and said, still with some heat— - -“Well, I can only say that I think Dorothea was sacrificed once, -because her friends were too careless. I shall do what I can, as her -brother, to protect her now.” - -“You can’t do better than get her to Freshitt as soon as possible, -Chettam. I approve that plan altogether,” said Mr. Brooke, well pleased -that he had won the argument. It would have been highly inconvenient to -him to part with Ladislaw at that time, when a dissolution might happen -any day, and electors were to be convinced of the course by which the -interests of the country would be best served. Mr. Brooke sincerely -believed that this end could be secured by his own return to -Parliament: he offered the forces of his mind honestly to the nation. - - - - -CHAPTER L. - -“This Loller here wol precilen us somewhat.” -“Nay by my father’s soule! that schal he nat,” -Sayde the Schipman, ‘here schal he not preche, -We schal no gospel glosen here ne teche. -We leven all in the gret God,’ quod he. -He wolden sowen some diffcultee.”—_Canterbury Tales_. - - -Dorothea had been safe at Freshitt Hall nearly a week before she had -asked any dangerous questions. Every morning now she sat with Celia in -the prettiest of up-stairs sitting-rooms, opening into a small -conservatory—Celia all in white and lavender like a bunch of mixed -violets, watching the remarkable acts of the baby, which were so -dubious to her inexperienced mind that all conversation was interrupted -by appeals for their interpretation made to the oracular nurse. -Dorothea sat by in her widow’s dress, with an expression which rather -provoked Celia, as being much too sad; for not only was baby quite -well, but really when a husband had been so dull and troublesome while -he lived, and besides that had—well, well! Sir James, of course, had -told Celia everything, with a strong representation how important it -was that Dorothea should not know it sooner than was inevitable. - -But Mr. Brooke had been right in predicting that Dorothea would not -long remain passive where action had been assigned to her; she knew the -purport of her husband’s will made at the time of their marriage, and -her mind, as soon as she was clearly conscious of her position, was -silently occupied with what she ought to do as the owner of Lowick -Manor with the patronage of the living attached to it. - -One morning when her uncle paid his usual visit, though with an unusual -alacrity in his manner which he accounted for by saying that it was now -pretty certain Parliament would be dissolved forthwith, Dorothea said— - -“Uncle, it is right now that I should consider who is to have the -living at Lowick. After Mr. Tucker had been provided for, I never heard -my husband say that he had any clergyman in his mind as a successor to -himself. I think I ought to have the keys now and go to Lowick to -examine all my husband’s papers. There may be something that would -throw light on his wishes.” - -“No hurry, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, quietly. “By-and-by, you know, -you can go, if you like. But I cast my eyes over things in the desks -and drawers—there was nothing—nothing but deep subjects, you -know—besides the will. Everything can be done by-and-by. As to the -living, I have had an application for interest already—I should say -rather good. Mr. Tyke has been strongly recommended to me—I had -something to do with getting him an appointment before. An apostolic -man, I believe—the sort of thing that would suit you, my dear.” - -“I should like to have fuller knowledge about him, uncle, and judge for -myself, if Mr. Casaubon has not left any expression of his wishes. He -has perhaps made some addition to his will—there may be some -instructions for me,” said Dorothea, who had all the while had this -conjecture in her mind with relation to her husband’s work. - -“Nothing about the rectory, my dear—nothing,” said Mr. Brooke, rising -to go away, and putting out his hand to his nieces: “nor about his -researches, you know. Nothing in the will.” - -Dorothea’s lip quivered. - -“Come, you must not think of these things yet, my dear. By-and-by, you -know.” - -“I am quite well now, uncle; I wish to exert myself.” - -“Well, well, we shall see. But I must run away now—I have no end of -work now—it’s a crisis—a political crisis, you know. And here is Celia -and her little man—you are an aunt, you know, now, and I am a sort of -grandfather,” said Mr. Brooke, with placid hurry, anxious to get away -and tell Chettam that it would not be his (Mr. Brooke’s) fault if -Dorothea insisted on looking into everything. - -Dorothea sank back in her chair when her uncle had left the room, and -cast her eyes down meditatively on her crossed hands. - -“Look, Dodo! look at him! Did you ever see anything like that?” said -Celia, in her comfortable staccato. - -“What, Kitty?” said Dorothea, lifting her eyes rather absently. - -“What? why, his upper lip; see how he is drawing it down, as if he -meant to make a face. Isn’t it wonderful! He may have his little -thoughts. I wish nurse were here. Do look at him.” - -A large tear which had been for some time gathering, rolled down -Dorothea’s cheek as she looked up and tried to smile. - -“Don’t be sad, Dodo; kiss baby. What are you brooding over so? I am -sure you did everything, and a great deal too much. You should be happy -now.” - -“I wonder if Sir James would drive me to Lowick. I want to look over -everything—to see if there were any words written for me.” - -“You are not to go till Mr. Lydgate says you may go. And he has not -said so yet (here you are, nurse; take baby and walk up and down the -gallery). Besides, you have got a wrong notion in your head as usual, -Dodo—I can see that: it vexes me.” - -“Where am I wrong, Kitty?” said Dorothea, quite meekly. She was almost -ready now to think Celia wiser than herself, and was really wondering -with some fear what her wrong notion was. Celia felt her advantage, and -was determined to use it. None of them knew Dodo as well as she did, or -knew how to manage her. Since Celia’s baby was born, she had had a new -sense of her mental solidity and calm wisdom. It seemed clear that -where there was a baby, things were right enough, and that error, in -general, was a mere lack of that central poising force. - -“I can see what you are thinking of as well as can be, Dodo,” said -Celia. “You are wanting to find out if there is anything uncomfortable -for you to do now, only because Mr. Casaubon wished it. As if you had -not been uncomfortable enough before. And he doesn’t deserve it, and -you will find that out. He has behaved very badly. James is as angry -with him as can be. And I had better tell you, to prepare you.” - -“Celia,” said Dorothea, entreatingly, “you distress me. Tell me at once -what you mean.” It glanced through her mind that Mr. Casaubon had left -the property away from her—which would not be so very distressing. - -“Why, he has made a codicil to his will, to say the property was all to -go away from you if you married—I mean—” - -“That is of no consequence,” said Dorothea, breaking in impetuously. - -“But if you married Mr. Ladislaw, not anybody else,” Celia went on with -persevering quietude. “Of course that is of no consequence in one -way—you never _would_ marry Mr. Ladislaw; but that only makes it worse -of Mr. Casaubon.” - -The blood rushed to Dorothea’s face and neck painfully. But Celia was -administering what she thought a sobering dose of fact. It was taking -up notions that had done Dodo’s health so much harm. So she went on in -her neutral tone, as if she had been remarking on baby’s robes. - -“James says so. He says it is abominable, and not like a gentleman. And -there never was a better judge than James. It is as if Mr. Casaubon -wanted to make people believe that you would wish to marry Mr. -Ladislaw—which is ridiculous. Only James says it was to hinder Mr. -Ladislaw from wanting to marry you for your money—just as if he ever -would think of making you an offer. Mrs. Cadwallader said you might as -well marry an Italian with white mice! But I must just go and look at -baby,” Celia added, without the least change of tone, throwing a light -shawl over her, and tripping away. - -Dorothea by this time had turned cold again, and now threw herself back -helplessly in her chair. She might have compared her experience at that -moment to the vague, alarmed consciousness that her life was taking on -a new form, that she was undergoing a metamorphosis in which memory -would not adjust itself to the stirring of new organs. Everything was -changing its aspect: her husband’s conduct, her own duteous feeling -towards him, every struggle between them—and yet more, her whole -relation to Will Ladislaw. Her world was in a state of convulsive -change; the only thing she could say distinctly to herself was, that -she must wait and think anew. One change terrified her as if it had -been a sin; it was a violent shock of repulsion from her departed -husband, who had had hidden thoughts, perhaps perverting everything she -said and did. Then again she was conscious of another change which also -made her tremulous; it was a sudden strange yearning of heart towards -Will Ladislaw. It had never before entered her mind that he could, -under any circumstances, be her lover: conceive the effect of the -sudden revelation that another had thought of him in that light—that -perhaps he himself had been conscious of such a possibility,—and this -with the hurrying, crowding vision of unfitting conditions, and -questions not soon to be solved. - -It seemed a long while—she did not know how long—before she heard Celia -saying, “That will do, nurse; he will be quiet on my lap now. You can -go to lunch, and let Garratt stay in the next room. What I think, -Dodo,” Celia went on, observing nothing more than that Dorothea was -leaning back in her chair, and likely to be passive, “is that Mr. -Casaubon was spiteful. I never did like him, and James never did. I -think the corners of his mouth were dreadfully spiteful. And now he has -behaved in this way, I am sure religion does not require you to make -yourself uncomfortable about him. If he has been taken away, that is a -mercy, and you ought to be grateful. We should not grieve, should we, -baby?” said Celia confidentially to that unconscious centre and poise -of the world, who had the most remarkable fists all complete even to -the nails, and hair enough, really, when you took his cap off, to -make—you didn’t know what:—in short, he was Bouddha in a Western form. - -At this crisis Lydgate was announced, and one of the first things he -said was, “I fear you are not so well as you were, Mrs. Casaubon; have -you been agitated? allow me to feel your pulse.” Dorothea’s hand was of -a marble coldness. - -“She wants to go to Lowick, to look over papers,” said Celia. “She -ought not, ought she?” - -Lydgate did not speak for a few moments. Then he said, looking at -Dorothea. “I hardly know. In my opinion Mrs. Casaubon should do what -would give her the most repose of mind. That repose will not always -come from being forbidden to act.” - -“Thank you,” said Dorothea, exerting herself, “I am sure that is wise. -There are so many things which I ought to attend to. Why should I sit -here idle?” Then, with an effort to recall subjects not connected with -her agitation, she added, abruptly, “You know every one in Middlemarch, -I think, Mr. Lydgate. I shall ask you to tell me a great deal. I have -serious things to do now. I have a living to give away. You know Mr. -Tyke and all the—” But Dorothea’s effort was too much for her; she -broke off and burst into sobs. - -Lydgate made her drink a dose of sal volatile. - -“Let Mrs. Casaubon do as she likes,” he said to Sir James, whom he -asked to see before quitting the house. “She wants perfect freedom, I -think, more than any other prescription.” - -His attendance on Dorothea while her brain was excited, had enabled him -to form some true conclusions concerning the trials of her life. He -felt sure that she had been suffering from the strain and conflict of -self-repression; and that she was likely now to feel herself only in -another sort of pinfold than that from which she had been released. - -Lydgate’s advice was all the easier for Sir James to follow when he -found that Celia had already told Dorothea the unpleasant fact about -the will. There was no help for it now—no reason for any further delay -in the execution of necessary business. And the next day Sir James -complied at once with her request that he would drive her to Lowick. - -“I have no wish to stay there at present,” said Dorothea; “I could -hardly bear it. I am much happier at Freshitt with Celia. I shall be -able to think better about what should be done at Lowick by looking at -it from a distance. And I should like to be at the Grange a little -while with my uncle, and go about in all the old walks and among the -people in the village.” - -“Not yet, I think. Your uncle is having political company, and you are -better out of the way of such doings,” said Sir James, who at that -moment thought of the Grange chiefly as a haunt of young Ladislaw’s. -But no word passed between him and Dorothea about the objectionable -part of the will; indeed, both of them felt that the mention of it -between them would be impossible. Sir James was shy, even with men, -about disagreeable subjects; and the one thing that Dorothea would have -chosen to say, if she had spoken on the matter at all, was forbidden to -her at present because it seemed to be a further exposure of her -husband’s injustice. Yet she did wish that Sir James could know what -had passed between her and her husband about Will Ladislaw’s moral -claim on the property: it would then, she thought, be apparent to him -as it was to her, that her husband’s strange indelicate proviso had -been chiefly urged by his bitter resistance to that idea of claim, and -not merely by personal feelings more difficult to talk about. Also, it -must be admitted, Dorothea wished that this could be known for Will’s -sake, since her friends seemed to think of him as simply an object of -Mr. Casaubon’s charity. Why should he be compared with an Italian -carrying white mice? That word quoted from Mrs. Cadwallader seemed like -a mocking travesty wrought in the dark by an impish finger. - -At Lowick Dorothea searched desk and drawer—searched all her husband’s -places of deposit for private writing, but found no paper addressed -especially to her, except that “Synoptical Tabulation,” which was -probably only the beginning of many intended directions for her -guidance. In carrying out this bequest of labor to Dorothea, as in all -else, Mr. Casaubon had been slow and hesitating, oppressed in the plan -of transmitting his work, as he had been in executing it, by the sense -of moving heavily in a dim and clogging medium: distrust of Dorothea’s -competence to arrange what he had prepared was subdued only by distrust -of any other redactor. But he had come at last to create a trust for -himself out of Dorothea’s nature: she could do what she resolved to do: -and he willingly imagined her toiling under the fetters of a promise to -erect a tomb with his name upon it. (Not that Mr. Casaubon called the -future volumes a tomb; he called them the Key to all Mythologies.) But -the months gained on him and left his plans belated: he had only had -time to ask for that promise by which he sought to keep his cold grasp -on Dorothea’s life. - -The grasp had slipped away. Bound by a pledge given from the depths of -her pity, she would have been capable of undertaking a toil which her -judgment whispered was vain for all uses except that consecration of -faithfulness which is a supreme use. But now her judgment, instead of -being controlled by duteous devotion, was made active by the -imbittering discovery that in her past union there had lurked the -hidden alienation of secrecy and suspicion. The living, suffering man -was no longer before her to awaken her pity: there remained only the -retrospect of painful subjection to a husband whose thoughts had been -lower than she had believed, whose exorbitant claims for himself had -even blinded his scrupulous care for his own character, and made him -defeat his own pride by shocking men of ordinary honor. As for the -property which was the sign of that broken tie, she would have been -glad to be free from it and have nothing more than her original fortune -which had been settled on her, if there had not been duties attached to -ownership, which she ought not to flinch from. About this property many -troublous questions insisted on rising: had she not been right in -thinking that the half of it ought to go to Will Ladislaw?—but was it -not impossible now for her to do that act of justice? Mr. Casaubon had -taken a cruelly effective means of hindering her: even with indignation -against him in her heart, any act that seemed a triumphant eluding of -his purpose revolted her. - -After collecting papers of business which she wished to examine, she -locked up again the desks and drawers—all empty of personal words for -her—empty of any sign that in her husband’s lonely brooding his heart -had gone out to her in excuse or explanation; and she went back to -Freshitt with the sense that around his last hard demand and his last -injurious assertion of his power, the silence was unbroken. - -Dorothea tried now to turn her thoughts towards immediate duties, and -one of these was of a kind which others were determined to remind her -of. Lydgate’s ear had caught eagerly her mention of the living, and as -soon as he could, he reopened the subject, seeing here a possibility of -making amends for the casting-vote he had once given with an -ill-satisfied conscience. “Instead of telling you anything about Mr. -Tyke,” he said, “I should like to speak of another man—Mr. Farebrother, -the Vicar of St. Botolph’s. His living is a poor one, and gives him a -stinted provision for himself and his family. His mother, aunt, and -sister all live with him, and depend upon him. I believe he has never -married because of them. I never heard such good preaching as his—such -plain, easy eloquence. He would have done to preach at St. Paul’s Cross -after old Latimer. His talk is just as good about all subjects: -original, simple, clear. I think him a remarkable fellow: he ought to -have done more than he has done.” - -“Why has he not done more?” said Dorothea, interested now in all who -had slipped below their own intention. - -“That’s a hard question,” said Lydgate. “I find myself that it’s -uncommonly difficult to make the right thing work: there are so many -strings pulling at once. Farebrother often hints that he has got into -the wrong profession; he wants a wider range than that of a poor -clergyman, and I suppose he has no interest to help him on. He is very -fond of Natural History and various scientific matters, and he is -hampered in reconciling these tastes with his position. He has no money -to spare—hardly enough to use; and that has led him into -card-playing—Middlemarch is a great place for whist. He does play for -money, and he wins a good deal. Of course that takes him into company a -little beneath him, and makes him slack about some things; and yet, -with all that, looking at him as a whole, I think he is one of the most -blameless men I ever knew. He has neither venom nor doubleness in him, -and those often go with a more correct outside.” - -“I wonder whether he suffers in his conscience because of that habit,” -said Dorothea; “I wonder whether he wishes he could leave it off.” - -“I have no doubt he would leave it off, if he were transplanted into -plenty: he would be glad of the time for other things.” - -“My uncle says that Mr. Tyke is spoken of as an apostolic man,” said -Dorothea, meditatively. She was wishing it were possible to restore the -times of primitive zeal, and yet thinking of Mr. Farebrother with a -strong desire to rescue him from his chance-gotten money. - -“I don’t pretend to say that Farebrother is apostolic,” said Lydgate. -“His position is not quite like that of the Apostles: he is only a -parson among parishioners whose lives he has to try and make better. -Practically I find that what is called being apostolic now, is an -impatience of everything in which the parson doesn’t cut the principal -figure. I see something of that in Mr. Tyke at the Hospital: a good -deal of his doctrine is a sort of pinching hard to make people -uncomfortably aware of him. Besides, an apostolic man at Lowick!—he -ought to think, as St. Francis did, that it is needful to preach to the -birds.” - -“True,” said Dorothea. “It is hard to imagine what sort of notions our -farmers and laborers get from their teaching. I have been looking into -a volume of sermons by Mr. Tyke: such sermons would be of no use at -Lowick—I mean, about imputed righteousness and the prophecies in the -Apocalypse. I have always been thinking of the different ways in which -Christianity is taught, and whenever I find one way that makes it a -wider blessing than any other, I cling to that as the truest—I mean -that which takes in the most good of all kinds, and brings in the most -people as sharers in it. It is surely better to pardon too much, than -to condemn too much. But I should like to see Mr. Farebrother and hear -him preach.” - -“Do,” said Lydgate; “I trust to the effect of that. He is very much -beloved, but he has his enemies too: there are always people who can’t -forgive an able man for differing from them. And that money-winning -business is really a blot. You don’t, of course, see many Middlemarch -people: but Mr. Ladislaw, who is constantly seeing Mr. Brooke, is a -great friend of Mr. Farebrother’s old ladies, and would be glad to sing -the Vicar’s praises. One of the old ladies—Miss Noble, the aunt—is a -wonderfully quaint picture of self-forgetful goodness, and Ladislaw -gallants her about sometimes. I met them one day in a back street: you -know Ladislaw’s look—a sort of Daphnis in coat and waistcoat; and this -little old maid reaching up to his arm—they looked like a couple -dropped out of a romantic comedy. But the best evidence about -Farebrother is to see him and hear him.” - -Happily Dorothea was in her private sitting-room when this conversation -occurred, and there was no one present to make Lydgate’s innocent -introduction of Ladislaw painful to her. As was usual with him in -matters of personal gossip, Lydgate had quite forgotten Rosamond’s -remark that she thought Will adored Mrs. Casaubon. At that moment he -was only caring for what would recommend the Farebrother family; and he -had purposely given emphasis to the worst that could be said about the -Vicar, in order to forestall objections. In the weeks since Mr. -Casaubon’s death he had hardly seen Ladislaw, and he had heard no rumor -to warn him that Mr. Brooke’s confidential secretary was a dangerous -subject with Mrs. Casaubon. When he was gone, his picture of Ladislaw -lingered in her mind and disputed the ground with that question of the -Lowick living. What was Will Ladislaw thinking about her? Would he hear -of that fact which made her cheeks burn as they never used to do? And -how would he feel when he heard it?—But she could see as well as -possible how he smiled down at the little old maid. An Italian with -white mice!—on the contrary, he was a creature who entered into every -one’s feelings, and could take the pressure of their thought instead of -urging his own with iron resistance. - - - - -CHAPTER LI. - -Party is Nature too, and you shall see -By force of Logic how they both agree: -The Many in the One, the One in Many; -All is not Some, nor Some the same as Any: -Genus holds species, both are great or small; -One genus highest, one not high at all; -Each species has its differentia too, -This is not That, and He was never You, -Though this and that are AYES, and you and he -Are like as one to one, or three to three. - - -No gossip about Mr. Casaubon’s will had yet reached Ladislaw: the air -seemed to be filled with the dissolution of Parliament and the coming -election, as the old wakes and fairs were filled with the rival clatter -of itinerant shows; and more private noises were taken little notice -of. The famous “dry election” was at hand, in which the depths of -public feeling might be measured by the low flood-mark of drink. Will -Ladislaw was one of the busiest at this time; and though Dorothea’s -widowhood was continually in his thought, he was so far from wishing to -be spoken to on the subject, that when Lydgate sought him out to tell -him what had passed about the Lowick living, he answered rather -waspishly— - -“Why should you bring me into the matter? I never see Mrs. Casaubon, -and am not likely to see her, since she is at Freshitt. I never go -there. It is Tory ground, where I and the ‘Pioneer’ are no more welcome -than a poacher and his gun.” - -The fact was that Will had been made the more susceptible by observing -that Mr. Brooke, instead of wishing him, as before, to come to the -Grange oftener than was quite agreeable to himself, seemed now to -contrive that he should go there as little as possible. This was a -shuffling concession of Mr. Brooke’s to Sir James Chettam’s indignant -remonstrance; and Will, awake to the slightest hint in this direction, -concluded that he was to be kept away from the Grange on Dorothea’s -account. Her friends, then, regarded him with some suspicion? Their -fears were quite superfluous: they were very much mistaken if they -imagined that he would put himself forward as a needy adventurer trying -to win the favor of a rich woman. - -Until now Will had never fully seen the chasm between himself and -Dorothea—until now that he was come to the brink of it, and saw her on -the other side. He began, not without some inward rage, to think of -going away from the neighborhood: it would be impossible for him to -show any further interest in Dorothea without subjecting himself to -disagreeable imputations—perhaps even in her mind, which others might -try to poison. - -“We are forever divided,” said Will. “I might as well be at Rome; she -would be no farther from me.” But what we call our despair is often -only the painful eagerness of unfed hope. There were plenty of reasons -why he should not go—public reasons why he should not quit his post at -this crisis, leaving Mr. Brooke in the lurch when he needed “coaching” -for the election, and when there was so much canvassing, direct and -indirect, to be carried on. Will could not like to leave his own -chessmen in the heat of a game; and any candidate on the right side, -even if his brain and marrow had been as soft as was consistent with a -gentlemanly bearing, might help to turn a majority. To coach Mr. Brooke -and keep him steadily to the idea that he must pledge himself to vote -for the actual Reform Bill, instead of insisting on his independence -and power of pulling up in time, was not an easy task. Mr. -Farebrother’s prophecy of a fourth candidate “in the bag” had not yet -been fulfilled, neither the Parliamentary Candidate Society nor any -other power on the watch to secure a reforming majority seeing a worthy -nodus for interference while there was a second reforming candidate -like Mr. Brooke, who might be returned at his own expense; and the -fight lay entirely between Pinkerton the old Tory member, Bagster the -new Whig member returned at the last election, and Brooke the future -independent member, who was to fetter himself for this occasion only. -Mr. Hawley and his party would bend all their forces to the return of -Pinkerton, and Mr. Brooke’s success must depend either on plumpers -which would leave Bagster in the rear, or on the new minting of Tory -votes into reforming votes. The latter means, of course, would be -preferable. - -This prospect of converting votes was a dangerous distraction to Mr. -Brooke: his impression that waverers were likely to be allured by -wavering statements, and also the liability of his mind to stick afresh -at opposing arguments as they turned up in his memory, gave Will -Ladislaw much trouble. - -“You know there are tactics in these things,” said Mr. Brooke; “meeting -people half-way—tempering your ideas—saying, ‘Well now, there’s -something in that,’ and so on. I agree with you that this is a peculiar -occasion—the country with a will of its own—political unions—that sort -of thing—but we sometimes cut with rather too sharp a knife, Ladislaw. -These ten-pound householders, now: why ten? Draw the line -somewhere—yes: but why just at ten? That’s a difficult question, now, -if you go into it.” - -“Of course it is,” said Will, impatiently. “But if you are to wait till -we get a logical Bill, you must put yourself forward as a -revolutionist, and then Middlemarch would not elect you, I fancy. As -for trimming, this is not a time for trimming.” - -Mr. Brooke always ended by agreeing with Ladislaw, who still appeared -to him a sort of Burke with a leaven of Shelley; but after an interval -the wisdom of his own methods reasserted itself, and he was again drawn -into using them with much hopefulness. At this stage of affairs he was -in excellent spirits, which even supported him under large advances of -money; for his powers of convincing and persuading had not yet been -tested by anything more difficult than a chairman’s speech introducing -other orators, or a dialogue with a Middlemarch voter, from which he -came away with a sense that he was a tactician by nature, and that it -was a pity he had not gone earlier into this kind of thing. He was a -little conscious of defeat, however, with Mr. Mawmsey, a chief -representative in Middlemarch of that great social power, the retail -trader, and naturally one of the most doubtful voters in the -borough—willing for his own part to supply an equal quality of teas and -sugars to reformer and anti-reformer, as well as to agree impartially -with both, and feeling like the burgesses of old that this necessity of -electing members was a great burthen to a town; for even if there were -no danger in holding out hopes to all parties beforehand, there would -be the painful necessity at last of disappointing respectable people -whose names were on his books. He was accustomed to receive large -orders from Mr. Brooke of Tipton; but then, there were many of -Pinkerton’s committee whose opinions had a great weight of grocery on -their side. Mr. Mawmsey thinking that Mr. Brooke, as not too “clever in -his intellects,” was the more likely to forgive a grocer who gave a -hostile vote under pressure, had become confidential in his back -parlor. - -“As to Reform, sir, put it in a family light,” he said, rattling the -small silver in his pocket, and smiling affably. “Will it support Mrs. -Mawmsey, and enable her to bring up six children when I am no more? I -put the question _fictiously_, knowing what must be the answer. Very -well, sir. I ask you what, as a husband and a father, I am to do when -gentlemen come to me and say, ‘Do as you like, Mawmsey; but if you vote -against us, I shall get my groceries elsewhere: when I sugar my liquor -I like to feel that I am benefiting the country by maintaining -tradesmen of the right color.’ Those very words have been spoken to me, -sir, in the very chair where you are now sitting. I don’t mean by your -honorable self, Mr. Brooke.” - -“No, no, no—that’s narrow, you know. Until my butler complains to me of -your goods, Mr. Mawmsey,” said Mr. Brooke, soothingly, “until I hear -that you send bad sugars, spices—that sort of thing—I shall never order -him to go elsewhere.” - -“Sir, I am your humble servant, and greatly obliged,” said Mr. Mawmsey, -feeling that politics were clearing up a little. “There would be some -pleasure in voting for a gentleman who speaks in that honorable -manner.” - -“Well, you know, Mr. Mawmsey, you would find it the right thing to put -yourself on our side. This Reform will touch everybody by-and-by—a -thoroughly popular measure—a sort of A, B, C, you know, that must come -first before the rest can follow. I quite agree with you that you’ve -got to look at the thing in a family light: but public spirit, now. -We’re all one family, you know—it’s all one cupboard. Such a thing as a -vote, now: why, it may help to make men’s fortunes at the Cape—there’s -no knowing what may be the effect of a vote,” Mr. Brooke ended, with a -sense of being a little out at sea, though finding it still enjoyable. -But Mr. Mawmsey answered in a tone of decisive check. - -“I beg your pardon, sir, but I can’t afford that. When I give a vote I -must know what I am doing; I must look to what will be the effects on -my till and ledger, speaking respectfully. Prices, I’ll admit, are what -nobody can know the merits of; and the sudden falls after you’ve bought -in currants, which are a goods that will not keep—I’ve never; myself -seen into the ins and outs there; which is a rebuke to human pride. But -as to one family, there’s debtor and creditor, I hope; they’re not -going to reform that away; else I should vote for things staying as -they are. Few men have less need to cry for change than I have, -personally speaking—that is, for self and family. I am not one of those -who have nothing to lose: I mean as to respectability both in parish -and private business, and noways in respect of your honorable self and -custom, which you was good enough to say you would not withdraw from -me, vote or no vote, while the article sent in was satisfactory.” - -After this conversation Mr. Mawmsey went up and boasted to his wife -that he had been rather too many for Brooke of Tipton, and that he -didn’t mind so much now about going to the poll. - -Mr. Brooke on this occasion abstained from boasting of his tactics to -Ladislaw, who for his part was glad enough to persuade himself that he -had no concern with any canvassing except the purely argumentative -sort, and that he worked no meaner engine than knowledge. Mr. Brooke, -necessarily, had his agents, who understood the nature of the -Middlemarch voter and the means of enlisting his ignorance on the side -of the Bill—which were remarkably similar to the means of enlisting it -on the side against the Bill. Will stopped his ears. Occasionally -Parliament, like the rest of our lives, even to our eating and apparel, -could hardly go on if our imaginations were too active about processes. -There were plenty of dirty-handed men in the world to do dirty -business; and Will protested to himself that his share in bringing Mr. -Brooke through would be quite innocent. - -But whether he should succeed in that mode of contributing to the -majority on the right side was very doubtful to him. He had written out -various speeches and memoranda for speeches, but he had begun to -perceive that Mr. Brooke’s mind, if it had the burthen of remembering -any train of thought, would let it drop, run away in search of it, and -not easily come back again. To collect documents is one mode of serving -your country, and to remember the contents of a document is another. -No! the only way in which Mr. Brooke could be coerced into thinking of -the right arguments at the right time was to be well plied with them -till they took up all the room in his brain. But here there was the -difficulty of finding room, so many things having been taken in -beforehand. Mr. Brooke himself observed that his ideas stood rather in -his way when he was speaking. - -However, Ladislaw’s coaching was forthwith to be put to the test, for -before the day of nomination Mr. Brooke was to explain himself to the -worthy electors of Middlemarch from the balcony of the White Hart, -which looked out advantageously at an angle of the market-place, -commanding a large area in front and two converging streets. It was a -fine May morning, and everything seemed hopeful: there was some -prospect of an understanding between Bagster’s committee and Brooke’s, -to which Mr. Bulstrode, Mr. Standish as a Liberal lawyer, and such -manufacturers as Mr. Plymdale and Mr. Vincy, gave a solidity which -almost counterbalanced Mr. Hawley and his associates who sat for -Pinkerton at the Green Dragon. Mr. Brooke, conscious of having weakened -the blasts of the “Trumpet” against him, by his reforms as a landlord -in the last half year, and hearing himself cheered a little as he drove -into the town, felt his heart tolerably light under his buff-colored -waistcoat. But with regard to critical occasions, it often happens that -all moments seem comfortably remote until the last. - -“This looks well, eh?” said Mr. Brooke as the crowd gathered. “I shall -have a good audience, at any rate. I like this, now—this kind of public -made up of one’s own neighbors, you know.” - -The weavers and tanners of Middlemarch, unlike Mr. Mawmsey, had never -thought of Mr. Brooke as a neighbor, and were not more attached to him -than if he had been sent in a box from London. But they listened -without much disturbance to the speakers who introduced the candidate, -one of them—a political personage from Brassing, who came to tell -Middlemarch its duty—spoke so fully, that it was alarming to think what -the candidate could find to say after him. Meanwhile the crowd became -denser, and as the political personage neared the end of his speech, -Mr. Brooke felt a remarkable change in his sensations while he still -handled his eye-glass, trifled with documents before him, and exchanged -remarks with his committee, as a man to whom the moment of summons was -indifferent. - -“I’ll take another glass of sherry, Ladislaw,” he said, with an easy -air, to Will, who was close behind him, and presently handed him the -supposed fortifier. It was ill-chosen; for Mr. Brooke was an abstemious -man, and to drink a second glass of sherry quickly at no great interval -from the first was a surprise to his system which tended to scatter his -energies instead of collecting them. Pray pity him: so many English -gentlemen make themselves miserable by speechifying on entirely private -grounds! whereas Mr. Brooke wished to serve his country by standing for -Parliament—which, indeed, may also be done on private grounds, but -being once undertaken does absolutely demand some speechifying. - -It was not about the beginning of his speech that Mr. Brooke was at all -anxious; this, he felt sure, would be all right; he should have it -quite pat, cut out as neatly as a set of couplets from Pope. Embarking -would be easy, but the vision of open sea that might come after was -alarming. “And questions, now,” hinted the demon just waking up in his -stomach, “somebody may put questions about the schedules.—Ladislaw,” he -continued, aloud, “just hand me the memorandum of the schedules.” - -When Mr. Brooke presented himself on the balcony, the cheers were quite -loud enough to counterbalance the yells, groans, brayings, and other -expressions of adverse theory, which were so moderate that Mr. Standish -(decidedly an old bird) observed in the ear next to him, “This looks -dangerous, by God! Hawley has got some deeper plan than this.” Still, -the cheers were exhilarating, and no candidate could look more amiable -than Mr. Brooke, with the memorandum in his breast-pocket, his left -hand on the rail of the balcony, and his right trifling with his -eye-glass. The striking points in his appearance were his buff -waistcoat, short-clipped blond hair, and neutral physiognomy. He began -with some confidence. - -“Gentlemen—Electors of Middlemarch!” - -This was so much the right thing that a little pause after it seemed -natural. - -“I’m uncommonly glad to be here—I was never so proud and happy in my -life—never so happy, you know.” - -This was a bold figure of speech, but not exactly the right thing; for, -unhappily, the pat opening had slipped away—even couplets from Pope may -be but “fallings from us, vanishings,” when fear clutches us, and a -glass of sherry is hurrying like smoke among our ideas. Ladislaw, who -stood at the window behind the speaker, thought, “it’s all up now. The -only chance is that, since the best thing won’t always do, floundering -may answer for once.” Mr. Brooke, meanwhile, having lost other clews, -fell back on himself and his qualifications—always an appropriate -graceful subject for a candidate. - -“I am a close neighbor of yours, my good friends—you’ve known me on the -bench a good while—I’ve always gone a good deal into public -questions—machinery, now, and machine-breaking—you’re many of you -concerned with machinery, and I’ve been going into that lately. It -won’t do, you know, breaking machines: everything must go on—trade, -manufactures, commerce, interchange of staples—that kind of thing—since -Adam Smith, that must go on. We must look all over the -globe:—‘Observation with extensive view,’ must look everywhere, ‘from -China to Peru,’ as somebody says—Johnson, I think, ‘The Rambler,’ you -know. That is what I have done up to a certain point—not as far as -Peru; but I’ve not always stayed at home—I saw it wouldn’t do. I’ve -been in the Levant, where some of your Middlemarch goods go—and then, -again, in the Baltic. The Baltic, now.” - -Plying among his recollections in this way, Mr. Brooke might have got -along, easily to himself, and would have come back from the remotest -seas without trouble; but a diabolical procedure had been set up by the -enemy. At one and the same moment there had risen above the shoulders -of the crowd, nearly opposite Mr. Brooke, and within ten yards of him, -the effigy of himself: buff-colored waistcoat, eye-glass, and neutral -physiognomy, painted on rag; and there had arisen, apparently in the -air, like the note of the cuckoo, a parrot-like, Punch-voiced echo of -his words. Everybody looked up at the open windows in the houses at the -opposite angles of the converging streets; but they were either blank, -or filled by laughing listeners. The most innocent echo has an impish -mockery in it when it follows a gravely persistent speaker, and this -echo was not at all innocent; if it did not follow with the precision -of a natural echo, it had a wicked choice of the words it overtook. By -the time it said, “The Baltic, now,” the laugh which had been running -through the audience became a general shout, and but for the sobering -effects of party and that great public cause which the entanglement of -things had identified with “Brooke of Tipton,” the laugh might have -caught his committee. Mr. Bulstrode asked, reprehensively, what the new -police was doing; but a voice could not well be collared, and an attack -on the effigy of the candidate would have been too equivocal, since -Hawley probably meant it to be pelted. - -Mr. Brooke himself was not in a position to be quickly conscious of -anything except a general slipping away of ideas within himself: he had -even a little singing in the ears, and he was the only person who had -not yet taken distinct account of the echo or discerned the image of -himself. Few things hold the perceptions more thoroughly captive than -anxiety about what we have got to say. Mr. Brooke heard the laughter; -but he had expected some Tory efforts at disturbance, and he was at -this moment additionally excited by the tickling, stinging sense that -his lost exordium was coming back to fetch him from the Baltic. - -“That reminds me,” he went on, thrusting a hand into his side-pocket, -with an easy air, “if I wanted a precedent, you know—but we never want -a precedent for the right thing—but there is Chatham, now; I can’t say -I should have supported Chatham, or Pitt, the younger Pitt—he was not a -man of ideas, and we want ideas, you know.” - -“Blast your ideas! we want the Bill,” said a loud rough voice from the -crowd below. - -Immediately the invisible Punch, who had hitherto followed Mr. Brooke, -repeated, “Blast your ideas! we want the Bill.” The laugh was louder -than ever, and for the first time Mr. Brooke being himself silent, -heard distinctly the mocking echo. But it seemed to ridicule his -interrupter, and in that light was encouraging; so he replied with -amenity— - -“There is something in what you say, my good friend, and what do we -meet for but to speak our minds—freedom of opinion, freedom of the -press, liberty—that kind of thing? The Bill, now—you shall have the -Bill”—here Mr. Brooke paused a moment to fix on his eye-glass and take -the paper from his breast-pocket, with a sense of being practical and -coming to particulars. The invisible Punch followed:— - -“You shall have the Bill, Mr. Brooke, per electioneering contest, and a -seat outside Parliament as delivered, five thousand pounds, seven -shillings, and fourpence.” - -Mr. Brooke, amid the roars of laughter, turned red, let his eye-glass -fall, and looking about him confusedly, saw the image of himself, which -had come nearer. The next moment he saw it dolorously bespattered with -eggs. His spirit rose a little, and his voice too. - -“Buffoonery, tricks, ridicule the test of truth—all that is very -well”—here an unpleasant egg broke on Mr. Brooke’s shoulder, as the -echo said, “All that is very well;” then came a hail of eggs, chiefly -aimed at the image, but occasionally hitting the original, as if by -chance. There was a stream of new men pushing among the crowd; -whistles, yells, bellowings, and fifes made all the greater hubbub -because there was shouting and struggling to put them down. No voice -would have had wing enough to rise above the uproar, and Mr. Brooke, -disagreeably anointed, stood his ground no longer. The frustration -would have been less exasperating if it had been less gamesome and -boyish: a serious assault of which the newspaper reporter “can aver -that it endangered the learned gentleman’s ribs,” or can respectfully -bear witness to “the soles of that gentleman’s boots having been -visible above the railing,” has perhaps more consolations attached to -it. - -Mr. Brooke re-entered the committee-room, saying, as carelessly as he -could, “This is a little too bad, you know. I should have got the ear -of the people by-and-by—but they didn’t give me time. I should have -gone into the Bill by-and-by, you know,” he added, glancing at -Ladislaw. “However, things will come all right at the nomination.” - -But it was not resolved unanimously that things would come right; on -the contrary, the committee looked rather grim, and the political -personage from Brassing was writing busily, as if he were brewing new -devices. - -“It was Bowyer who did it,” said Mr. Standish, evasively. “I know it as -well as if he had been advertised. He’s uncommonly good at -ventriloquism, and he did it uncommonly well, by God! Hawley has been -having him to dinner lately: there’s a fund of talent in Bowyer.” - -“Well, you know, you never mentioned him to me, Standish, else I would -have invited him to dine,” said poor Mr. Brooke, who had gone through a -great deal of inviting for the good of his country. - -“There’s not a more paltry fellow in Middlemarch than Bowyer,” said -Ladislaw, indignantly, “but it seems as if the paltry fellows were -always to turn the scale.” - -Will was thoroughly out of temper with himself as well as with his -“principal,” and he went to shut himself in his rooms with a -half-formed resolve to throw up the “Pioneer” and Mr. Brooke together. -Why should he stay? If the impassable gulf between himself and Dorothea -were ever to be filled up, it must rather be by his going away and -getting into a thoroughly different position than by staying here and -slipping into deserved contempt as an understrapper of Brooke’s. Then -came the young dream of wonders that he might do—in five years, for -example: political writing, political speaking, would get a higher -value now public life was going to be wider and more national, and they -might give him such distinction that he would not seem to be asking -Dorothea to step down to him. Five years:—if he could only be sure that -she cared for him more than for others; if he could only make her aware -that he stood aloof until he could tell his love without lowering -himself—then he could go away easily, and begin a career which at -five-and-twenty seemed probable enough in the inward order of things, -where talent brings fame, and fame everything else which is delightful. -He could speak and he could write; he could master any subject if he -chose, and he meant always to take the side of reason and justice, on -which he would carry all his ardor. Why should he not one day be lifted -above the shoulders of the crowd, and feel that he had won that -eminence well? Without doubt he would leave Middlemarch, go to town, -and make himself fit for celebrity by “eating his dinners.” - -But not immediately: not until some kind of sign had passed between him -and Dorothea. He could not be satisfied until she knew why, even if he -were the man she would choose to marry, he would not marry her. Hence -he must keep his post and bear with Mr. Brooke a little longer. - -But he soon had reason to suspect that Mr. Brooke had anticipated him -in the wish to break up their connection. Deputations without and -voices within had concurred in inducing that philanthropist to take a -stronger measure than usual for the good of mankind; namely, to -withdraw in favor of another candidate, to whom he left the advantages -of his canvassing machinery. He himself called this a strong measure, -but observed that his health was less capable of sustaining excitement -than he had imagined. - -“I have felt uneasy about the chest—it won’t do to carry that too far,” -he said to Ladislaw in explaining the affair. “I must pull up. Poor -Casaubon was a warning, you know. I’ve made some heavy advances, but -I’ve dug a channel. It’s rather coarse work—this electioneering, eh, -Ladislaw? dare say you are tired of it. However, we have dug a channel -with the ‘Pioneer’—put things in a track, and so on. A more ordinary -man than you might carry it on now—more ordinary, you know.” - -“Do you wish me to give it up?” said Will, the quick color coming in -his face, as he rose from the writing-table, and took a turn of three -steps with his hands in his pockets. “I am ready to do so whenever you -wish it.” - -“As to wishing, my dear Ladislaw, I have the highest opinion of your -powers, you know. But about the ‘Pioneer,’ I have been consulting a -little with some of the men on our side, and they are inclined to take -it into their hands—indemnify me to a certain extent—carry it on, in -fact. And under the circumstances, you might like to give up—might find -a better field. These people might not take that high view of you which -I have always taken, as an alter ego, a right hand—though I always -looked forward to your doing something else. I think of having a run -into France. But I’ll write you any letters, you know—to Althorpe and -people of that kind. I’ve met Althorpe.” - -“I am exceedingly obliged to you,” said Ladislaw, proudly. “Since you -are going to part with the ‘Pioneer,’ I need not trouble you about the -steps I shall take. I may choose to continue here for the present.” - -After Mr. Brooke had left him Will said to himself, “The rest of the -family have been urging him to get rid of me, and he doesn’t care now -about my going. I shall stay as long as I like. I shall go of my own -movements and not because they are afraid of me.” - - - - -CHAPTER LII. - -“His heart -The lowliest duties on itself did lay.” -—WORDSWORTH. - - -On that June evening when Mr. Farebrother knew that he was to have the -Lowick living, there was joy in the old fashioned parlor, and even the -portraits of the great lawyers seemed to look on with satisfaction. His -mother left her tea and toast untouched, but sat with her usual pretty -primness, only showing her emotion by that flush in the cheeks and -brightness in the eyes which give an old woman a touching momentary -identity with her far-off youthful self, and saying decisively— - -“The greatest comfort, Camden, is that you have deserved it.” - -“When a man gets a good berth, mother, half the deserving must come -after,” said the son, brimful of pleasure, and not trying to conceal -it. The gladness in his face was of that active kind which seems to -have energy enough not only to flash outwardly, but to light up busy -vision within: one seemed to see thoughts, as well as delight, in his -glances. - -“Now, aunt,” he went on, rubbing his hands and looking at Miss Noble, -who was making tender little beaver-like noises, “There shall be -sugar-candy always on the table for you to steal and give to the -children, and you shall have a great many new stockings to make -presents of, and you shall darn your own more than ever!” - -Miss Noble nodded at her nephew with a subdued half-frightened laugh, -conscious of having already dropped an additional lump of sugar into -her basket on the strength of the new preferment. - -“As for you, Winny”—the Vicar went on—“I shall make no difficulty about -your marrying any Lowick bachelor—Mr. Solomon Featherstone, for -example, as soon as I find you are in love with him.” - -Miss Winifred, who had been looking at her brother all the while and -crying heartily, which was her way of rejoicing, smiled through her -tears and said, “You must set me the example, Cam: _you_ must marry -now.” - -“With all my heart. But who is in love with me? I am a seedy old -fellow,” said the Vicar, rising, pushing his chair away and looking -down at himself. “What do you say, mother?” - -“You are a handsome man, Camden: though not so fine a figure of a man -as your father,” said the old lady. - -“I wish you would marry Miss Garth, brother,” said Miss Winifred. “She -would make us so lively at Lowick.” - -“Very fine! You talk as if young women were tied up to be chosen, like -poultry at market; as if I had only to ask and everybody would have -me,” said the Vicar, not caring to specify. - -“We don’t want everybody,” said Miss Winifred. “But _you_ would like -Miss Garth, mother, shouldn’t you?” - -“My son’s choice shall be mine,” said Mrs. Farebrother, with majestic -discretion, “and a wife would be most welcome, Camden. You will want -your whist at home when we go to Lowick, and Henrietta Noble never was -a whist-player.” (Mrs. Farebrother always called her tiny old sister by -that magnificent name.) - -“I shall do without whist now, mother.” - -“Why so, Camden? In my time whist was thought an undeniable amusement -for a good churchman,” said Mrs. Farebrother, innocent of the meaning -that whist had for her son, and speaking rather sharply, as at some -dangerous countenancing of new doctrine. - -“I shall be too busy for whist; I shall have two parishes,” said the -Vicar, preferring not to discuss the virtues of that game. - -He had already said to Dorothea, “I don’t feel bound to give up St. -Botolph’s. It is protest enough against the pluralism they want to -reform if I give somebody else most of the money. The stronger thing is -not to give up power, but to use it well.” - -“I have thought of that,” said Dorothea. “So far as self is concerned, -I think it would be easier to give up power and money than to keep -them. It seems very unfitting that I should have this patronage, yet I -felt that I ought not to let it be used by some one else instead of -me.” - -“It is I who am bound to act so that you will not regret your power,” -said Mr. Farebrother. - -His was one of the natures in which conscience gets the more active -when the yoke of life ceases to gall them. He made no display of -humility on the subject, but in his heart he felt rather ashamed that -his conduct had shown laches which others who did not get benefices -were free from. - -“I used often to wish I had been something else than a clergyman,” he -said to Lydgate, “but perhaps it will be better to try and make as good -a clergyman out of myself as I can. That is the well-beneficed point of -view, you perceive, from which difficulties are much simplified,” he -ended, smiling. - -The Vicar did feel then as if his share of duties would be easy. But -Duty has a trick of behaving unexpectedly—something like a heavy friend -whom we have amiably asked to visit us, and who breaks his leg within -our gates. - -Hardly a week later, Duty presented itself in his study under the -disguise of Fred Vincy, now returned from Omnibus College with his -bachelor’s degree. - -“I am ashamed to trouble you, Mr. Farebrother,” said Fred, whose fair -open face was propitiating, “but you are the only friend I can consult. -I told you everything once before, and you were so good that I can’t -help coming to you again.” - -“Sit down, Fred, I’m ready to hear and do anything I can,” said the -Vicar, who was busy packing some small objects for removal, and went on -with his work. - -“I wanted to tell you—” Fred hesitated an instant and then went on -plungingly, “I might go into the Church now; and really, look where I -may, I can’t see anything else to do. I don’t like it, but I know it’s -uncommonly hard on my father to say so, after he has spent a good deal -of money in educating me for it.” Fred paused again an instant, and -then repeated, “and I can’t see anything else to do.” - -“I did talk to your father about it, Fred, but I made little way with -him. He said it was too late. But you have got over one bridge now: -what are your other difficulties?” - -“Merely that I don’t like it. I don’t like divinity, and preaching, and -feeling obliged to look serious. I like riding across country, and -doing as other men do. I don’t mean that I want to be a bad fellow in -any way; but I’ve no taste for the sort of thing people expect of a -clergyman. And yet what else am I to do? My father can’t spare me any -capital, else I might go into farming. And he has no room for me in his -trade. And of course I can’t begin to study for law or physic now, when -my father wants me to earn something. It’s all very well to say I’m -wrong to go into the Church; but those who say so might as well tell me -to go into the backwoods.” - -Fred’s voice had taken a tone of grumbling remonstrance, and Mr. -Farebrother might have been inclined to smile if his mind had not been -too busy in imagining more than Fred told him. - -“Have you any difficulties about doctrines—about the Articles?” he -said, trying hard to think of the question simply for Fred’s sake. - -“No; I suppose the Articles are right. I am not prepared with any -arguments to disprove them, and much better, cleverer fellows than I am -go in for them entirely. I think it would be rather ridiculous in me to -urge scruples of that sort, as if I were a judge,” said Fred, quite -simply. - -“I suppose, then, it has occurred to you that you might be a fair -parish priest without being much of a divine?” - -“Of course, if I am obliged to be a clergyman, I shall try and do my -duty, though I mayn’t like it. Do you think any body ought to blame -me?” - -“For going into the Church under the circumstances? That depends on -your conscience, Fred—how far you have counted the cost, and seen what -your position will require of you. I can only tell you about myself, -that I have always been too lax, and have been uneasy in consequence.” - -“But there is another hindrance,” said Fred, coloring. “I did not tell -you before, though perhaps I may have said things that made you guess -it. There is somebody I am very fond of: I have loved her ever since we -were children.” - -“Miss Garth, I suppose?” said the Vicar, examining some labels very -closely. - -“Yes. I shouldn’t mind anything if she would have me. And I know I -could be a good fellow then.” - -“And you think she returns the feeling?” - -“She never will say so; and a good while ago she made me promise not to -speak to her about it again. And she has set her mind especially -against my being a clergyman; I know that. But I can’t give her up. I -do think she cares about me. I saw Mrs. Garth last night, and she said -that Mary was staying at Lowick Rectory with Miss Farebrother.” - -“Yes, she is very kindly helping my sister. Do you wish to go there?” - -“No, I want to ask a great favor of you. I am ashamed to bother you in -this way; but Mary might listen to what you said, if you mentioned the -subject to her—I mean about my going into the Church.” - -“That is rather a delicate task, my dear Fred. I shall have to -presuppose your attachment to her; and to enter on the subject as you -wish me to do, will be asking her to tell me whether she returns it.” - -“That is what I want her to tell you,” said Fred, bluntly. “I don’t -know what to do, unless I can get at her feeling.” - -“You mean that you would be guided by that as to your going into the -Church?” - -“If Mary said she would never have me I might as well go wrong in one -way as another.” - -“That is nonsense, Fred. Men outlive their love, but they don’t outlive -the consequences of their recklessness.” - -“Not my sort of love: I have never been without loving Mary. If I had -to give her up, it would be like beginning to live on wooden legs.” - -“Will she not be hurt at my intrusion?” - -“No, I feel sure she will not. She respects you more than any one, and -she would not put you off with fun as she does me. Of course I could -not have told any one else, or asked any one else to speak to her, but -you. There is no one else who could be such a friend to both of us.” -Fred paused a moment, and then said, rather complainingly, “And she -ought to acknowledge that I have worked in order to pass. She ought to -believe that I would exert myself for her sake.” - -There was a moment’s silence before Mr. Farebrother laid down his work, -and putting out his hand to Fred said— - -“Very well, my boy. I will do what you wish.” - -That very day Mr. Farebrother went to Lowick parsonage on the nag which -he had just set up. “Decidedly I am an old stalk,” he thought, “the -young growths are pushing me aside.” - -He found Mary in the garden gathering roses and sprinkling the petals -on a sheet. The sun was low, and tall trees sent their shadows across -the grassy walks where Mary was moving without bonnet or parasol. She -did not observe Mr. Farebrother’s approach along the grass, and had -just stooped down to lecture a small black-and-tan terrier, which would -persist in walking on the sheet and smelling at the rose-leaves as Mary -sprinkled them. She took his fore-paws in one hand, and lifted up the -forefinger of the other, while the dog wrinkled his brows and looked -embarrassed. “Fly, Fly, I am ashamed of you,” Mary was saying in a -grave contralto. “This is not becoming in a sensible dog; anybody would -think you were a silly young gentleman.” - -“You are unmerciful to young gentlemen, Miss Garth,” said the Vicar, -within two yards of her. - -Mary started up and blushed. “It always answers to reason with Fly,” -she said, laughingly. - -“But not with young gentlemen?” - -“Oh, with some, I suppose; since some of them turn into excellent men.” - -“I am glad of that admission, because I want at this very moment to -interest you in a young gentleman.” - -“Not a silly one, I hope,” said Mary, beginning to pluck the roses -again, and feeling her heart beat uncomfortably. - -“No; though perhaps wisdom is not his strong point, but rather -affection and sincerity. However, wisdom lies more in those two -qualities than people are apt to imagine. I hope you know by those -marks what young gentleman I mean.” - -“Yes, I think I do,” said Mary, bravely, her face getting more serious, -and her hands cold; “it must be Fred Vincy.” - -“He has asked me to consult you about his going into the Church. I hope -you will not think that I consented to take a liberty in promising to -do so.” - -“On the contrary, Mr. Farebrother,” said Mary, giving up the roses, and -folding her arms, but unable to look up, “whenever you have anything to -say to me I feel honored.” - -“But before I enter on that question, let me just touch a point on -which your father took me into confidence; by the way, it was that very -evening on which I once before fulfilled a mission from Fred, just -after he had gone to college. Mr. Garth told me what happened on the -night of Featherstone’s death—how you refused to burn the will; and he -said that you had some heart-prickings on that subject, because you had -been the innocent means of hindering Fred from getting his ten thousand -pounds. I have kept that in mind, and I have heard something that may -relieve you on that score—may show you that no sin-offering is demanded -from you there.” - -Mr. Farebrother paused a moment and looked at Mary. He meant to give -Fred his full advantage, but it would be well, he thought, to clear her -mind of any superstitions, such as women sometimes follow when they do -a man the wrong of marrying him as an act of atonement. Mary’s cheeks -had begun to burn a little, and she was mute. - -“I mean, that your action made no real difference to Fred’s lot. I find -that the first will would not have been legally good after the burning -of the last; it would not have stood if it had been disputed, and you -may be sure it would have been disputed. So, on that score, you may -feel your mind free.” - -“Thank you, Mr. Farebrother,” said Mary, earnestly. “I am grateful to -you for remembering my feelings.” - -“Well, now I may go on. Fred, you know, has taken his degree. He has -worked his way so far, and now the question is, what is he to do? That -question is so difficult that he is inclined to follow his father’s -wishes and enter the Church, though you know better than I do that he -was quite set against that formerly. I have questioned him on the -subject, and I confess I see no insuperable objection to his being a -clergyman, as things go. He says that he could turn his mind to doing -his best in that vocation, on one condition. If that condition were -fulfilled I would do my utmost in helping Fred on. After a time—not, of -course, at first—he might be with me as my curate, and he would have so -much to do that his stipend would be nearly what I used to get as -vicar. But I repeat that there is a condition without which all this -good cannot come to pass. He has opened his heart to me, Miss Garth, -and asked me to plead for him. The condition lies entirely in your -feeling.” - -Mary looked so much moved, that he said after a moment, “Let us walk a -little;” and when they were walking he added, “To speak quite plainly, -Fred will not take any course which would lessen the chance that you -would consent to be his wife; but with that prospect, he will try his -best at anything you approve.” - -“I cannot possibly say that I will ever be his wife, Mr. Farebrother: -but I certainly never will be his wife if he becomes a clergyman. What -you say is most generous and kind; I don’t mean for a moment to correct -your judgment. It is only that I have my girlish, mocking way of -looking at things,” said Mary, with a returning sparkle of playfulness -in her answer which only made its modesty more charming. - -“He wishes me to report exactly what you think,” said Mr. Farebrother. - -“I could not love a man who is ridiculous,” said Mary, not choosing to -go deeper. “Fred has sense and knowledge enough to make him -respectable, if he likes, in some good worldly business, but I can -never imagine him preaching and exhorting, and pronouncing blessings, -and praying by the sick, without feeling as if I were looking at a -caricature. His being a clergyman would be only for gentility’s sake, -and I think there is nothing more contemptible than such imbecile -gentility. I used to think that of Mr. Crowse, with his empty face and -neat umbrella, and mincing little speeches. What right have such men to -represent Christianity—as if it were an institution for getting up -idiots genteelly—as if—” Mary checked herself. She had been carried -along as if she had been speaking to Fred instead of Mr. Farebrother. - -“Young women are severe: they don’t feel the stress of action as men -do, though perhaps I ought to make you an exception there. But you -don’t put Fred Vincy on so low a level as that?” - -“No, indeed, he has plenty of sense, but I think he would not show it -as a clergyman. He would be a piece of professional affectation.” - -“Then the answer is quite decided. As a clergyman he could have no -hope?” - -Mary shook her head. - -“But if he braved all the difficulties of getting his bread in some -other way—will you give him the support of hope? May he count on -winning you?” - -“I think Fred ought not to need telling again what I have already said -to him,” Mary answered, with a slight resentment in her manner. “I mean -that he ought not to put such questions until he has done something -worthy, instead of saying that he could do it.” - -Mr. Farebrother was silent for a minute or more, and then, as they -turned and paused under the shadow of a maple at the end of a grassy -walk, said, “I understand that you resist any attempt to fetter you, -but either your feeling for Fred Vincy excludes your entertaining -another attachment, or it does not: either he may count on your -remaining single until he shall have earned your hand, or he may in any -case be disappointed. Pardon me, Mary—you know I used to catechise you -under that name—but when the state of a woman’s affections touches the -happiness of another life—of more lives than one—I think it would be -the nobler course for her to be perfectly direct and open.” - -Mary in her turn was silent, wondering not at Mr. Farebrother’s manner -but at his tone, which had a grave restrained emotion in it. When the -strange idea flashed across her that his words had reference to -himself, she was incredulous, and ashamed of entertaining it. She had -never thought that any man could love her except Fred, who had espoused -her with the umbrella ring, when she wore socks and little strapped -shoes; still less that she could be of any importance to Mr. -Farebrother, the cleverest man in her narrow circle. She had only time -to feel that all this was hazy and perhaps illusory; but one thing was -clear and determined—her answer. - -“Since you think it my duty, Mr. Farebrother, I will tell you that I -have too strong a feeling for Fred to give him up for any one else. I -should never be quite happy if I thought he was unhappy for the loss of -me. It has taken such deep root in me—my gratitude to him for always -loving me best, and minding so much if I hurt myself, from the time -when we were very little. I cannot imagine any new feeling coming to -make that weaker. I should like better than anything to see him worthy -of every one’s respect. But please tell him I will not promise to marry -him till then: I should shame and grieve my father and mother. He is -free to choose some one else.” - -“Then I have fulfilled my commission thoroughly,” said Mr. Farebrother, -putting out his hand to Mary, “and I shall ride back to Middlemarch -forthwith. With this prospect before him, we shall get Fred into the -right niche somehow, and I hope I shall live to join your hands. God -bless you!” - -“Oh, please stay, and let me give you some tea,” said Mary. Her eyes -filled with tears, for something indefinable, something like the -resolute suppression of a pain in Mr. Farebrother’s manner, made her -feel suddenly miserable, as she had once felt when she saw her father’s -hands trembling in a moment of trouble. - -“No, my dear, no. I must get back.” - -In three minutes the Vicar was on horseback again, having gone -magnanimously through a duty much harder than the renunciation of -whist, or even than the writing of penitential meditations. - - - - -CHAPTER LIII. - -It is but a shallow haste which concludeth insincerity from what -outsiders call inconsistency—putting a dead mechanism of “ifs” and -“therefores” for the living myriad of hidden suckers whereby the belief -and the conduct are wrought into mutual sustainment. - - -Mr. Bulstrode, when he was hoping to acquire a new interest in Lowick, -had naturally had an especial wish that the new clergyman should be one -whom he thoroughly approved; and he believed it to be a chastisement -and admonition directed to his own shortcomings and those of the nation -at large, that just about the time when he came in possession of the -deeds which made him the proprietor of Stone Court, Mr. Farebrother -“read himself” into the quaint little church and preached his first -sermon to the congregation of farmers, laborers, and village artisans. -It was not that Mr. Bulstrode intended to frequent Lowick Church or to -reside at Stone Court for a good while to come: he had bought the -excellent farm and fine homestead simply as a retreat which he might -gradually enlarge as to the land and beautify as to the dwelling, until -it should be conducive to the divine glory that he should enter on it -as a residence, partially withdrawing from his present exertions in the -administration of business, and throwing more conspicuously on the side -of Gospel truth the weight of local landed proprietorship, which -Providence might increase by unforeseen occasions of purchase. A strong -leading in this direction seemed to have been given in the surprising -facility of getting Stone Court, when every one had expected that Mr. -Rigg Featherstone would have clung to it as the Garden of Eden. That -was what poor old Peter himself had expected; having often, in -imagination, looked up through the sods above him, and, unobstructed by -perspective, seen his frog-faced legatee enjoying the fine old place to -the perpetual surprise and disappointment of other survivors. - -But how little we know what would make paradise for our neighbors! We -judge from our own desires, and our neighbors themselves are not always -open enough even to throw out a hint of theirs. The cool and judicious -Joshua Rigg had not allowed his parent to perceive that Stone Court was -anything less than the chief good in his estimation, and he had -certainly wished to call it his own. But as Warren Hastings looked at -gold and thought of buying Daylesford, so Joshua Rigg looked at Stone -Court and thought of buying gold. He had a very distinct and intense -vision of his chief good, the vigorous greed which he had inherited -having taken a special form by dint of circumstance: and his chief good -was to be a moneychanger. From his earliest employment as an errand-boy -in a seaport, he had looked through the windows of the moneychangers as -other boys look through the windows of the pastry-cooks; the -fascination had wrought itself gradually into a deep special passion; -he meant, when he had property, to do many things, one of them being to -marry a genteel young person; but these were all accidents and joys -that imagination could dispense with. The one joy after which his soul -thirsted was to have a money-changer’s shop on a much-frequented quay, -to have locks all round him of which he held the keys, and to look -sublimely cool as he handled the breeding coins of all nations, while -helpless Cupidity looked at him enviously from the other side of an -iron lattice. The strength of that passion had been a power enabling -him to master all the knowledge necessary to gratify it. And when -others were thinking that he had settled at Stone Court for life, -Joshua himself was thinking that the moment now was not far off when he -should settle on the North Quay with the best appointments in safes and -locks. - -Enough. We are concerned with looking at Joshua Rigg’s sale of his land -from Mr. Bulstrode’s point of view, and he interpreted it as a cheering -dispensation conveying perhaps a sanction to a purpose which he had for -some time entertained without external encouragement; he interpreted it -thus, but not too confidently, offering up his thanksgiving in guarded -phraseology. His doubts did not arise from the possible relations of -the event to Joshua Rigg’s destiny, which belonged to the unmapped -regions not taken under the providential government, except perhaps in -an imperfect colonial way; but they arose from reflecting that this -dispensation too might be a chastisement for himself, as Mr. -Farebrother’s induction to the living clearly was. - -This was not what Mr. Bulstrode said to any man for the sake of -deceiving him: it was what he said to himself—it was as genuinely his -mode of explaining events as any theory of yours may be, if you happen -to disagree with him. For the egoism which enters into our theories -does not affect their sincerity; rather, the more our egoism is -satisfied, the more robust is our belief. - -However, whether for sanction or for chastisement, Mr. Bulstrode, -hardly fifteen months after the death of Peter Featherstone, had become -the proprietor of Stone Court, and what Peter would say “if he were -worthy to know,” had become an inexhaustible and consolatory subject of -conversation to his disappointed relatives. The tables were now turned -on that dear brother departed, and to contemplate the frustration of -his cunning by the superior cunning of things in general was a cud of -delight to Solomon. Mrs. Waule had a melancholy triumph in the proof -that it did not answer to make false Featherstones and cut off the -genuine; and Sister Martha receiving the news in the Chalky Flats said, -“Dear, dear! then the Almighty could have been none so pleased with the -almshouses after all.” - -Affectionate Mrs. Bulstrode was particularly glad of the advantage -which her husband’s health was likely to get from the purchase of Stone -Court. Few days passed without his riding thither and looking over some -part of the farm with the bailiff, and the evenings were delicious in -that quiet spot, when the new hay-ricks lately set up were sending -forth odors to mingle with the breath of the rich old garden. One -evening, while the sun was still above the horizon and burning in -golden lamps among the great walnut boughs, Mr. Bulstrode was pausing -on horseback outside the front gate waiting for Caleb Garth, who had -met him by appointment to give an opinion on a question of stable -drainage, and was now advising the bailiff in the rick-yard. - -Mr. Bulstrode was conscious of being in a good spiritual frame and more -than usually serene, under the influence of his innocent recreation. He -was doctrinally convinced that there was a total absence of merit in -himself; but that doctrinal conviction may be held without pain when -the sense of demerit does not take a distinct shape in memory and -revive the tingling of shame or the pang of remorse. Nay, it may be -held with intense satisfaction when the depth of our sinning is but a -measure for the depth of forgiveness, and a clenching proof that we are -peculiar instruments of the divine intention. The memory has as many -moods as the temper, and shifts its scenery like a diorama. At this -moment Mr. Bulstrode felt as if the sunshine were all one with that of -far-off evenings when he was a very young man and used to go out -preaching beyond Highbury. And he would willingly have had that service -of exhortation in prospect now. The texts were there still, and so was -his own facility in expounding them. His brief reverie was interrupted -by the return of Caleb Garth, who also was on horseback, and was just -shaking his bridle before starting, when he exclaimed— - -“Bless my heart! what’s this fellow in black coming along the lane? -He’s like one of those men one sees about after the races.” - -Mr. Bulstrode turned his horse and looked along the lane, but made no -reply. The comer was our slight acquaintance Mr. Raffles, whose -appearance presented no other change than such as was due to a suit of -black and a crape hat-band. He was within three yards of the horseman -now, and they could see the flash of recognition in his face as he -whirled his stick upward, looking all the while at Mr. Bulstrode, and -at last exclaiming:— - -“By Jove, Nick, it’s you! I couldn’t be mistaken, though the -five-and-twenty years have played old Boguy with us both! How are you, -eh? you didn’t expect to see _me_ here. Come, shake us by the hand.” To -say that Mr. Raffles’ manner was rather excited would be only one mode -of saying that it was evening. Caleb Garth could see that there was a -moment of struggle and hesitation in Mr. Bulstrode, but it ended in his -putting out his hand coldly to Raffles and saying— - -“I did not indeed expect to see you in this remote country place.” - -“Well, it belongs to a stepson of mine,” said Raffles, adjusting -himself in a swaggering attitude. “I came to see him here before. I’m -not so surprised at seeing you, old fellow, because I picked up a -letter—what you may call a providential thing. It’s uncommonly -fortunate I met you, though; for I don’t care about seeing my stepson: -he’s not affectionate, and his poor mother’s gone now. To tell the -truth, I came out of love to you, Nick: I came to get your address, -for—look here!” Raffles drew a crumpled paper from his pocket. - -Almost any other man than Caleb Garth might have been tempted to linger -on the spot for the sake of hearing all he could about a man whose -acquaintance with Bulstrode seemed to imply passages in the banker’s -life so unlike anything that was known of him in Middlemarch that they -must have the nature of a secret to pique curiosity. But Caleb was -peculiar: certain human tendencies which are commonly strong were -almost absent from his mind; and one of these was curiosity about -personal affairs. Especially if there was anything discreditable to be -found out concerning another man, Caleb preferred not to know it; and -if he had to tell anybody under him that his evil doings were -discovered, he was more embarrassed than the culprit. He now spurred -his horse, and saying, “I wish you good evening, Mr. Bulstrode; I must -be getting home,” set off at a trot. - -“You didn’t put your full address to this letter,” Raffles continued. -“That was not like the first-rate man of business you used to be. ‘The -Shrubs,’—they may be anywhere: you live near at hand, eh?—have cut the -London concern altogether—perhaps turned country squire—have a rural -mansion to invite me to. Lord, how many years it is ago! The old lady -must have been dead a pretty long while—gone to glory without the pain -of knowing how poor her daughter was, eh? But, by Jove! you’re very -pale and pasty, Nick. Come, if you’re going home, I’ll walk by your -side.” - -Mr. Bulstrode’s usual paleness had in fact taken an almost deathly hue. -Five minutes before, the expanse of his life had been submerged in its -evening sunshine which shone backward to its remembered morning: sin -seemed to be a question of doctrine and inward penitence, humiliation -an exercise of the closet, the bearing of his deeds a matter of private -vision adjusted solely by spiritual relations and conceptions of the -divine purposes. And now, as if by some hideous magic, this loud red -figure had risen before him in unmanageable solidity—an incorporate -past which had not entered into his imagination of chastisements. But -Mr. Bulstrode’s thought was busy, and he was not a man to act or speak -rashly. - -“I was going home,” he said, “but I can defer my ride a little. And you -can, if you please, rest here.” - -“Thank you,” said Raffles, making a grimace. “I don’t care now about -seeing my stepson. I’d rather go home with you.” - -“Your stepson, if Mr. Rigg Featherstone was he, is here no longer. I am -master here now.” - -Raffles opened wide eyes, and gave a long whistle of surprise, before -he said, “Well then, I’ve no objection. I’ve had enough walking from -the coach-road. I never was much of a walker, or rider either. What I -like is a smart vehicle and a spirited cob. I was always a little heavy -in the saddle. What a pleasant surprise it must be to you to see me, -old fellow!” he continued, as they turned towards the house. “You don’t -say so; but you never took your luck heartily—you were always thinking -of improving the occasion—you’d such a gift for improving your luck.” - -Mr. Raffles seemed greatly to enjoy his own wit, and swung his leg in a -swaggering manner which was rather too much for his companion’s -judicious patience. - -“If I remember rightly,” Mr. Bulstrode observed, with chill anger, “our -acquaintance many years ago had not the sort of intimacy which you are -now assuming, Mr. Raffles. Any services you desire of me will be the -more readily rendered if you will avoid a tone of familiarity which did -not lie in our former intercourse, and can hardly be warranted by more -than twenty years of separation.” - -“You don’t like being called Nick? Why, I always called you Nick in my -heart, and though lost to sight, to memory dear. By Jove! my feelings -have ripened for you like fine old cognac. I hope you’ve got some in -the house now. Josh filled my flask well the last time.” - -Mr. Bulstrode had not yet fully learned that even the desire for cognac -was not stronger in Raffles than the desire to torment, and that a hint -of annoyance always served him as a fresh cue. But it was at least -clear that further objection was useless, and Mr. Bulstrode, in giving -orders to the housekeeper for the accommodation of the guest, had a -resolute air of quietude. - -There was the comfort of thinking that this housekeeper had been in the -service of Rigg also, and might accept the idea that Mr. Bulstrode -entertained Raffles merely as a friend of her former master. - -When there was food and drink spread before his visitor in the -wainscoted parlor, and no witness in the room, Mr. Bulstrode said— - -“Your habits and mine are so different, Mr. Raffles, that we can hardly -enjoy each other’s society. The wisest plan for both of us will -therefore be to part as soon as possible. Since you say that you wished -to meet me, you probably considered that you had some business to -transact with me. But under the circumstances I will invite you to -remain here for the night, and I will myself ride over here early -to-morrow morning—before breakfast, in fact—when I can receive any -communication you have to make to me.” - -“With all my heart,” said Raffles; “this is a comfortable place—a -little dull for a continuance; but I can put up with it for a night, -with this good liquor and the prospect of seeing you again in the -morning. You’re a much better host than my stepson was; but Josh owed -me a bit of a grudge for marrying his mother; and between you and me -there was never anything but kindness.” - -Mr. Bulstrode, hoping that the peculiar mixture of joviality and -sneering in Raffles’ manner was a good deal the effect of drink, had -determined to wait till he was quite sober before he spent more words -upon him. But he rode home with a terribly lucid vision of the -difficulty there would be in arranging any result that could be -permanently counted on with this man. It was inevitable that he should -wish to get rid of John Raffles, though his reappearance could not be -regarded as lying outside the divine plan. The spirit of evil might -have sent him to threaten Mr. Bulstrode’s subversion as an instrument -of good; but the threat must have been permitted, and was a -chastisement of a new kind. It was an hour of anguish for him very -different from the hours in which his struggle had been securely -private, and which had ended with a sense that his secret misdeeds were -pardoned and his services accepted. Those misdeeds even when -committed—had they not been half sanctified by the singleness of his -desire to devote himself and all he possessed to the furtherance of the -divine scheme? And was he after all to become a mere stone of stumbling -and a rock of offence? For who would understand the work within him? -Who would not, when there was the pretext of casting disgrace upon him, -confound his whole life and the truths he had espoused, in one heap of -obloquy? - -In his closest meditations the life-long habit of Mr. Bulstrode’s mind -clad his most egoistic terrors in doctrinal references to superhuman -ends. But even while we are talking and meditating about the earth’s -orbit and the solar system, what we feel and adjust our movements to is -the stable earth and the changing day. And now within all the automatic -succession of theoretic phrases—distinct and inmost as the shiver and -the ache of oncoming fever when we are discussing abstract pain, was -the forecast of disgrace in the presence of his neighbors and of his -own wife. For the pain, as well as the public estimate of disgrace, -depends on the amount of previous profession. To men who only aim at -escaping felony, nothing short of the prisoner’s dock is disgrace. But -Mr. Bulstrode had aimed at being an eminent Christian. - -It was not more than half-past seven in the morning when he again -reached Stone Court. The fine old place never looked more like a -delightful home than at that moment; the great white lilies were in -flower, the nasturtiums, their pretty leaves all silvered with dew, -were running away over the low stone wall; the very noises all around -had a heart of peace within them. But everything was spoiled for the -owner as he walked on the gravel in front and awaited the descent of -Mr. Raffles, with whom he was condemned to breakfast. - -It was not long before they were seated together in the wainscoted -parlor over their tea and toast, which was as much as Raffles cared to -take at that early hour. The difference between his morning and evening -self was not so great as his companion had imagined that it might be; -the delight in tormenting was perhaps even the stronger because his -spirits were rather less highly pitched. Certainly his manners seemed -more disagreeable by the morning light. - -“As I have little time to spare, Mr. Raffles,” said the banker, who -could hardly do more than sip his tea and break his toast without -eating it, “I shall be obliged if you will mention at once the ground -on which you wished to meet with me. I presume that you have a home -elsewhere and will be glad to return to it.” - -“Why, if a man has got any heart, doesn’t he want to see an old friend, -Nick?—I must call you Nick—we always did call you young Nick when we -knew you meant to marry the old widow. Some said you had a handsome -family likeness to old Nick, but that was your mother’s fault, calling -you Nicholas. Aren’t you glad to see me again? I expected an invite to -stay with you at some pretty place. My own establishment is broken up -now my wife’s dead. I’ve no particular attachment to any spot; I would -as soon settle hereabout as anywhere.” - -“May I ask why you returned from America? I considered that the strong -wish you expressed to go there, when an adequate sum was furnished, was -tantamount to an engagement that you would remain there for life.” - -“Never knew that a wish to go to a place was the same thing as a wish -to stay. But I did stay a matter of ten years; it didn’t suit me to -stay any longer. And I’m not going again, Nick.” Here Mr. Raffles -winked slowly as he looked at Mr. Bulstrode. - -“Do you wish to be settled in any business? What is your calling now?” - -“Thank you, my calling is to enjoy myself as much as I can. I don’t -care about working any more. If I did anything it would be a little -travelling in the tobacco line—or something of that sort, which takes a -man into agreeable company. But not without an independence to fall -back upon. That’s what I want: I’m not so strong as I was, Nick, though -I’ve got more color than you. I want an independence.” - -“That could be supplied to you, if you would engage to keep at a -distance,” said Mr. Bulstrode, perhaps with a little too much eagerness -in his undertone. - -“That must be as it suits my convenience,” said Raffles coolly. “I see -no reason why I shouldn’t make a few acquaintances hereabout. I’m not -ashamed of myself as company for anybody. I dropped my portmanteau at -the turnpike when I got down—change of linen—genuine—honor bright—more -than fronts and wristbands; and with this suit of mourning, straps and -everything, I should do you credit among the nobs here.” Mr. Raffles -had pushed away his chair and looked down at himself, particularly at -his straps. His chief intention was to annoy Bulstrode, but he really -thought that his appearance now would produce a good effect, and that -he was not only handsome and witty, but clad in a mourning style which -implied solid connections. - -“If you intend to rely on me in any way, Mr. Raffles,” said Bulstrode, -after a moment’s pause, “you will expect to meet my wishes.” - -“Ah, to be sure,” said Raffles, with a mocking cordiality. “Didn’t I -always do it? Lord, you made a pretty thing out of me, and I got but -little. I’ve often thought since, I might have done better by telling -the old woman that I’d found her daughter and her grandchild: it would -have suited my feelings better; I’ve got a soft place in my heart. But -you’ve buried the old lady by this time, I suppose—it’s all one to her -now. And you’ve got your fortune out of that profitable business which -had such a blessing on it. You’ve taken to being a nob, buying land, -being a country bashaw. Still in the Dissenting line, eh? Still godly? -Or taken to the Church as more genteel?” - -This time Mr. Raffles’ slow wink and slight protrusion of his tongue -was worse than a nightmare, because it held the certitude that it was -not a nightmare, but a waking misery. Mr. Bulstrode felt a shuddering -nausea, and did not speak, but was considering diligently whether he -should not leave Raffles to do as he would, and simply defy him as a -slanderer. The man would soon show himself disreputable enough to make -people disbelieve him. “But not when he tells any ugly-looking truth -about _you_,” said discerning consciousness. And again: it seemed no -wrong to keep Raffles at a distance, but Mr. Bulstrode shrank from the -direct falsehood of denying true statements. It was one thing to look -back on forgiven sins, nay, to explain questionable conformity to lax -customs, and another to enter deliberately on the necessity of -falsehood. - -But since Bulstrode did not speak, Raffles ran on, by way of using time -to the utmost. - -“I’ve not had such fine luck as you, by Jove! Things went confoundedly -with me in New York; those Yankees are cool hands, and a man of -gentlemanly feelings has no chance with them. I married when I came -back—a nice woman in the tobacco trade—very fond of me—but the trade -was restricted, as we say. She had been settled there a good many years -by a friend; but there was a son too much in the case. Josh and I never -hit it off. However, I made the most of the position, and I’ve always -taken my glass in good company. It’s been all on the square with me; -I’m as open as the day. You won’t take it ill of me that I didn’t look -you up before. I’ve got a complaint that makes me a little dilatory. I -thought you were trading and praying away in London still, and didn’t -find you there. But you see I was sent to you, Nick—perhaps for a -blessing to both of us.” - -Mr. Raffles ended with a jocose snuffle: no man felt his intellect more -superior to religious cant. And if the cunning which calculates on the -meanest feelings in men could be called intellect, he had his share, -for under the blurting rallying tone with which he spoke to Bulstrode, -there was an evident selection of statements, as if they had been so -many moves at chess. Meanwhile Bulstrode had determined on his move, -and he said, with gathered resolution— - -“You will do well to reflect, Mr. Raffles, that it is possible for a -man to overreach himself in the effort to secure undue advantage. -Although I am not in any way bound to you, I am willing to supply you -with a regular annuity—in quarterly payments—so long as you fulfil a -promise to remain at a distance from this neighborhood. It is in your -power to choose. If you insist on remaining here, even for a short -time, you will get nothing from me. I shall decline to know you.” - -“Ha, ha!” said Raffles, with an affected explosion, “that reminds me of -a droll dog of a thief who declined to know the constable.” - -“Your allusions are lost on me sir,” said Bulstrode, with white heat; -“the law has no hold on me either through your agency or any other.” - -“You can’t understand a joke, my good fellow. I only meant that I -should never decline to know you. But let us be serious. Your quarterly -payment won’t quite suit me. I like my freedom.” - -Here Raffles rose and stalked once or twice up and down the room, -swinging his leg, and assuming an air of masterly meditation. At last -he stopped opposite Bulstrode, and said, “I’ll tell you what! Give us a -couple of hundreds—come, that’s modest—and I’ll go away—honor -bright!—pick up my portmanteau and go away. But I shall not give up my -liberty for a dirty annuity. I shall come and go where I like. Perhaps -it may suit me to stay away, and correspond with a friend; perhaps not. -Have you the money with you?” - -“No, I have one hundred,” said Bulstrode, feeling the immediate -riddance too great a relief to be rejected on the ground of future -uncertainties. “I will forward you the other if you will mention an -address.” - -“No, I’ll wait here till you bring it,” said Raffles. “I’ll take a -stroll and have a snack, and you’ll be back by that time.” - -Mr. Bulstrode’s sickly body, shattered by the agitations he had gone -through since the last evening, made him feel abjectly in the power of -this loud invulnerable man. At that moment he snatched at a temporary -repose to be won on any terms. He was rising to do what Raffles -suggested, when the latter said, lifting up his finger as if with a -sudden recollection— - -“I did have another look after Sarah again, though I didn’t tell you; -I’d a tender conscience about that pretty young woman. I didn’t find -her, but I found out her husband’s name, and I made a note of it. But -hang it, I lost my pocketbook. However, if I heard it, I should know it -again. I’ve got my faculties as if I was in my prime, but names wear -out, by Jove! Sometimes I’m no better than a confounded tax-paper -before the names are filled in. However, if I hear of her and her -family, you shall know, Nick. You’d like to do something for her, now -she’s your step-daughter.” - -“Doubtless,” said Mr. Bulstrode, with the usual steady look of his -light-gray eyes; “though that might reduce my power of assisting you.” - -As he walked out of the room, Raffles winked slowly at his back, and -then turned towards the window to watch the banker riding -away—virtually at his command. His lips first curled with a smile and -then opened with a short triumphant laugh. - -“But what the deuce was the name?” he presently said, half aloud, -scratching his head, and wrinkling his brows horizontally. He had not -really cared or thought about this point of forgetfulness until it -occurred to him in his invention of annoyances for Bulstrode. - -“It began with L; it was almost all l’s I fancy,” he went on, with a -sense that he was getting hold of the slippery name. But the hold was -too slight, and he soon got tired of this mental chase; for few men -were more impatient of private occupation or more in need of making -themselves continually heard than Mr. Raffles. He preferred using his -time in pleasant conversation with the bailiff and the housekeeper, -from whom he gathered as much as he wanted to know about Mr. -Bulstrode’s position in Middlemarch. - -After all, however, there was a dull space of time which needed -relieving with bread and cheese and ale, and when he was seated alone -with these resources in the wainscoted parlor, he suddenly slapped his -knee, and exclaimed, “Ladislaw!” That action of memory which he had -tried to set going, and had abandoned in despair, had suddenly -completed itself without conscious effort—a common experience, -agreeable as a completed sneeze, even if the name remembered is of no -value. Raffles immediately took out his pocket-book, and wrote down the -name, not because he expected to use it, but merely for the sake of not -being at a loss if he ever did happen to want it. He was not going to -tell Bulstrode: there was no actual good in telling, and to a mind like -that of Mr. Raffles there is always probable good in a secret. - -He was satisfied with his present success, and by three o’clock that -day he had taken up his portmanteau at the turnpike and mounted the -coach, relieving Mr. Bulstrode’s eyes of an ugly black spot on the -landscape at Stone Court, but not relieving him of the dread that the -black spot might reappear and become inseparable even from the vision -of his hearth. - - - - -BOOK VI. -THE WIDOW AND THE WIFE. - - - - -CHAPTER LIV. - -“Negli occhi porta la mia donna Amore; -Per che si fa gentil ciò ch’ella mira: -Ov’ella passa, ogni uom ver lei si gira, -E cui saluta fa tremar lo core. - -Sicchè, bassando il viso, tutto smore, -E d’ogni suo difetto allor sospira: -Fuggon dinanzi a lei Superbia ed Ira: -Aiutatemi, donne, a farle onore. - -Ogni dolcezza, ogni pensiero umile -Nasce nel core a chi parlar la sente; -Ond’è beato chi prima la vide. -Quel ch’ella par quand’ un poco sorride, -Non si può dicer, nè tener a mente, -Si è nuovo miracolo gentile.” -—DANTE: _La Vita Nuova_. - - -By that delightful morning when the hay-ricks at Stone Court were -scenting the air quite impartially, as if Mr. Raffles had been a guest -worthy of finest incense, Dorothea had again taken up her abode at -Lowick Manor. After three months Freshitt had become rather oppressive: -to sit like a model for Saint Catherine looking rapturously at Celia’s -baby would not do for many hours in the day, and to remain in that -momentous babe’s presence with persistent disregard was a course that -could not have been tolerated in a childless sister. Dorothea would -have been capable of carrying baby joyfully for a mile if there had -been need, and of loving it the more tenderly for that labor; but to an -aunt who does not recognize her infant nephew as Bouddha, and has -nothing to do for him but to admire, his behavior is apt to appear -monotonous, and the interest of watching him exhaustible. This -possibility was quite hidden from Celia, who felt that Dorothea’s -childless widowhood fell in quite prettily with the birth of little -Arthur (baby was named after Mr. Brooke). - -“Dodo is just the creature not to mind about having anything of her -own—children or anything!” said Celia to her husband. “And if she had -had a baby, it never could have been such a dear as Arthur. Could it, -James? - -“Not if it had been like Casaubon,” said Sir James, conscious of some -indirectness in his answer, and of holding a strictly private opinion -as to the perfections of his first-born. - -“No! just imagine! Really it was a mercy,” said Celia; “and I think it -is very nice for Dodo to be a widow. She can be just as fond of our -baby as if it were her own, and she can have as many notions of her own -as she likes.” - -“It is a pity she was not a queen,” said the devout Sir James. - -“But what should we have been then? We must have been something else,” -said Celia, objecting to so laborious a flight of imagination. “I like -her better as she is.” - -Hence, when she found that Dorothea was making arrangements for her -final departure to Lowick, Celia raised her eyebrows with -disappointment, and in her quiet unemphatic way shot a needle-arrow of -sarcasm. - -“What will you do at Lowick, Dodo? You say yourself there is nothing to -be done there: everybody is so clean and well off, it makes you quite -melancholy. And here you have been so happy going all about Tipton with -Mr. Garth into the worst backyards. And now uncle is abroad, you and -Mr. Garth can have it all your own way; and I am sure James does -everything you tell him.” - -“I shall often come here, and I shall see how baby grows all the -better,” said Dorothea. - -“But you will never see him washed,” said Celia; “and that is quite the -best part of the day.” She was almost pouting: it did seem to her very -hard in Dodo to go away from the baby when she might stay. - -“Dear Kitty, I will come and stay all night on purpose,” said Dorothea; -“but I want to be alone now, and in my own home. I wish to know the -Farebrothers better, and to talk to Mr. Farebrother about what there is -to be done in Middlemarch.” - -Dorothea’s native strength of will was no longer all converted into -resolute submission. She had a great yearning to be at Lowick, and was -simply determined to go, not feeling bound to tell all her reasons. But -every one around her disapproved. Sir James was much pained, and -offered that they should all migrate to Cheltenham for a few months -with the sacred ark, otherwise called a cradle: at that period a man -could hardly know what to propose if Cheltenham were rejected. - -The Dowager Lady Chettam, just returned from a visit to her daughter in -town, wished, at least, that Mrs. Vigo should be written to, and -invited to accept the office of companion to Mrs. Casaubon: it was not -credible that Dorothea as a young widow would think of living alone in -the house at Lowick. Mrs. Vigo had been reader and secretary to royal -personages, and in point of knowledge and sentiments even Dorothea -could have nothing to object to her. - -Mrs. Cadwallader said, privately, “You will certainly go mad in that -house alone, my dear. You will see visions. We have all got to exert -ourselves a little to keep sane, and call things by the same names as -other people call them by. To be sure, for younger sons and women who -have no money, it is a sort of provision to go mad: they are taken care -of then. But you must not run into that. I dare say you are a little -bored here with our good dowager; but think what a bore you might -become yourself to your fellow-creatures if you were always playing -tragedy queen and taking things sublimely. Sitting alone in that -library at Lowick you may fancy yourself ruling the weather; you must -get a few people round you who wouldn’t believe you if you told them. -That is a good lowering medicine.” - -“I never called everything by the same name that all the people about -me did,” said Dorothea, stoutly. - -“But I suppose you have found out your mistake, my dear,” said Mrs. -Cadwallader, “and that is a proof of sanity.” - -Dorothea was aware of the sting, but it did not hurt her. “No,” she -said, “I still think that the greater part of the world is mistaken -about many things. Surely one may be sane and yet think so, since the -greater part of the world has often had to come round from its -opinion.” - -Mrs. Cadwallader said no more on that point to Dorothea, but to her -husband she remarked, “It will be well for her to marry again as soon -as it is proper, if one could get her among the right people. Of course -the Chettams would not wish it. But I see clearly a husband is the best -thing to keep her in order. If we were not so poor I would invite Lord -Triton. He will be marquis some day, and there is no denying that she -would make a good marchioness: she looks handsomer than ever in her -mourning.” - -“My dear Elinor, do let the poor woman alone. Such contrivances are of -no use,” said the easy Rector. - -“No use? How are matches made, except by bringing men and women -together? And it is a shame that her uncle should have run away and -shut up the Grange just now. There ought to be plenty of eligible -matches invited to Freshitt and the Grange. Lord Triton is precisely -the man: full of plans for making the people happy in a soft-headed -sort of way. That would just suit Mrs. Casaubon.” - -“Let Mrs. Casaubon choose for herself, Elinor.” - -“That is the nonsense you wise men talk! How can she choose if she has -no variety to choose from? A woman’s choice usually means taking the -only man she can get. Mark my words, Humphrey. If her friends don’t -exert themselves, there will be a worse business than the Casaubon -business yet.” - -“For heaven’s sake don’t touch on that topic, Elinor! It is a very sore -point with Sir James. He would be deeply offended if you entered on it -to him unnecessarily.” - -“I have never entered on it,” said Mrs Cadwallader, opening her hands. -“Celia told me all about the will at the beginning, without any asking -of mine.” - -“Yes, yes; but they want the thing hushed up, and I understand that the -young fellow is going out of the neighborhood.” - -Mrs. Cadwallader said nothing, but gave her husband three significant -nods, with a very sarcastic expression in her dark eyes. - -Dorothea quietly persisted in spite of remonstrance and persuasion. So -by the end of June the shutters were all opened at Lowick Manor, and -the morning gazed calmly into the library, shining on the rows of -note-books as it shines on the weary waste planted with huge stones, -the mute memorial of a forgotten faith; and the evening laden with -roses entered silently into the blue-green boudoir where Dorothea chose -oftenest to sit. At first she walked into every room, questioning the -eighteen months of her married life, and carrying on her thoughts as if -they were a speech to be heard by her husband. Then, she lingered in -the library and could not be at rest till she had carefully ranged all -the note-books as she imagined that he would wish to see them, in -orderly sequence. The pity which had been the restraining compelling -motive in her life with him still clung about his image, even while she -remonstrated with him in indignant thought and told him that he was -unjust. One little act of hers may perhaps be smiled at as -superstitious. The Synoptical Tabulation for the use of Mrs. Casaubon, -she carefully enclosed and sealed, writing within the envelope, “I -could not use it. Do you not see now that I could not submit my soul to -yours, by working hopelessly at what I have no belief in—Dorothea?” -Then she deposited the paper in her own desk. - -That silent colloquy was perhaps only the more earnest because -underneath and through it all there was always the deep longing which -had really determined her to come to Lowick. The longing was to see -Will Ladislaw. She did not know any good that could come of their -meeting: she was helpless; her hands had been tied from making up to -him for any unfairness in his lot. But her soul thirsted to see him. -How could it be otherwise? If a princess in the days of enchantment had -seen a four-footed creature from among those which live in herds come -to her once and again with a human gaze which rested upon her with -choice and beseeching, what would she think of in her journeying, what -would she look for when the herds passed her? Surely for the gaze which -had found her, and which she would know again. Life would be no better -than candle-light tinsel and daylight rubbish if our spirits were not -touched by what has been, to issues of longing and constancy. It was -true that Dorothea wanted to know the Farebrothers better, and -especially to talk to the new rector, but also true that remembering -what Lydgate had told her about Will Ladislaw and little Miss Noble, -she counted on Will’s coming to Lowick to see the Farebrother family. -The very first Sunday, _before_ she entered the church, she saw him as -she had seen him the last time she was there, alone in the clergyman’s -pew; but _when_ she entered his figure was gone. - -In the week-days when she went to see the ladies at the Rectory, she -listened in vain for some word that they might let fall about Will; but -it seemed to her that Mrs. Farebrother talked of every one else in the -neighborhood and out of it. - -“Probably some of Mr. Farebrother’s Middlemarch hearers may follow him -to Lowick sometimes. Do you not think so?” said Dorothea, rather -despising herself for having a secret motive in asking the question. - -“If they are wise they will, Mrs. Casaubon,” said the old lady. “I see -that you set a right value on my son’s preaching. His grandfather on my -side was an excellent clergyman, but his father was in the law:—most -exemplary and honest nevertheless, which is a reason for our never -being rich. They say Fortune is a woman and capricious. But sometimes -she is a good woman and gives to those who merit, which has been the -case with you, Mrs. Casaubon, who have given a living to my son.” - -Mrs. Farebrother recurred to her knitting with a dignified satisfaction -in her neat little effort at oratory, but this was not what Dorothea -wanted to hear. Poor thing! she did not even know whether Will Ladislaw -was still at Middlemarch, and there was no one whom she dared to ask, -unless it were Lydgate. But just now she could not see Lydgate without -sending for him or going to seek him. Perhaps Will Ladislaw, having -heard of that strange ban against him left by Mr. Casaubon, had felt it -better that he and she should not meet again, and perhaps she was wrong -to wish for a meeting that others might find many good reasons against. -Still “I do wish it” came at the end of those wise reflections as -naturally as a sob after holding the breath. And the meeting did -happen, but in a formal way quite unexpected by her. - -One morning, about eleven, Dorothea was seated in her boudoir with a -map of the land attached to the manor and other papers before her, -which were to help her in making an exact statement for herself of her -income and affairs. She had not yet applied herself to her work, but -was seated with her hands folded on her lap, looking out along the -avenue of limes to the distant fields. Every leaf was at rest in the -sunshine, the familiar scene was changeless, and seemed to represent -the prospect of her life, full of motiveless ease—motiveless, if her -own energy could not seek out reasons for ardent action. The widow’s -cap of those times made an oval frame for the face, and had a crown -standing up; the dress was an experiment in the utmost laying on of -crape; but this heavy solemnity of clothing made her face look all the -younger, with its recovered bloom, and the sweet, inquiring candor of -her eyes. - -Her reverie was broken by Tantripp, who came to say that Mr. Ladislaw -was below, and begged permission to see Madam if it were not too early. - -“I will see him,” said Dorothea, rising immediately. “Let him be shown -into the drawing-room.” - -The drawing-room was the most neutral room in the house to her—the one -least associated with the trials of her married life: the damask -matched the wood-work, which was all white and gold; there were two -tall mirrors and tables with nothing on them—in brief, it was a room -where you had no reason for sitting in one place rather than in -another. It was below the boudoir, and had also a bow-window looking -out on the avenue. But when Pratt showed Will Ladislaw into it the -window was open; and a winged visitor, buzzing in and out now and then -without minding the furniture, made the room look less formal and -uninhabited. - -“Glad to see you here again, sir,” said Pratt, lingering to adjust a -blind. - -“I am only come to say good-by, Pratt,” said Will, who wished even the -butler to know that he was too proud to hang about Mrs. Casaubon now -she was a rich widow. - -“Very sorry to hear it, sir,” said Pratt, retiring. Of course, as a -servant who was to be told nothing, he knew the fact of which Ladislaw -was still ignorant, and had drawn his inferences; indeed, had not -differed from his betrothed Tantripp when she said, “Your master was as -jealous as a fiend—and no reason. Madam would look higher than Mr. -Ladislaw, else I don’t know her. Mrs. Cadwallader’s maid says there’s a -lord coming who is to marry her when the mourning’s over.” - -There were not many moments for Will to walk about with his hat in his -hand before Dorothea entered. The meeting was very different from that -first meeting in Rome when Will had been embarrassed and Dorothea calm. -This time he felt miserable but determined, while she was in a state of -agitation which could not be hidden. Just outside the door she had felt -that this longed-for meeting was after all too difficult, and when she -saw Will advancing towards her, the deep blush which was rare in her -came with painful suddenness. Neither of them knew how it was, but -neither of them spoke. She gave her hand for a moment, and then they -went to sit down near the window, she on one settee and he on another -opposite. Will was peculiarly uneasy: it seemed to him not like -Dorothea that the mere fact of her being a widow should cause such a -change in her manner of receiving him; and he knew of no other -condition which could have affected their previous relation to each -other—except that, as his imagination at once told him, her friends -might have been poisoning her mind with their suspicions of him. - -“I hope I have not presumed too much in calling,” said Will; “I could -not bear to leave the neighborhood and begin a new life without seeing -you to say good-by.” - -“Presumed? Surely not. I should have thought it unkind if you had not -wished to see me,” said Dorothea, her habit of speaking with perfect -genuineness asserting itself through all her uncertainty and agitation. -“Are you going away immediately?” - -“Very soon, I think. I intend to go to town and eat my dinners as a -barrister, since, they say, that is the preparation for all public -business. There will be a great deal of political work to be done -by-and-by, and I mean to try and do some of it. Other men have managed -to win an honorable position for themselves without family or money.” - -“And that will make it all the more honorable,” said Dorothea, -ardently. “Besides, you have so many talents. I have heard from my -uncle how well you speak in public, so that every one is sorry when you -leave off, and how clearly you can explain things. And you care that -justice should be done to every one. I am so glad. When we were in -Rome, I thought you only cared for poetry and art, and the things that -adorn life for us who are well off. But now I know you think about the -rest of the world.” - -While she was speaking Dorothea had lost her personal embarrassment, -and had become like her former self. She looked at Will with a direct -glance, full of delighted confidence. - -“You approve of my going away for years, then, and never coming here -again till I have made myself of some mark in the world?” said Will, -trying hard to reconcile the utmost pride with the utmost effort to get -an expression of strong feeling from Dorothea. - -She was not aware how long it was before she answered. She had turned -her head and was looking out of the window on the rose-bushes, which -seemed to have in them the summers of all the years when Will would be -away. This was not judicious behavior. But Dorothea never thought of -studying her manners: she thought only of bowing to a sad necessity -which divided her from Will. Those first words of his about his -intentions had seemed to make everything clear to her: he knew, she -supposed, all about Mr. Casaubon’s final conduct in relation to him, -and it had come to him with the same sort of shock as to herself. He -had never felt more than friendship for her—had never had anything in -his mind to justify what she felt to be her husband’s outrage on the -feelings of both: and that friendship he still felt. Something which -may be called an inward silent sob had gone on in Dorothea before she -said with a pure voice, just trembling in the last words as if only -from its liquid flexibility— - -“Yes, it must be right for you to do as you say. I shall be very happy -when I hear that you have made your value felt. But you must have -patience. It will perhaps be a long while.” - -Will never quite knew how it was that he saved himself from falling -down at her feet, when the “long while” came forth with its gentle -tremor. He used to say that the horrible hue and surface of her crape -dress was most likely the sufficient controlling force. He sat still, -however, and only said— - -“I shall never hear from you. And you will forget all about me.” - -“No,” said Dorothea, “I shall never forget you. I have never forgotten -any one whom I once knew. My life has never been crowded, and seems not -likely to be so. And I have a great deal of space for memory at Lowick, -haven’t I?” She smiled. - -“Good God!” Will burst out passionately, rising, with his hat still in -his hand, and walking away to a marble table, where he suddenly turned -and leaned his back against it. The blood had mounted to his face and -neck, and he looked almost angry. It had seemed to him as if they were -like two creatures slowly turning to marble in each other’s presence, -while their hearts were conscious and their eyes were yearning. But -there was no help for it. It should never be true of him that in this -meeting to which he had come with bitter resolution he had ended by a -confession which might be interpreted into asking for her fortune. -Moreover, it was actually true that he was fearful of the effect which -such confessions might have on Dorothea herself. - -She looked at him from that distance in some trouble, imagining that -there might have been an offence in her words. But all the while there -was a current of thought in her about his probable want of money, and -the impossibility of her helping him. If her uncle had been at home, -something might have been done through him! It was this preoccupation -with the hardship of Will’s wanting money, while she had what ought to -have been his share, which led her to say, seeing that he remained -silent and looked away from her— - -“I wonder whether you would like to have that miniature which hangs -up-stairs—I mean that beautiful miniature of your grandmother. I think -it is not right for me to keep it, if you would wish to have it. It is -wonderfully like you.” - -“You are very good,” said Will, irritably. “No; I don’t mind about it. -It is not very consoling to have one’s own likeness. It would be more -consoling if others wanted to have it.” - -“I thought you would like to cherish her memory—I thought—” Dorothea -broke off an instant, her imagination suddenly warning her away from -Aunt Julia’s history—“you would surely like to have the miniature as a -family memorial.” - -“Why should I have that, when I have nothing else! A man with only a -portmanteau for his stowage must keep his memorials in his head.” - -Will spoke at random: he was merely venting his petulance; it was a -little too exasperating to have his grandmother’s portrait offered him -at that moment. But to Dorothea’s feeling his words had a peculiar -sting. She rose and said with a touch of indignation as well as -hauteur— - -“You are much the happier of us two, Mr. Ladislaw, to have nothing.” - -Will was startled. Whatever the words might be, the tone seemed like a -dismissal; and quitting his leaning posture, he walked a little way -towards her. Their eyes met, but with a strange questioning gravity. -Something was keeping their minds aloof, and each was left to -conjecture what was in the other. Will had really never thought of -himself as having a claim of inheritance on the property which was held -by Dorothea, and would have required a narrative to make him understand -her present feeling. - -“I never felt it a misfortune to have nothing till now,” he said. “But -poverty may be as bad as leprosy, if it divides us from what we most -care for.” - -The words cut Dorothea to the heart, and made her relent. She answered -in a tone of sad fellowship. - -“Sorrow comes in so many ways. Two years ago I had no notion of that—I -mean of the unexpected way in which trouble comes, and ties our hands, -and makes us silent when we long to speak. I used to despise women a -little for not shaping their lives more, and doing better things. I was -very fond of doing as I liked, but I have almost given it up,” she -ended, smiling playfully. - -“I have not given up doing as I like, but I can very seldom do it,” -said Will. He was standing two yards from her with his mind full of -contradictory desires and resolves—desiring some unmistakable proof -that she loved him, and yet dreading the position into which such a -proof might bring him. “The thing one most longs for may be surrounded -with conditions that would be intolerable.” - -At this moment Pratt entered and said, “Sir James Chettam is in the -library, madam.” - -“Ask Sir James to come in here,” said Dorothea, immediately. It was as -if the same electric shock had passed through her and Will. Each of -them felt proudly resistant, and neither looked at the other, while -they awaited Sir James’s entrance. - -After shaking hands with Dorothea, he bowed as slightly as possible to -Ladislaw, who repaid the slightness exactly, and then going towards -Dorothea, said— - -“I must say good-by, Mrs. Casaubon; and probably for a long while.” - -Dorothea put out her hand and said her good-by cordially. The sense -that Sir James was depreciating Will, and behaving rudely to him, -roused her resolution and dignity: there was no touch of confusion in -her manner. And when Will had left the room, she looked with such calm -self-possession at Sir James, saying, “How is Celia?” that he was -obliged to behave as if nothing had annoyed him. And what would be the -use of behaving otherwise? Indeed, Sir James shrank with so much -dislike from the association even in thought of Dorothea with Ladislaw -as her possible lover, that he would himself have wished to avoid an -outward show of displeasure which would have recognized the -disagreeable possibility. If any one had asked him why he shrank in -that way, I am not sure that he would at first have said anything -fuller or more precise than “_That_ Ladislaw!”—though on reflection he -might have urged that Mr. Casaubon’s codicil, barring Dorothea’s -marriage with Will, except under a penalty, was enough to cast -unfitness over any relation at all between them. His aversion was all -the stronger because he felt himself unable to interfere. - -But Sir James was a power in a way unguessed by himself. Entering at -that moment, he was an incorporation of the strongest reasons through -which Will’s pride became a repellent force, keeping him asunder from -Dorothea. - - - - -CHAPTER LV. - -Hath she her faults? I would you had them too. -They are the fruity must of soundest wine; -Or say, they are regenerating fire -Such as hath turned the dense black element -Into a crystal pathway for the sun. - - -If youth is the season of hope, it is often so only in the sense that -our elders are hopeful about us; for no age is so apt as youth to think -its emotions, partings, and resolves are the last of their kind. Each -crisis seems final, simply because it is new. We are told that the -oldest inhabitants in Peru do not cease to be agitated by the -earthquakes, but they probably see beyond each shock, and reflect that -there are plenty more to come. - -To Dorothea, still in that time of youth when the eyes with their long -full lashes look out after their rain of tears unsoiled and unwearied -as a freshly opened passion-flower, that morning’s parting with Will -Ladislaw seemed to be the close of their personal relations. He was -going away into the distance of unknown years, and if ever he came back -he would be another man. The actual state of his mind—his proud resolve -to give the lie beforehand to any suspicion that he would play the -needy adventurer seeking a rich woman—lay quite out of her imagination, -and she had interpreted all his behavior easily enough by her -supposition that Mr. Casaubon’s codicil seemed to him, as it did to -her, a gross and cruel interdict on any active friendship between them. -Their young delight in speaking to each other, and saying what no one -else would care to hear, was forever ended, and become a treasure of -the past. For this very reason she dwelt on it without inward check. -That unique happiness too was dead, and in its shadowed silent chamber -she might vent the passionate grief which she herself wondered at. For -the first time she took down the miniature from the wall and kept it -before her, liking to blend the woman who had been too hardly judged -with the grandson whom her own heart and judgment defended. Can any one -who has rejoiced in woman’s tenderness think it a reproach to her that -she took the little oval picture in her palm and made a bed for it -there, and leaned her cheek upon it, as if that would soothe the -creatures who had suffered unjust condemnation? She did not know then -that it was Love who had come to her briefly, as in a dream before -awaking, with the hues of morning on his wings—that it was Love to whom -she was sobbing her farewell as his image was banished by the blameless -rigor of irresistible day. She only felt that there was something -irrevocably amiss and lost in her lot, and her thoughts about the -future were the more readily shapen into resolve. Ardent souls, ready -to construct their coming lives, are apt to commit themselves to the -fulfilment of their own visions. - -One day that she went to Freshitt to fulfil her promise of staying all -night and seeing baby washed, Mrs. Cadwallader came to dine, the Rector -being gone on a fishing excursion. It was a warm evening, and even in -the delightful drawing-room, where the fine old turf sloped from the -open window towards a lilied pool and well-planted mounds, the heat was -enough to make Celia in her white muslin and light curls reflect with -pity on what Dodo must feel in her black dress and close cap. But this -was not until some episodes with baby were over, and had left her mind -at leisure. She had seated herself and taken up a fan for some time -before she said, in her quiet guttural— - -“Dear Dodo, do throw off that cap. I am sure your dress must make you -feel ill.” - -“I am so used to the cap—it has become a sort of shell,” said Dorothea, -smiling. “I feel rather bare and exposed when it is off.” - -“I must see you without it; it makes us all warm,” said Celia, throwing -down her fan, and going to Dorothea. It was a pretty picture to see -this little lady in white muslin unfastening the widow’s cap from her -more majestic sister, and tossing it on to a chair. Just as the coils -and braids of dark-brown hair had been set free, Sir James entered the -room. He looked at the released head, and said, “Ah!” in a tone of -satisfaction. - -“It was I who did it, James,” said Celia. “Dodo need not make such a -slavery of her mourning; she need not wear that cap any more among her -friends.” - -“My dear Celia,” said Lady Chettam, “a widow must wear her mourning at -least a year.” - -“Not if she marries again before the end of it,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, -who had some pleasure in startling her good friend the Dowager. Sir -James was annoyed, and leaned forward to play with Celia’s Maltese dog. - -“That is very rare, I hope,” said Lady Chettam, in a tone intended to -guard against such events. “No friend of ours ever committed herself in -that way except Mrs. Beevor, and it was very painful to Lord Grinsell -when she did so. Her first husband was objectionable, which made it the -greater wonder. And severely she was punished for it. They said Captain -Beevor dragged her about by the hair, and held up loaded pistols at -her.” - -“Oh, if she took the wrong man!” said Mrs. Cadwallader, who was in a -decidedly wicked mood. “Marriage is always bad then, first or second. -Priority is a poor recommendation in a husband if he has got no other. -I would rather have a good second husband than an indifferent first.” - -“My dear, your clever tongue runs away with you,” said Lady Chettam. “I -am sure you would be the last woman to marry again prematurely, if our -dear Rector were taken away.” - -“Oh, I make no vows; it might be a necessary economy. It is lawful to -marry again, I suppose; else we might as well be Hindoos instead of -Christians. Of course if a woman accepts the wrong man, she must take -the consequences, and one who does it twice over deserves her fate. But -if she can marry blood, beauty, and bravery—the sooner the better.” - -“I think the subject of our conversation is very ill-chosen,” said Sir -James, with a look of disgust. “Suppose we change it.” - -“Not on my account, Sir James,” said Dorothea, determined not to lose -the opportunity of freeing herself from certain oblique references to -excellent matches. “If you are speaking on my behalf, I can assure you -that no question can be more indifferent and impersonal to me than -second marriage. It is no more to me than if you talked of women going -fox-hunting: whether it is admirable in them or not, I shall not follow -them. Pray let Mrs. Cadwallader amuse herself on that subject as much -as on any other.” - -“My dear Mrs. Casaubon,” said Lady Chettam, in her stateliest way, “you -do not, I hope, think there was any allusion to you in my mentioning -Mrs. Beevor. It was only an instance that occurred to me. She was -step-daughter to Lord Grinsell: he married Mrs. Teveroy for his second -wife. There could be no possible allusion to you.” - -“Oh no,” said Celia. “Nobody chose the subject; it all came out of -Dodo’s cap. Mrs. Cadwallader only said what was quite true. A woman -could not be married in a widow’s cap, James.” - -“Hush, my dear!” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “I will not offend again. I -will not even refer to Dido or Zenobia. Only what are we to talk about? -I, for my part, object to the discussion of Human Nature, because that -is the nature of rectors’ wives.” - -Later in the evening, after Mrs. Cadwallader was gone, Celia said -privately to Dorothea, “Really, Dodo, taking your cap off made you like -yourself again in more ways than one. You spoke up just as you used to -do, when anything was said to displease you. But I could hardly make -out whether it was James that you thought wrong, or Mrs. Cadwallader.” - -“Neither,” said Dorothea. “James spoke out of delicacy to me, but he -was mistaken in supposing that I minded what Mrs. Cadwallader said. I -should only mind if there were a law obliging me to take any piece of -blood and beauty that she or anybody else recommended.” - -“But you know, Dodo, if you ever did marry, it would be all the better -to have blood and beauty,” said Celia, reflecting that Mr. Casaubon had -not been richly endowed with those gifts, and that it would be well to -caution Dorothea in time. - -“Don’t be anxious, Kitty; I have quite other thoughts about my life. I -shall never marry again,” said Dorothea, touching her sister’s chin, -and looking at her with indulgent affection. Celia was nursing her -baby, and Dorothea had come to say good-night to her. - -“Really—quite?” said Celia. “Not anybody at all—if he were very -wonderful indeed?” - -Dorothea shook her head slowly. “Not anybody at all. I have delightful -plans. I should like to take a great deal of land, and drain it, and -make a little colony, where everybody should work, and all the work -should be done well. I should know every one of the people and be their -friend. I am going to have great consultations with Mr. Garth: he can -tell me almost everything I want to know.” - -“Then you _will_ be happy, if you have a plan, Dodo?” said Celia. -“Perhaps little Arthur will like plans when he grows up, and then he -can help you.” - -Sir James was informed that same night that Dorothea was really quite -set against marrying anybody at all, and was going to take to “all -sorts of plans,” just like what she used to have. Sir James made no -remark. To his secret feeling there was something repulsive in a -woman’s second marriage, and no match would prevent him from feeling it -a sort of desecration for Dorothea. He was aware that the world would -regard such a sentiment as preposterous, especially in relation to a -woman of one-and-twenty; the practice of “the world” being to treat of -a young widow’s second marriage as certain and probably near, and to -smile with meaning if the widow acts accordingly. But if Dorothea did -choose to espouse her solitude, he felt that the resolution would well -become her. - - - - -CHAPTER LVI. - -“How happy is he born and taught -That serveth not another’s will; -Whose armor is his honest thought, -And simple truth his only skill! -. . . . . . . -This man is freed from servile bands -Of hope to rise or fear to fall; -Lord of himself though not of lands; -And having nothing yet hath all.” -—SIR HENRY WOTTON. - - -Dorothea’s confidence in Caleb Garth’s knowledge, which had begun on -her hearing that he approved of her cottages, had grown fast during her -stay at Freshitt, Sir James having induced her to take rides over the -two estates in company with himself and Caleb, who quite returned her -admiration, and told his wife that Mrs. Casaubon had a head for -business most uncommon in a woman. It must be remembered that by -“business” Caleb never meant money transactions, but the skilful -application of labor. - -“Most uncommon!” repeated Caleb. “She said a thing I often used to -think myself when I was a lad:—‘Mr. Garth, I should like to feel, if I -lived to be old, that I had improved a great piece of land and built a -great many good cottages, because the work is of a healthy kind while -it is being done, and after it is done, men are the better for it.’ -Those were the very words: she sees into things in that way.” - -“But womanly, I hope,” said Mrs. Garth, half suspecting that Mrs. -Casaubon might not hold the true principle of subordination. - -“Oh, you can’t think!” said Caleb, shaking his head. “You would like to -hear her speak, Susan. She speaks in such plain words, and a voice like -music. Bless me! it reminds me of bits in the ‘Messiah’—‘and -straightway there appeared a multitude of the heavenly host, praising -God and saying;’ it has a tone with it that satisfies your ear.” - -Caleb was very fond of music, and when he could afford it went to hear -an oratorio that came within his reach, returning from it with a -profound reverence for this mighty structure of tones, which made him -sit meditatively, looking on the floor and throwing much unutterable -language into his outstretched hands. - -With this good understanding between them, it was natural that Dorothea -asked Mr. Garth to undertake any business connected with the three -farms and the numerous tenements attached to Lowick Manor; indeed, his -expectation of getting work for two was being fast fulfilled. As he -said, “Business breeds.” And one form of business which was beginning -to breed just then was the construction of railways. A projected line -was to run through Lowick parish where the cattle had hitherto grazed -in a peace unbroken by astonishment; and thus it happened that the -infant struggles of the railway system entered into the affairs of -Caleb Garth, and determined the course of this history with regard to -two persons who were dear to him. The submarine railway may have its -difficulties; but the bed of the sea is not divided among various -landed proprietors with claims for damages not only measurable but -sentimental. In the hundred to which Middlemarch belonged railways were -as exciting a topic as the Reform Bill or the imminent horrors of -Cholera, and those who held the most decided views on the subject were -women and landholders. Women both old and young regarded travelling by -steam as presumptuous and dangerous, and argued against it by saying -that nothing should induce them to get into a railway carriage; while -proprietors, differing from each other in their arguments as much as -Mr. Solomon Featherstone differed from Lord Medlicote, were yet -unanimous in the opinion that in selling land, whether to the Enemy of -mankind or to a company obliged to purchase, these pernicious agencies -must be made to pay a very high price to landowners for permission to -injure mankind. - -But the slower wits, such as Mr. Solomon and Mrs. Waule, who both -occupied land of their own, took a long time to arrive at this -conclusion, their minds halting at the vivid conception of what it -would be to cut the Big Pasture in two, and turn it into three-cornered -bits, which would be “nohow;” while accommodation-bridges and high -payments were remote and incredible. - -“The cows will all cast their calves, brother,” said Mrs. Waule, in a -tone of deep melancholy, “if the railway comes across the Near Close; -and I shouldn’t wonder at the mare too, if she was in foal. It’s a poor -tale if a widow’s property is to be spaded away, and the law say -nothing to it. What’s to hinder ’em from cutting right and left if they -begin? It’s well known, _I_ can’t fight.” - -“The best way would be to say nothing, and set somebody on to send ’em -away with a flea in their ear, when they came spying and measuring,” -said Solomon. “Folks did that about Brassing, by what I can understand. -It’s all a pretence, if the truth was known, about their being forced -to take one way. Let ’em go cutting in another parish. And I don’t -believe in any pay to make amends for bringing a lot of ruffians to -trample your crops. Where’s a company’s pocket?” - -“Brother Peter, God forgive him, got money out of a company,” said Mrs. -Waule. “But that was for the manganese. That wasn’t for railways to -blow you to pieces right and left.” - -“Well, there’s this to be said, Jane,” Mr. Solomon concluded, lowering -his voice in a cautious manner—“the more spokes we put in their wheel, -the more they’ll pay us to let ’em go on, if they must come whether or -not.” - -This reasoning of Mr. Solomon’s was perhaps less thorough than he -imagined, his cunning bearing about the same relation to the course of -railways as the cunning of a diplomatist bears to the general chill or -catarrh of the solar system. But he set about acting on his views in a -thoroughly diplomatic manner, by stimulating suspicion. His side of -Lowick was the most remote from the village, and the houses of the -laboring people were either lone cottages or were collected in a hamlet -called Frick, where a water-mill and some stone-pits made a little -centre of slow, heavy-shouldered industry. - -In the absence of any precise idea as to what railways were, public -opinion in Frick was against them; for the human mind in that grassy -corner had not the proverbial tendency to admire the unknown, holding -rather that it was likely to be against the poor man, and that -suspicion was the only wise attitude with regard to it. Even the rumor -of Reform had not yet excited any millennial expectations in Frick, -there being no definite promise in it, as of gratuitous grains to -fatten Hiram Ford’s pig, or of a publican at the “Weights and Scales” -who would brew beer for nothing, or of an offer on the part of the -three neighboring farmers to raise wages during winter. And without -distinct good of this kind in its promises, Reform seemed on a footing -with the bragging of pedlers, which was a hint for distrust to every -knowing person. The men of Frick were not ill-fed, and were less given -to fanaticism than to a strong muscular suspicion; less inclined to -believe that they were peculiarly cared for by heaven, than to regard -heaven itself as rather disposed to take them in—a disposition -observable in the weather. - -Thus the mind of Frick was exactly of the sort for Mr. Solomon -Featherstone to work upon, he having more plenteous ideas of the same -order, with a suspicion of heaven and earth which was better fed and -more entirely at leisure. Solomon was overseer of the roads at that -time, and on his slow-paced cob often took his rounds by Frick to look -at the workmen getting the stones there, pausing with a mysterious -deliberation, which might have misled you into supposing that he had -some other reason for staying than the mere want of impulse to move. -After looking for a long while at any work that was going on, he would -raise his eyes a little and look at the horizon; finally he would shake -his bridle, touch his horse with the whip, and get it to move slowly -onward. The hour-hand of a clock was quick by comparison with Mr. -Solomon, who had an agreeable sense that he could afford to be slow. He -was in the habit of pausing for a cautious, vaguely designing chat with -every hedger or ditcher on his way, and was especially willing to -listen even to news which he had heard before, feeling himself at an -advantage over all narrators in partially disbelieving them. One day, -however, he got into a dialogue with Hiram Ford, a wagoner, in which he -himself contributed information. He wished to know whether Hiram had -seen fellows with staves and instruments spying about: they called -themselves railroad people, but there was no telling what they were or -what they meant to do. The least they pretended was that they were -going to cut Lowick Parish into sixes and sevens. - -“Why, there’ll be no stirrin’ from one pla-ace to another,” said Hiram, -thinking of his wagon and horses. - -“Not a bit,” said Mr. Solomon. “And cutting up fine land such as this -parish! Let ’em go into Tipton, say I. But there’s no knowing what -there is at the bottom of it. Traffic is what they put for’ard; but -it’s to do harm to the land and the poor man in the long-run.” - -“Why, they’re Lunnon chaps, I reckon,” said Hiram, who had a dim notion -of London as a centre of hostility to the country. - -“Ay, to be sure. And in some parts against Brassing, by what I’ve heard -say, the folks fell on ’em when they were spying, and broke their -peep-holes as they carry, and drove ’em away, so as they knew better -than come again.” - -“It war good foon, I’d be bound,” said Hiram, whose fun was much -restricted by circumstances. - -“Well, I wouldn’t meddle with ’em myself,” said Solomon. “But some say -this country’s seen its best days, and the sign is, as it’s being -overrun with these fellows trampling right and left, and wanting to cut -it up into railways; and all for the big traffic to swallow up the -little, so as there shan’t be a team left on the land, nor a whip to -crack.” - -“I’ll crack _my_ whip about their ear’n, afore they bring it to that, -though,” said Hiram, while Mr. Solomon, shaking his bridle, moved -onward. - -Nettle-seed needs no digging. The ruin of this countryside by railroads -was discussed, not only at the “Weights and Scales,” but in the -hay-field, where the muster of working hands gave opportunities for -talk such as were rarely had through the rural year. - -One morning, not long after that interview between Mr. Farebrother and -Mary Garth, in which she confessed to him her feeling for Fred Vincy, -it happened that her father had some business which took him to -Yoddrell’s farm in the direction of Frick: it was to measure and value -an outlying piece of land belonging to Lowick Manor, which Caleb -expected to dispose of advantageously for Dorothea (it must be -confessed that his bias was towards getting the best possible terms -from railroad companies). He put up his gig at Yoddrell’s, and in -walking with his assistant and measuring-chain to the scene of his -work, he encountered the party of the company’s agents, who were -adjusting their spirit-level. After a little chat he left them, -observing that by-and-by they would reach him again where he was going -to measure. It was one of those gray mornings after light rains, which -become delicious about twelve o’clock, when the clouds part a little, -and the scent of the earth is sweet along the lanes and by the -hedgerows. - -The scent would have been sweeter to Fred Vincy, who was coming along -the lanes on horseback, if his mind had not been worried by -unsuccessful efforts to imagine what he was to do, with his father on -one side expecting him straightway to enter the Church, with Mary on -the other threatening to forsake him if he did enter it, and with the -working-day world showing no eager need whatever of a young gentleman -without capital and generally unskilled. It was the harder to Fred’s -disposition because his father, satisfied that he was no longer -rebellious, was in good humor with him, and had sent him on this -pleasant ride to see after some greyhounds. Even when he had fixed on -what he should do, there would be the task of telling his father. But -it must be admitted that the fixing, which had to come first, was the -more difficult task:—what secular avocation on earth was there for a -young man (whose friends could not get him an “appointment”) which was -at once gentlemanly, lucrative, and to be followed without special -knowledge? Riding along the lanes by Frick in this mood, and slackening -his pace while he reflected whether he should venture to go round by -Lowick Parsonage to call on Mary, he could see over the hedges from one -field to another. Suddenly a noise roused his attention, and on the far -side of a field on his left hand he could see six or seven men in -smock-frocks with hay-forks in their hands making an offensive approach -towards the four railway agents who were facing them, while Caleb Garth -and his assistant were hastening across the field to join the -threatened group. Fred, delayed a few moments by having to find the -gate, could not gallop up to the spot before the party in smock-frocks, -whose work of turning the hay had not been too pressing after -swallowing their mid-day beer, were driving the men in coats before -them with their hay-forks; while Caleb Garth’s assistant, a lad of -seventeen, who had snatched up the spirit-level at Caleb’s order, had -been knocked down and seemed to be lying helpless. The coated men had -the advantage as runners, and Fred covered their retreat by getting in -front of the smock-frocks and charging them suddenly enough to throw -their chase into confusion. “What do you confounded fools mean?” -shouted Fred, pursuing the divided group in a zigzag, and cutting right -and left with his whip. “I’ll swear to every one of you before the -magistrate. You’ve knocked the lad down and killed him, for what I -know. You’ll every one of you be hanged at the next assizes, if you -don’t mind,” said Fred, who afterwards laughed heartily as he -remembered his own phrases. - -The laborers had been driven through the gate-way into their hay-field, -and Fred had checked his horse, when Hiram Ford, observing himself at a -safe challenging distance, turned back and shouted a defiance which he -did not know to be Homeric. - -“Yo’re a coward, yo are. Yo git off your horse, young measter, and I’ll -have a round wi’ ye, I wull. Yo daredn’t come on wi’out your hoss an’ -whip. I’d soon knock the breath out on ye, I would.” - -“Wait a minute, and I’ll come back presently, and have a round with you -all in turn, if you like,” said Fred, who felt confidence in his power -of boxing with his dearly beloved brethren. But just now he wanted to -hasten back to Caleb and the prostrate youth. - -The lad’s ankle was strained, and he was in much pain from it, but he -was no further hurt, and Fred placed him on the horse that he might -ride to Yoddrell’s and be taken care of there. - -“Let them put the horse in the stable, and tell the surveyors they can -come back for their traps,” said Fred. “The ground is clear now.” - -“No, no,” said Caleb, “here’s a breakage. They’ll have to give up for -to-day, and it will be as well. Here, take the things before you on the -horse, Tom. They’ll see you coming, and they’ll turn back.” - -“I’m glad I happened to be here at the right moment, Mr. Garth,” said -Fred, as Tom rode away. “No knowing what might have happened if the -cavalry had not come up in time.” - -“Ay, ay, it was lucky,” said Caleb, speaking rather absently, and -looking towards the spot where he had been at work at the moment of -interruption. “But—deuce take it—this is what comes of men being -fools—I’m hindered of my day’s work. I can’t get along without somebody -to help me with the measuring-chain. However!” He was beginning to move -towards the spot with a look of vexation, as if he had forgotten Fred’s -presence, but suddenly he turned round and said quickly, “What have you -got to do to-day, young fellow?” - -“Nothing, Mr. Garth. I’ll help you with pleasure—can I?” said Fred, -with a sense that he should be courting Mary when he was helping her -father. - -“Well, you mustn’t mind stooping and getting hot.” - -“I don’t mind anything. Only I want to go first and have a round with -that hulky fellow who turned to challenge me. It would be a good lesson -for him. I shall not be five minutes.” - -“Nonsense!” said Caleb, with his most peremptory intonation. “I shall -go and speak to the men myself. It’s all ignorance. Somebody has been -telling them lies. The poor fools don’t know any better.” - -“I shall go with you, then,” said Fred. - -“No, no; stay where you are. I don’t want your young blood. I can take -care of myself.” - -Caleb was a powerful man and knew little of any fear except the fear of -hurting others and the fear of having to speechify. But he felt it his -duty at this moment to try and give a little harangue. There was a -striking mixture in him—which came from his having always been a -hard-working man himself—of rigorous notions about workmen and -practical indulgence towards them. To do a good day’s work and to do it -well, he held to be part of their welfare, as it was the chief part of -his own happiness; but he had a strong sense of fellowship with them. -When he advanced towards the laborers they had not gone to work again, -but were standing in that form of rural grouping which consists in each -turning a shoulder towards the other, at a distance of two or three -yards. They looked rather sulkily at Caleb, who walked quickly with one -hand in his pocket and the other thrust between the buttons of his -waistcoat, and had his every-day mild air when he paused among them. - -“Why, my lads, how’s this?” he began, taking as usual to brief phrases, -which seemed pregnant to himself, because he had many thoughts lying -under them, like the abundant roots of a plant that just manages to -peep above the water. “How came you to make such a mistake as this? -Somebody has been telling you lies. You thought those men up there -wanted to do mischief.” - -“Aw!” was the answer, dropped at intervals by each according to his -degree of unreadiness. - -“Nonsense! No such thing! They’re looking out to see which way the -railroad is to take. Now, my lads, you can’t hinder the railroad: it -will be made whether you like it or not. And if you go fighting against -it, you’ll get yourselves into trouble. The law gives those men leave -to come here on the land. The owner has nothing to say against it, and -if you meddle with them you’ll have to do with the constable and -Justice Blakesley, and with the handcuffs and Middlemarch jail. And you -might be in for it now, if anybody informed against you.” - -Caleb paused here, and perhaps the greatest orator could not have -chosen either his pause or his images better for the occasion. - -“But come, you didn’t mean any harm. Somebody told you the railroad was -a bad thing. That was a lie. It may do a bit of harm here and there, to -this and to that; and so does the sun in heaven. But the railway’s a -good thing.” - -“Aw! good for the big folks to make money out on,” said old Timothy -Cooper, who had stayed behind turning his hay while the others had been -gone on their spree;—“I’n seen lots o’ things turn up sin’ I war a -young un—the war an’ the peace, and the canells, an’ the oald King -George, an’ the Regen’, an’ the new King George, an’ the new un as has -got a new ne-ame—an’ it’s been all aloike to the poor mon. What’s the -canells been t’ him? They’n brought him neyther me-at nor be-acon, nor -wage to lay by, if he didn’t save it wi’ clemmin’ his own inside. Times -ha’ got wusser for him sin’ I war a young un. An’ so it’ll be wi’ the -railroads. They’ll on’y leave the poor mon furder behind. But them are -fools as meddle, and so I told the chaps here. This is the big folks’s -world, this is. But yo’re for the big folks, Muster Garth, yo are.” - -Timothy was a wiry old laborer, of a type lingering in those times—who -had his savings in a stocking-foot, lived in a lone cottage, and was -not to be wrought on by any oratory, having as little of the feudal -spirit, and believing as little, as if he had not been totally -unacquainted with the Age of Reason and the Rights of Man. Caleb was in -a difficulty known to any person attempting in dark times and -unassisted by miracle to reason with rustics who are in possession of -an undeniable truth which they know through a hard process of feeling, -and can let it fall like a giant’s club on your neatly carved argument -for a social benefit which they do not feel. Caleb had no cant at -command, even if he could have chosen to use it; and he had been -accustomed to meet all such difficulties in no other way than by doing -his “business” faithfully. He answered— - -“If you don’t think well of me, Tim, never mind; that’s neither here -nor there now. Things may be bad for the poor man—bad they are; but I -want the lads here not to do what will make things worse for -themselves. The cattle may have a heavy load, but it won’t help ’em to -throw it over into the roadside pit, when it’s partly their own -fodder.” - -“We war on’y for a bit o’ foon,” said Hiram, who was beginning to see -consequences. “That war all we war arter.” - -“Well, promise me not to meddle again, and I’ll see that nobody informs -against you.” - -“I’n ne’er meddled, an’ I’n no call to promise,” said Timothy. - -“No, but the rest. Come, I’m as hard at work as any of you to-day, and -I can’t spare much time. Say you’ll be quiet without the constable.” - -“Aw, we wooant meddle—they may do as they loike for oos”—were the forms -in which Caleb got his pledges; and then he hastened back to Fred, who -had followed him, and watched him in the gateway. - -They went to work, and Fred helped vigorously. His spirits had risen, -and he heartily enjoyed a good slip in the moist earth under the -hedgerow, which soiled his perfect summer trousers. Was it his -successful onset which had elated him, or the satisfaction of helping -Mary’s father? Something more. The accidents of the morning had helped -his frustrated imagination to shape an employment for himself which had -several attractions. I am not sure that certain fibres in Mr. Garth’s -mind had not resumed their old vibration towards the very end which now -revealed itself to Fred. For the effective accident is but the touch of -fire where there is oil and tow; and it always appeared to Fred that -the railway brought the needed touch. But they went on in silence -except when their business demanded speech. At last, when they had -finished and were walking away, Mr. Garth said— - -“A young fellow needn’t be a B. A. to do this sort of work, eh, Fred?” - -“I wish I had taken to it before I had thought of being a B. A.,” said -Fred. He paused a moment, and then added, more hesitatingly, “Do you -think I am too old to learn your business, Mr. Garth?” - -“My business is of many sorts, my boy,” said Mr. Garth, smiling. “A -good deal of what I know can only come from experience: you can’t learn -it off as you learn things out of a book. But you are young enough to -lay a foundation yet.” Caleb pronounced the last sentence emphatically, -but paused in some uncertainty. He had been under the impression lately -that Fred had made up his mind to enter the Church. - -“You do think I could do some good at it, if I were to try?” said Fred, -more eagerly. - -“That depends,” said Caleb, turning his head on one side and lowering -his voice, with the air of a man who felt himself to be saying -something deeply religious. “You must be sure of two things: you must -love your work, and not be always looking over the edge of it, wanting -your play to begin. And the other is, you must not be ashamed of your -work, and think it would be more honorable to you to be doing something -else. You must have a pride in your own work and in learning to do it -well, and not be always saying, There’s this and there’s that—if I had -this or that to do, I might make something of it. No matter what a man -is—I wouldn’t give twopence for him”—here Caleb’s mouth looked bitter, -and he snapped his fingers—“whether he was the prime minister or the -rick-thatcher, if he didn’t do well what he undertook to do.” - -“I can never feel that I should do that in being a clergyman,” said -Fred, meaning to take a step in argument. - -“Then let it alone, my boy,” said Caleb, abruptly, “else you’ll never -be easy. Or, if you _are_ easy, you’ll be a poor stick.” - -“That is very nearly what Mary thinks about it,” said Fred, coloring. -“I think you must know what I feel for Mary, Mr. Garth: I hope it does -not displease you that I have always loved her better than any one -else, and that I shall never love any one as I love her.” - -The expression of Caleb’s face was visibly softening while Fred spoke. -But he swung his head with a solemn slowness, and said— - -“That makes things more serious, Fred, if you want to take Mary’s -happiness into your keeping.” - -“I know that, Mr. Garth,” said Fred, eagerly, “and I would do anything -for _her_. She says she will never have me if I go into the Church; and -I shall be the most miserable devil in the world if I lose all hope of -Mary. Really, if I could get some other profession, business—anything -that I am at all fit for, I would work hard, I would deserve your good -opinion. I should like to have to do with outdoor things. I know a good -deal about land and cattle already. I used to believe, you know—though -you will think me rather foolish for it—that I should have land of my -own. I am sure knowledge of that sort would come easily to me, -especially if I could be under you in any way.” - -“Softly, my boy,” said Caleb, having the image of “Susan” before his -eyes. “What have you said to your father about all this?” - -“Nothing, yet; but I must tell him. I am only waiting to know what I -can do instead of entering the Church. I am very sorry to disappoint -him, but a man ought to be allowed to judge for himself when he is -four-and-twenty. How could I know when I was fifteen, what it would be -right for me to do now? My education was a mistake.” - -“But hearken to this, Fred,” said Caleb. “Are you sure Mary is fond of -you, or would ever have you?” - -“I asked Mr. Farebrother to talk to her, because she had forbidden me—I -didn’t know what else to do,” said Fred, apologetically. “And he says -that I have every reason to hope, if I can put myself in an honorable -position—I mean, out of the Church. I dare say you think it -unwarrantable in me, Mr. Garth, to be troubling you and obtruding my -own wishes about Mary, before I have done anything at all for myself. -Of course I have not the least claim—indeed, I have already a debt to -you which will never be discharged, even when I have been able to pay -it in the shape of money.” - -“Yes, my boy, you have a claim,” said Caleb, with much feeling in his -voice. “The young ones have always a claim on the old to help them -forward. I was young myself once and had to do without much help; but -help would have been welcome to me, if it had been only for the -fellow-feeling’s sake. But I must consider. Come to me to-morrow at the -office, at nine o’clock. At the office, mind.” - -Mr. Garth would take no important step without consulting Susan, but it -must be confessed that before he reached home he had taken his -resolution. With regard to a large number of matters about which other -men are decided or obstinate, he was the most easily manageable man in -the world. He never knew what meat he would choose, and if Susan had -said that they ought to live in a four-roomed cottage, in order to -save, he would have said, “Let us go,” without inquiring into details. -But where Caleb’s feeling and judgment strongly pronounced, he was a -ruler; and in spite of his mildness and timidity in reproving, every -one about him knew that on the exceptional occasions when he chose, he -was absolute. He never, indeed, chose to be absolute except on some one -else’s behalf. On ninety-nine points Mrs. Garth decided, but on the -hundredth she was often aware that she would have to perform the -singularly difficult task of carrying out her own principle, and to -make herself subordinate. - -“It is come round as I thought, Susan,” said Caleb, when they were -seated alone in the evening. He had already narrated the adventure -which had brought about Fred’s sharing in his work, but had kept back -the further result. “The children _are_ fond of each other—I mean, Fred -and Mary.” - -Mrs. Garth laid her work on her knee, and fixed her penetrating eyes -anxiously on her husband. - -“After we’d done our work, Fred poured it all out to me. He can’t bear -to be a clergyman, and Mary says she won’t have him if he is one; and -the lad would like to be under me and give his mind to business. And -I’ve determined to take him and make a man of him.” - -“Caleb!” said Mrs. Garth, in a deep contralto, expressive of resigned -astonishment. - -“It’s a fine thing to do,” said Mr. Garth, settling himself firmly -against the back of his chair, and grasping the elbows. “I shall have -trouble with him, but I think I shall carry it through. The lad loves -Mary, and a true love for a good woman is a great thing, Susan. It -shapes many a rough fellow.” - -“Has Mary spoken to you on the subject?” said Mrs Garth, secretly a -little hurt that she had to be informed on it herself. - -“Not a word. I asked her about Fred once; I gave her a bit of a -warning. But she assured me she would never marry an idle -self-indulgent man—nothing since. But it seems Fred set on Mr. -Farebrother to talk to her, because she had forbidden him to speak -himself, and Mr. Farebrother has found out that she is fond of Fred, -but says he must not be a clergyman. Fred’s heart is fixed on Mary, -that I can see: it gives me a good opinion of the lad—and we always -liked him, Susan.” - -“It is a pity for Mary, I think,” said Mrs. Garth. - -“Why—a pity?” - -“Because, Caleb, she might have had a man who is worth twenty Fred -Vincy’s.” - -“Ah?” said Caleb, with surprise. - -“I firmly believe that Mr. Farebrother is attached to her, and meant to -make her an offer; but of course, now that Fred has used him as an -envoy, there is an end to that better prospect.” There was a severe -precision in Mrs. Garth’s utterance. She was vexed and disappointed, -but she was bent on abstaining from useless words. - -Caleb was silent a few moments under a conflict of feelings. He looked -at the floor and moved his head and hands in accompaniment to some -inward argumentation. At last he said— - -“That would have made me very proud and happy, Susan, and I should have -been glad for your sake. I’ve always felt that your belongings have -never been on a level with you. But you took me, though I was a plain -man.” - -“I took the best and cleverest man I had ever known,” said Mrs. Garth, -convinced that _she_ would never have loved any one who came short of -that mark. - -“Well, perhaps others thought you might have done better. But it would -have been worse for me. And that is what touches me close about Fred. -The lad is good at bottom, and clever enough to do, if he’s put in the -right way; and he loves and honors my daughter beyond anything, and she -has given him a sort of promise according to what he turns out. I say, -that young man’s soul is in my hand; and I’ll do the best I can for -him, so help me God! It’s my duty, Susan.” - -Mrs. Garth was not given to tears, but there was a large one rolling -down her face before her husband had finished. It came from the -pressure of various feelings, in which there was much affection and -some vexation. She wiped it away quickly, saying— - -“Few men besides you would think it a duty to add to their anxieties in -that way, Caleb.” - -“That signifies nothing—what other men would think. I’ve got a clear -feeling inside me, and that I shall follow; and I hope your heart will -go with me, Susan, in making everything as light as can be to Mary, -poor child.” - -Caleb, leaning back in his chair, looked with anxious appeal towards -his wife. She rose and kissed him, saying, “God bless you, Caleb! Our -children have a good father.” - -But she went out and had a hearty cry to make up for the suppression of -her words. She felt sure that her husband’s conduct would be -misunderstood, and about Fred she was rational and unhopeful. Which -would turn out to have the more foresight in it—her rationality or -Caleb’s ardent generosity? - -When Fred went to the office the next morning, there was a test to be -gone through which he was not prepared for. - -“Now Fred,” said Caleb, “you will have some desk-work. I have always -done a good deal of writing myself, but I can’t do without help, and as -I want you to understand the accounts and get the values into your -head, I mean to do without another clerk. So you must buckle to. How -are you at writing and arithmetic?” - -Fred felt an awkward movement of the heart; he had not thought of -desk-work; but he was in a resolute mood, and not going to shrink. “I’m -not afraid of arithmetic, Mr. Garth: it always came easily to me. I -think you know my writing.” - -“Let us see,” said Caleb, taking up a pen, examining it carefully and -handing it, well dipped, to Fred with a sheet of ruled paper. “Copy me -a line or two of that valuation, with the figures at the end.” - -At that time the opinion existed that it was beneath a gentleman to -write legibly, or with a hand in the least suitable to a clerk. Fred -wrote the lines demanded in a hand as gentlemanly as that of any -viscount or bishop of the day: the vowels were all alike and the -consonants only distinguishable as turning up or down, the strokes had -a blotted solidity and the letters disdained to keep the line—in short, -it was a manuscript of that venerable kind easy to interpret when you -know beforehand what the writer means. - -As Caleb looked on, his visage showed a growing depression, but when -Fred handed him the paper he gave something like a snarl, and rapped -the paper passionately with the back of his hand. Bad work like this -dispelled all Caleb’s mildness. - -“The deuce!” he exclaimed, snarlingly. “To think that this is a country -where a man’s education may cost hundreds and hundreds, and it turns -you out this!” Then in a more pathetic tone, pushing up his spectacles -and looking at the unfortunate scribe, “The Lord have mercy on us, -Fred, I can’t put up with this!” - -“What can I do, Mr. Garth?” said Fred, whose spirits had sunk very low, -not only at the estimate of his handwriting, but at the vision of -himself as liable to be ranked with office clerks. - -“Do? Why, you must learn to form your letters and keep the line. What’s -the use of writing at all if nobody can understand it?” asked Caleb, -energetically, quite preoccupied with the bad quality of the work. “Is -there so little business in the world that you must be sending puzzles -over the country? But that’s the way people are brought up. I should -lose no end of time with the letters some people send me, if Susan did -not make them out for me. It’s disgusting.” Here Caleb tossed the paper -from him. - -Any stranger peeping into the office at that moment might have wondered -what was the drama between the indignant man of business, and the -fine-looking young fellow whose blond complexion was getting rather -patchy as he bit his lip with mortification. Fred was struggling with -many thoughts. Mr. Garth had been so kind and encouraging at the -beginning of their interview, that gratitude and hopefulness had been -at a high pitch, and the downfall was proportionate. He had not thought -of desk-work—in fact, like the majority of young gentlemen, he wanted -an occupation which should be free from disagreeables. I cannot tell -what might have been the consequences if he had not distinctly promised -himself that he would go to Lowick to see Mary and tell her that he was -engaged to work under her father. He did not like to disappoint himself -there. - -“I am very sorry,” were all the words that he could muster. But Mr. -Garth was already relenting. - -“We must make the best of it, Fred,” he began, with a return to his -usual quiet tone. “Every man can learn to write. I taught myself. Go at -it with a will, and sit up at night if the day-time isn’t enough. We’ll -be patient, my boy. Callum shall go on with the books for a bit, while -you are learning. But now I must be off,” said Caleb, rising. “You must -let your father know our agreement. You’ll save me Callum’s salary, you -know, when you can write; and I can afford to give you eighty pounds -for the first year, and more after.” - -When Fred made the necessary disclosure to his parents, the relative -effect on the two was a surprise which entered very deeply into his -memory. He went straight from Mr. Garth’s office to the warehouse, -rightly feeling that the most respectful way in which he could behave -to his father was to make the painful communication as gravely and -formally as possible. Moreover, the decision would be more certainly -understood to be final, if the interview took place in his father’s -gravest hours, which were always those spent in his private room at the -warehouse. - -Fred entered on the subject directly, and declared briefly what he had -done and was resolved to do, expressing at the end his regret that he -should be the cause of disappointment to his father, and taking the -blame on his own deficiencies. The regret was genuine, and inspired -Fred with strong, simple words. - -Mr. Vincy listened in profound surprise without uttering even an -exclamation, a silence which in his impatient temperament was a sign of -unusual emotion. He had not been in good spirits about trade that -morning, and the slight bitterness in his lips grew intense as he -listened. When Fred had ended, there was a pause of nearly a minute, -during which Mr. Vincy replaced a book in his desk and turned the key -emphatically. Then he looked at his son steadily, and said— - -“So you’ve made up your mind at last, sir?” - -“Yes, father.” - -“Very well; stick to it. I’ve no more to say. You’ve thrown away your -education, and gone down a step in life, when I had given you the means -of rising, that’s all.” - -“I am very sorry that we differ, father. I think I can be quite as much -of a gentleman at the work I have undertaken, as if I had been a -curate. But I am grateful to you for wishing to do the best for me.” - -“Very well; I have no more to say. I wash my hands of you. I only hope, -when you have a son of your own he will make a better return for the -pains you spend on him.” - -This was very cutting to Fred. His father was using that unfair -advantage possessed by us all when we are in a pathetic situation and -see our own past as if it were simply part of the pathos. In reality, -Mr. Vincy’s wishes about his son had had a great deal of pride, -inconsiderateness, and egoistic folly in them. But still the -disappointed father held a strong lever; and Fred felt as if he were -being banished with a malediction. - -“I hope you will not object to my remaining at home, sir?” he said, -after rising to go; “I shall have a sufficient salary to pay for my -board, as of course I should wish to do.” - -“Board be hanged!” said Mr. Vincy, recovering himself in his disgust at -the notion that Fred’s keep would be missed at his table. “Of course -your mother will want you to stay. But I shall keep no horse for you, -you understand; and you will pay your own tailor. You will do with a -suit or two less, I fancy, when you have to pay for ’em.” - -Fred lingered; there was still something to be said. At last it came. - -“I hope you will shake hands with me, father, and forgive me the -vexation I have caused you.” - -Mr. Vincy from his chair threw a quick glance upward at his son, who -had advanced near to him, and then gave his hand, saying hurriedly, -“Yes, yes, let us say no more.” - -Fred went through much more narrative and explanation with his mother, -but she was inconsolable, having before her eyes what perhaps her -husband had never thought of, the certainty that Fred would marry Mary -Garth, that her life would henceforth be spoiled by a perpetual -infusion of Garths and their ways, and that her darling boy, with his -beautiful face and stylish air “beyond anybody else’s son in -Middlemarch,” would be sure to get like that family in plainness of -appearance and carelessness about his clothes. To her it seemed that -there was a Garth conspiracy to get possession of the desirable Fred, -but she dared not enlarge on this opinion, because a slight hint of it -had made him “fly out” at her as he had never done before. Her temper -was too sweet for her to show any anger, but she felt that her -happiness had received a bruise, and for several days merely to look at -Fred made her cry a little as if he were the subject of some baleful -prophecy. Perhaps she was the slower to recover her usual cheerfulness -because Fred had warned her that she must not reopen the sore question -with his father, who had accepted his decision and forgiven him. If her -husband had been vehement against Fred, she would have been urged into -defence of her darling. It was the end of the fourth day when Mr. Vincy -said to her— - -“Come, Lucy, my dear, don’t be so down-hearted. You always have spoiled -the boy, and you must go on spoiling him.” - -“Nothing ever did cut me so before, Vincy,” said the wife, her fair -throat and chin beginning to tremble again, “only his illness.” - -“Pooh, pooh, never mind! We must expect to have trouble with our -children. Don’t make it worse by letting me see you out of spirits.” - -“Well, I won’t,” said Mrs. Vincy, roused by this appeal and adjusting -herself with a little shake as of a bird which lays down its ruffled -plumage. - -“It won’t do to begin making a fuss about one,” said Mr. Vincy, wishing -to combine a little grumbling with domestic cheerfulness. “There’s -Rosamond as well as Fred.” - -“Yes, poor thing. I’m sure I felt for her being disappointed of her -baby; but she got over it nicely.” - -“Baby, pooh! I can see Lydgate is making a mess of his practice, and -getting into debt too, by what I hear. I shall have Rosamond coming to -me with a pretty tale one of these days. But they’ll get no money from -me, I know. Let _his_ family help him. I never did like that marriage. -But it’s no use talking. Ring the bell for lemons, and don’t look dull -any more, Lucy. I’ll drive you and Louisa to Riverston to-morrow.” - - - - -CHAPTER LVII. - -They numbered scarce eight summers when a name - Rose on their souls and stirred such motions there -As thrill the buds and shape their hidden frame - At penetration of the quickening air: -His name who told of loyal Evan Dhu, - Of quaint Bradwardine, and Vich Ian Vor, -Making the little world their childhood knew - Large with a land of mountain lake and scaur, -And larger yet with wonder, love, belief - Toward Walter Scott who living far away -Sent them this wealth of joy and noble grief. - The book and they must part, but day by day, - In lines that thwart like portly spiders ran - They wrote the tale, from Tully Veolan. - - -The evening that Fred Vincy walked to Lowick parsonage (he had begun to -see that this was a world in which even a spirited young man must -sometimes walk for want of a horse to carry him) he set out at five -o’clock and called on Mrs. Garth by the way, wishing to assure himself -that she accepted their new relations willingly. - -He found the family group, dogs and cats included, under the great -apple-tree in the orchard. It was a festival with Mrs. Garth, for her -eldest son, Christy, her peculiar joy and pride, had come home for a -short holiday—Christy, who held it the most desirable thing in the -world to be a tutor, to study all literatures and be a regenerate -Porson, and who was an incorporate criticism on poor Fred, a sort of -object-lesson given to him by the educational mother. Christy himself, -a square-browed, broad-shouldered masculine edition of his mother not -much higher than Fred’s shoulder—which made it the harder that he -should be held superior—was always as simple as possible, and thought -no more of Fred’s disinclination to scholarship than of a giraffe’s, -wishing that he himself were more of the same height. He was lying on -the ground now by his mother’s chair, with his straw hat laid flat over -his eyes, while Jim on the other side was reading aloud from that -beloved writer who has made a chief part in the happiness of many young -lives. The volume was “Ivanhoe,” and Jim was in the great archery scene -at the tournament, but suffered much interruption from Ben, who had -fetched his own old bow and arrows, and was making himself dreadfully -disagreeable, Letty thought, by begging all present to observe his -random shots, which no one wished to do except Brownie, the -active-minded but probably shallow mongrel, while the grizzled -Newfoundland lying in the sun looked on with the dull-eyed neutrality -of extreme old age. Letty herself, showing as to her mouth and pinafore -some slight signs that she had been assisting at the gathering of the -cherries which stood in a coral-heap on the tea-table, was now seated -on the grass, listening open-eyed to the reading. - -But the centre of interest was changed for all by the arrival of Fred -Vincy. When, seating himself on a garden-stool, he said that he was on -his way to Lowick Parsonage, Ben, who had thrown down his bow, and -snatched up a reluctant half-grown kitten instead, strode across Fred’s -outstretched leg, and said “Take me!” - -“Oh, and me too,” said Letty. - -“You can’t keep up with Fred and me,” said Ben. - -“Yes, I can. Mother, please say that I am to go,” urged Letty, whose -life was much checkered by resistance to her depreciation as a girl. - -“I shall stay with Christy,” observed Jim; as much as to say that he -had the advantage of those simpletons; whereupon Letty put her hand up -to her head and looked with jealous indecision from the one to the -other. - -“Let us all go and see Mary,” said Christy, opening his arms. - -“No, my dear child, we must not go in a swarm to the parsonage. And -that old Glasgow suit of yours would never do. Besides, your father -will come home. We must let Fred go alone. He can tell Mary that you -are here, and she will come back to-morrow.” - -Christy glanced at his own threadbare knees, and then at Fred’s -beautiful white trousers. Certainly Fred’s tailoring suggested the -advantages of an English university, and he had a graceful way even of -looking warm and of pushing his hair back with his handkerchief. - -“Children, run away,” said Mrs. Garth; “it is too warm to hang about -your friends. Take your brother and show him the rabbits.” - -The eldest understood, and led off the children immediately. Fred felt -that Mrs. Garth wished to give him an opportunity of saying anything he -had to say, but he could only begin by observing— - -“How glad you must be to have Christy here!” - -“Yes; he has come sooner than I expected. He got down from the coach at -nine o’clock, just after his father went out. I am longing for Caleb to -come and hear what wonderful progress Christy is making. He has paid -his expenses for the last year by giving lessons, carrying on hard -study at the same time. He hopes soon to get a private tutorship and go -abroad.” - -“He is a great fellow,” said Fred, to whom these cheerful truths had a -medicinal taste, “and no trouble to anybody.” After a slight pause, he -added, “But I fear you will think that I am going to be a great deal of -trouble to Mr. Garth.” - -“Caleb likes taking trouble: he is one of those men who always do more -than any one would have thought of asking them to do,” answered Mrs. -Garth. She was knitting, and could either look at Fred or not, as she -chose—always an advantage when one is bent on loading speech with -salutary meaning; and though Mrs. Garth intended to be duly reserved, -she did wish to say something that Fred might be the better for. - -“I know you think me very undeserving, Mrs. Garth, and with good -reason,” said Fred, his spirit rising a little at the perception of -something like a disposition to lecture him. “I happen to have behaved -just the worst to the people I can’t help wishing for the most from. -But while two men like Mr. Garth and Mr. Farebrother have not given me -up, I don’t see why I should give myself up.” Fred thought it might be -well to suggest these masculine examples to Mrs. Garth. - -“Assuredly,” said she, with gathering emphasis. “A young man for whom -two such elders had devoted themselves would indeed be culpable if he -threw himself away and made their sacrifices vain.” - -Fred wondered a little at this strong language, but only said, “I hope -it will not be so with me, Mrs. Garth, since I have some encouragement -to believe that I may win Mary. Mr. Garth has told you about that? You -were not surprised, I dare say?” Fred ended, innocently referring only -to his own love as probably evident enough. - -“Not surprised that Mary has given you encouragement?” returned Mrs. -Garth, who thought it would be well for Fred to be more alive to the -fact that Mary’s friends could not possibly have wished this -beforehand, whatever the Vincys might suppose. “Yes, I confess I was -surprised.” - -“She never did give me any—not the least in the world, when I talked to -her myself,” said Fred, eager to vindicate Mary. “But when I asked Mr. -Farebrother to speak for me, she allowed him to tell me there was a -hope.” - -The power of admonition which had begun to stir in Mrs. Garth had not -yet discharged itself. It was a little too provoking even for _her_ -self-control that this blooming youngster should flourish on the -disappointments of sadder and wiser people—making a meal of a -nightingale and never knowing it—and that all the while his family -should suppose that hers was in eager need of this sprig; and her -vexation had fermented the more actively because of its total -repression towards her husband. Exemplary wives will sometimes find -scapegoats in this way. She now said with energetic decision, “You made -a great mistake, Fred, in asking Mr. Farebrother to speak for you.” - -“Did I?” said Fred, reddening instantaneously. He was alarmed, but at a -loss to know what Mrs. Garth meant, and added, in an apologetic tone, -“Mr. Farebrother has always been such a friend of ours; and Mary, I -knew, would listen to him gravely; and he took it on himself quite -readily.” - -“Yes, young people are usually blind to everything but their own -wishes, and seldom imagine how much those wishes cost others,” said -Mrs. Garth. She did not mean to go beyond this salutary general -doctrine, and threw her indignation into a needless unwinding of her -worsted, knitting her brow at it with a grand air. - -“I cannot conceive how it could be any pain to Mr. Farebrother,” said -Fred, who nevertheless felt that surprising conceptions were beginning -to form themselves. - -“Precisely; you cannot conceive,” said Mrs. Garth, cutting her words as -neatly as possible. - -For a moment Fred looked at the horizon with a dismayed anxiety, and -then turning with a quick movement said almost sharply— - -“Do you mean to say, Mrs. Garth, that Mr. Farebrother is in love with -Mary?” - -“And if it were so, Fred, I think you are the last person who ought to -be surprised,” returned Mrs. Garth, laying her knitting down beside her -and folding her arms. It was an unwonted sign of emotion in her that -she should put her work out of her hands. In fact her feelings were -divided between the satisfaction of giving Fred his discipline and the -sense of having gone a little too far. Fred took his hat and stick and -rose quickly. - -“Then you think I am standing in his way, and in Mary’s too?” he said, -in a tone which seemed to demand an answer. - -Mrs. Garth could not speak immediately. She had brought herself into -the unpleasant position of being called on to say what she really felt, -yet what she knew there were strong reasons for concealing. And to her -the consciousness of having exceeded in words was peculiarly -mortifying. Besides, Fred had given out unexpected electricity, and he -now added, “Mr. Garth seemed pleased that Mary should be attached to -me. He could not have known anything of this.” - -Mrs. Garth felt a severe twinge at this mention of her husband, the -fear that Caleb might think her in the wrong not being easily -endurable. She answered, wanting to check unintended consequences— - -“I spoke from inference only. I am not aware that Mary knows anything -of the matter.” - -But she hesitated to beg that he would keep entire silence on a subject -which she had herself unnecessarily mentioned, not being used to stoop -in that way; and while she was hesitating there was already a rush of -unintended consequences under the apple-tree where the tea-things -stood. Ben, bouncing across the grass with Brownie at his heels, and -seeing the kitten dragging the knitting by a lengthening line of wool, -shouted and clapped his hands; Brownie barked, the kitten, desperate, -jumped on the tea-table and upset the milk, then jumped down again and -swept half the cherries with it; and Ben, snatching up the half-knitted -sock-top, fitted it over the kitten’s head as a new source of madness, -while Letty arriving cried out to her mother against this cruelty—it -was a history as full of sensation as “This is the house that Jack -built.” Mrs. Garth was obliged to interfere, the other young ones came -up and the _tête-à-tête_ with Fred was ended. He got away as soon as he -could, and Mrs. Garth could only imply some retractation of her -severity by saying “God bless you” when she shook hands with him. - -She was unpleasantly conscious that she had been on the verge of -speaking as “one of the foolish women speaketh”—telling first and -entreating silence after. But she had not entreated silence, and to -prevent Caleb’s blame she determined to blame herself and confess all -to him that very night. It was curious what an awful tribunal the mild -Caleb’s was to her, whenever he set it up. But she meant to point out -to him that the revelation might do Fred Vincy a great deal of good. - -No doubt it was having a strong effect on him as he walked to Lowick. -Fred’s light hopeful nature had perhaps never had so much of a bruise -as from this suggestion that if he had been out of the way Mary might -have made a thoroughly good match. Also he was piqued that he had been -what he called such a stupid lout as to ask that intervention from Mr. -Farebrother. But it was not in a lover’s nature—it was not in Fred’s, -that the new anxiety raised about Mary’s feeling should not surmount -every other. Notwithstanding his trust in Mr. Farebrother’s generosity, -notwithstanding what Mary had said to him, Fred could not help feeling -that he had a rival: it was a new consciousness, and he objected to it -extremely, not being in the least ready to give up Mary for her good, -being ready rather to fight for her with any man whatsoever. But the -fighting with Mr. Farebrother must be of a metaphorical kind, which was -much more difficult to Fred than the muscular. Certainly this -experience was a discipline for Fred hardly less sharp than his -disappointment about his uncle’s will. The iron had not entered into -his soul, but he had begun to imagine what the sharp edge would be. It -did not once occur to Fred that Mrs. Garth might be mistaken about Mr. -Farebrother, but he suspected that she might be wrong about Mary. Mary -had been staying at the parsonage lately, and her mother might know -very little of what had been passing in her mind. - -He did not feel easier when he found her looking cheerful with the -three ladies in the drawing-room. They were in animated discussion on -some subject which was dropped when he entered, and Mary was copying -the labels from a heap of shallow cabinet drawers, in a minute -handwriting which she was skilled in. Mr. Farebrother was somewhere in -the village, and the three ladies knew nothing of Fred’s peculiar -relation to Mary: it was impossible for either of them to propose that -they should walk round the garden, and Fred predicted to himself that -he should have to go away without saying a word to her in private. He -told her first of Christy’s arrival and then of his own engagement with -her father; and he was comforted by seeing that this latter news -touched her keenly. She said hurriedly, “I am so glad,” and then bent -over her writing to hinder any one from noticing her face. But here was -a subject which Mrs. Farebrother could not let pass. - -“You don’t mean, my dear Miss Garth, that you are glad to hear of a -young man giving up the Church for which he was educated: you only mean -that things being so, you are glad that he should be under an excellent -man like your father.” - -“No, really, Mrs. Farebrother, I am glad of both, I fear,” said Mary, -cleverly getting rid of one rebellious tear. “I have a dreadfully -secular mind. I never liked any clergyman except the Vicar of Wakefield -and Mr. Farebrother.” - -“Now why, my dear?” said Mrs. Farebrother, pausing on her large wooden -knitting-needles and looking at Mary. “You have always a good reason -for your opinions, but this astonishes me. Of course I put out of the -question those who preach new doctrine. But why should you dislike -clergymen?” - -“Oh dear,” said Mary, her face breaking into merriment as she seemed to -consider a moment, “I don’t like their neckcloths.” - -“Why, you don’t like Camden’s, then,” said Miss Winifred, in some -anxiety. - -“Yes, I do,” said Mary. “I don’t like the other clergymen’s neckcloths, -because it is they who wear them.” - -“How very puzzling!” said Miss Noble, feeling that her own intellect -was probably deficient. - -“My dear, you are joking. You would have better reasons than these for -slighting so respectable a class of men,” said Mrs. Farebrother, -majestically. - -“Miss Garth has such severe notions of what people should be that it is -difficult to satisfy her,” said Fred. - -“Well, I am glad at least that she makes an exception in favor of my -son,” said the old lady. - -Mary was wondering at Fred’s piqued tone, when Mr. Farebrother came in -and had to hear the news about the engagement under Mr. Garth. At the -end he said with quiet satisfaction, “_That_ is right;” and then bent -to look at Mary’s labels and praise her handwriting. Fred felt horribly -jealous—was glad, of course, that Mr. Farebrother was so estimable, but -wished that he had been ugly and fat as men at forty sometimes are. It -was clear what the end would be, since Mary openly placed Farebrother -above everybody, and these women were all evidently encouraging the -affair. He was feeling sure that he should have no chance of speaking -to Mary, when Mr. Farebrother said— - -“Fred, help me to carry these drawers back into my study—you have never -seen my fine new study. Pray come too, Miss Garth. I want you to see a -stupendous spider I found this morning.” - -Mary at once saw the Vicar’s intention. He had never since the -memorable evening deviated from his old pastoral kindness towards her, -and her momentary wonder and doubt had quite gone to sleep. Mary was -accustomed to think rather rigorously of what was probable, and if a -belief flattered her vanity she felt warned to dismiss it as -ridiculous, having early had much exercise in such dismissals. It was -as she had foreseen: when Fred had been asked to admire the fittings of -the study, and she had been asked to admire the spider, Mr. Farebrother -said— - -“Wait here a minute or two. I am going to look out an engraving which -Fred is tall enough to hang for me. I shall be back in a few minutes.” -And then he went out. Nevertheless, the first word Fred said to Mary -was— - -“It is of no use, whatever I do, Mary. You are sure to marry -Farebrother at last.” There was some rage in his tone. - -“What do you mean, Fred?” Mary exclaimed indignantly, blushing deeply, -and surprised out of all her readiness in reply. - -“It is impossible that you should not see it all clearly enough—you who -see everything.” - -“I only see that you are behaving very ill, Fred, in speaking so of Mr. -Farebrother after he has pleaded your cause in every way. How can you -have taken up such an idea?” - -Fred was rather deep, in spite of his irritation. If Mary had really -been unsuspicious, there was no good in telling her what Mrs. Garth had -said. - -“It follows as a matter of course,” he replied. “When you are -continually seeing a man who beats me in everything, and whom you set -up above everybody, I can have no fair chance.” - -“You are very ungrateful, Fred,” said Mary. “I wish I had never told -Mr. Farebrother that I cared for you in the least.” - -“No, I am not ungrateful; I should be the happiest fellow in the world -if it were not for this. I told your father everything, and he was very -kind; he treated me as if I were his son. I could go at the work with a -will, writing and everything, if it were not for this.” - -“For this? for what?” said Mary, imagining now that something specific -must have been said or done. - -“This dreadful certainty that I shall be bowled out by Farebrother.” -Mary was appeased by her inclination to laugh. - -“Fred,” she said, peeping round to catch his eyes, which were sulkily -turned away from her, “you are too delightfully ridiculous. If you were -not such a charming simpleton, what a temptation this would be to play -the wicked coquette, and let you suppose that somebody besides you has -made love to me.” - -“Do you really like me best, Mary?” said Fred, turning eyes full of -affection on her, and trying to take her hand. - -“I don’t like you at all at this moment,” said Mary, retreating, and -putting her hands behind her. “I only said that no mortal ever made -love to me besides you. And that is no argument that a very wise man -ever will,” she ended, merrily. - -“I wish you would tell me that you could not possibly ever think of -him,” said Fred. - -“Never dare to mention this any more to me, Fred,” said Mary, getting -serious again. “I don’t know whether it is more stupid or ungenerous in -you not to see that Mr. Farebrother has left us together on purpose -that we might speak freely. I am disappointed that you should be so -blind to his delicate feeling.” - -There was no time to say any more before Mr. Farebrother came back with -the engraving; and Fred had to return to the drawing-room still with a -jealous dread in his heart, but yet with comforting arguments from -Mary’s words and manner. The result of the conversation was on the -whole more painful to Mary: inevitably her attention had taken a new -attitude, and she saw the possibility of new interpretations. She was -in a position in which she seemed to herself to be slighting Mr. -Farebrother, and this, in relation to a man who is much honored, is -always dangerous to the firmness of a grateful woman. To have a reason -for going home the next day was a relief, for Mary earnestly desired to -be always clear that she loved Fred best. When a tender affection has -been storing itself in us through many of our years, the idea that we -could accept any exchange for it seems to be a cheapening of our lives. -And we can set a watch over our affections and our constancy as we can -over other treasures. - -“Fred has lost all his other expectations; he must keep this,” Mary -said to herself, with a smile curling her lips. It was impossible to -help fleeting visions of another kind—new dignities and an acknowledged -value of which she had often felt the absence. But these things with -Fred outside them, Fred forsaken and looking sad for the want of her, -could never tempt her deliberate thought. - - - - -CHAPTER LVIII. - -“For there can live no hatred in thine eye, -Therefore in that I cannot know thy change: -In many’s looks the false heart’s history -Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange: -But Heaven in thy creation did decree -That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell: -Whate’er thy thoughts or thy heart’s workings be -Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.” -—SHAKESPEARE: _Sonnets_. - - -At the time when Mr. Vincy uttered that presentiment about Rosamond, -she herself had never had the idea that she should be driven to make -the sort of appeal which he foresaw. She had not yet had any anxiety -about ways and means, although her domestic life had been expensive as -well as eventful. Her baby had been born prematurely, and all the -embroidered robes and caps had to be laid by in darkness. This -misfortune was attributed entirely to her having persisted in going out -on horseback one day when her husband had desired her not to do so; but -it must not be supposed that she had shown temper on the occasion, or -rudely told him that she would do as she liked. - -What led her particularly to desire horse-exercise was a visit from -Captain Lydgate, the baronet’s third son, who, I am sorry to say, was -detested by our Tertius of that name as a vapid fop “parting his hair -from brow to nape in a despicable fashion” (not followed by Tertius -himself), and showing an ignorant security that he knew the proper -thing to say on every topic. Lydgate inwardly cursed his own folly that -he had drawn down this visit by consenting to go to his uncle’s on the -wedding-tour, and he made himself rather disagreeable to Rosamond by -saying so in private. For to Rosamond this visit was a source of -unprecedented but gracefully concealed exultation. She was so intensely -conscious of having a cousin who was a baronet’s son staying in the -house, that she imagined the knowledge of what was implied by his -presence to be diffused through all other minds; and when she -introduced Captain Lydgate to her guests, she had a placid sense that -his rank penetrated them as if it had been an odor. The satisfaction -was enough for the time to melt away some disappointment in the -conditions of marriage with a medical man even of good birth: it seemed -now that her marriage was visibly as well as ideally floating her above -the Middlemarch level, and the future looked bright with letters and -visits to and from Quallingham, and vague advancement in consequence -for Tertius. Especially as, probably at the Captain’s suggestion, his -married sister, Mrs. Mengan, had come with her maid, and stayed two -nights on her way from town. Hence it was clearly worth while for -Rosamond to take pains with her music and the careful selection of her -lace. - -As to Captain Lydgate himself, his low brow, his aquiline nose bent on -one side, and his rather heavy utterance, might have been -disadvantageous in any young gentleman who had not a military bearing -and mustache to give him what is doted on by some flower-like blond -heads as “style.” He had, moreover, that sort of high-breeding which -consists in being free from the petty solicitudes of middle-class -gentility, and he was a great critic of feminine charms. Rosamond -delighted in his admiration now even more than she had done at -Quallingham, and he found it easy to spend several hours of the day in -flirting with her. The visit altogether was one of the pleasantest -larks he had ever had, not the less so perhaps because he suspected -that his queer cousin Tertius wished him away: though Lydgate, who -would rather (hyperbolically speaking) have died than have failed in -polite hospitality, suppressed his dislike, and only pretended -generally not to hear what the gallant officer said, consigning the -task of answering him to Rosamond. For he was not at all a jealous -husband, and preferred leaving a feather-headed young gentleman alone -with his wife to bearing him company. - -“I wish you would talk more to the Captain at dinner, Tertius,” said -Rosamond, one evening when the important guest was gone to Loamford to -see some brother officers stationed there. “You really look so absent -sometimes—you seem to be seeing through his head into something behind -it, instead of looking at him.” - -“My dear Rosy, you don’t expect me to talk much to such a conceited ass -as that, I hope,” said Lydgate, brusquely. “If he got his head broken, -I might look at it with interest, not before.” - -“I cannot conceive why you should speak of your cousin so -contemptuously,” said Rosamond, her fingers moving at her work while -she spoke with a mild gravity which had a touch of disdain in it. - -“Ask Ladislaw if he doesn’t think your Captain the greatest bore he -ever met with. Ladislaw has almost forsaken the house since he came.” - -Rosamond thought she knew perfectly well why Mr. Ladislaw disliked the -Captain: he was jealous, and she liked his being jealous. - -“It is impossible to say what will suit eccentric persons,” she -answered, “but in my opinion Captain Lydgate is a thorough gentleman, -and I think you ought not, out of respect to Sir Godwin, to treat him -with neglect.” - -“No, dear; but we have had dinners for him. And he comes in and goes -out as he likes. He doesn’t want me.” - -“Still, when he is in the room, you might show him more attention. He -may not be a phoenix of cleverness in your sense; his profession is -different; but it would be all the better for you to talk a little on -his subjects. _I_ think his conversation is quite agreeable. And he is -anything but an unprincipled man.” - -“The fact is, you would wish me to be a little more like him, Rosy,” -said Lydgate, in a sort of resigned murmur, with a smile which was not -exactly tender, and certainly not merry. Rosamond was silent and did -not smile again; but the lovely curves of her face looked good-tempered -enough without smiling. - -Those words of Lydgate’s were like a sad milestone marking how far he -had travelled from his old dreamland, in which Rosamond Vincy appeared -to be that perfect piece of womanhood who would reverence her husband’s -mind after the fashion of an accomplished mermaid, using her comb and -looking-glass and singing her song for the relaxation of his adored -wisdom alone. He had begun to distinguish between that imagined -adoration and the attraction towards a man’s talent because it gives -him prestige, and is like an order in his button-hole or an Honorable -before his name. - -It might have been supposed that Rosamond had travelled too, since she -had found the pointless conversation of Mr. Ned Plymdale perfectly -wearisome; but to most mortals there is a stupidity which is -unendurable and a stupidity which is altogether acceptable—else, -indeed, what would become of social bonds? Captain Lydgate’s stupidity -was delicately scented, carried itself with “style,” talked with a good -accent, and was closely related to Sir Godwin. Rosamond found it quite -agreeable and caught many of its phrases. - -Therefore since Rosamond, as we know, was fond of horseback, there were -plenty of reasons why she should be tempted to resume her riding when -Captain Lydgate, who had ordered his man with two horses to follow him -and put up at the “Green Dragon,” begged her to go out on the gray -which he warranted to be gentle and trained to carry a lady—indeed, he -had bought it for his sister, and was taking it to Quallingham. -Rosamond went out the first time without telling her husband, and came -back before his return; but the ride had been so thorough a success, -and she declared herself so much the better in consequence, that he was -informed of it with full reliance on his consent that she should go -riding again. - -On the contrary Lydgate was more than hurt—he was utterly confounded -that she had risked herself on a strange horse without referring the -matter to his wish. After the first almost thundering exclamations of -astonishment, which sufficiently warned Rosamond of what was coming, he -was silent for some moments. - -“However, you have come back safely,” he said, at last, in a decisive -tone. “You will not go again, Rosy; that is understood. If it were the -quietest, most familiar horse in the world, there would always be the -chance of accident. And you know very well that I wished you to give up -riding the roan on that account.” - -“But there is the chance of accident indoors, Tertius.” - -“My darling, don’t talk nonsense,” said Lydgate, in an imploring tone; -“surely I am the person to judge for you. I think it is enough that I -say you are not to go again.” - -Rosamond was arranging her hair before dinner, and the reflection of -her head in the glass showed no change in its loveliness except a -little turning aside of the long neck. Lydgate had been moving about -with his hands in his pockets, and now paused near her, as if he -awaited some assurance. - -“I wish you would fasten up my plaits, dear,” said Rosamond, letting -her arms fall with a little sigh, so as to make a husband ashamed of -standing there like a brute. Lydgate had often fastened the plaits -before, being among the deftest of men with his large finely formed -fingers. He swept up the soft festoons of plaits and fastened in the -tall comb (to such uses do men come!); and what could he do then but -kiss the exquisite nape which was shown in all its delicate curves? But -when we do what we have done before, it is often with a difference. -Lydgate was still angry, and had not forgotten his point. - -“I shall tell the Captain that he ought to have known better than offer -you his horse,” he said, as he moved away. - -“I beg you will not do anything of the kind, Tertius,” said Rosamond, -looking at him with something more marked than usual in her speech. “It -will be treating me as if I were a child. Promise that you will leave -the subject to me.” - -There did seem to be some truth in her objection. Lydgate said, “Very -well,” with a surly obedience, and thus the discussion ended with his -promising Rosamond, and not with her promising him. - -In fact, she had been determined not to promise. Rosamond had that -victorious obstinacy which never wastes its energy in impetuous -resistance. What she liked to do was to her the right thing, and all -her cleverness was directed to getting the means of doing it. She meant -to go out riding again on the gray, and she did go on the next -opportunity of her husband’s absence, not intending that he should know -until it was late enough not to signify to her. The temptation was -certainly great: she was very fond of the exercise, and the -gratification of riding on a fine horse, with Captain Lydgate, Sir -Godwin’s son, on another fine horse by her side, and of being met in -this position by any one but her husband, was something as good as her -dreams before marriage: moreover she was riveting the connection with -the family at Quallingham, which must be a wise thing to do. - -But the gentle gray, unprepared for the crash of a tree that was being -felled on the edge of Halsell wood, took fright, and caused a worse -fright to Rosamond, leading finally to the loss of her baby. Lydgate -could not show his anger towards her, but he was rather bearish to the -Captain, whose visit naturally soon came to an end. - -In all future conversations on the subject, Rosamond was mildly certain -that the ride had made no difference, and that if she had stayed at -home the same symptoms would have come on and would have ended in the -same way, because she had felt something like them before. - -Lydgate could only say, “Poor, poor darling!”—but he secretly wondered -over the terrible tenacity of this mild creature. There was gathering -within him an amazed sense of his powerlessness over Rosamond. His -superior knowledge and mental force, instead of being, as he had -imagined, a shrine to consult on all occasions, was simply set aside on -every practical question. He had regarded Rosamond’s cleverness as -precisely of the receptive kind which became a woman. He was now -beginning to find out what that cleverness was—what was the shape into -which it had run as into a close network aloof and independent. No one -quicker than Rosamond to see causes and effects which lay within the -track of her own tastes and interests: she had seen clearly Lydgate’s -preeminence in Middlemarch society, and could go on imaginatively -tracing still more agreeable social effects when his talent should have -advanced him; but for her, his professional and scientific ambition had -no other relation to these desirable effects than if they had been the -fortunate discovery of an ill-smelling oil. And that oil apart, with -which she had nothing to do, of course she believed in her own opinion -more than she did in his. Lydgate was astounded to find in numberless -trifling matters, as well as in this last serious case of the riding, -that affection did not make her compliant. He had no doubt that the -affection was there, and had no presentiment that he had done anything -to repel it. For his own part he said to himself that he loved her as -tenderly as ever, and could make up his mind to her negations; -but—well! Lydgate was much worried, and conscious of new elements in -his life as noxious to him as an inlet of mud to a creature that has -been used to breathe and bathe and dart after its illuminated prey in -the clearest of waters. - -Rosamond was soon looking lovelier than ever at her worktable, enjoying -drives in her father’s phaeton and thinking it likely that she might be -invited to Quallingham. She knew that she was a much more exquisite -ornament to the drawing-room there than any daughter of the family, and -in reflecting that the gentlemen were aware of that, did not perhaps -sufficiently consider whether the ladies would be eager to see -themselves surpassed. - -Lydgate, relieved from anxiety about her, relapsed into what she -inwardly called his moodiness—a name which to her covered his -thoughtful preoccupation with other subjects than herself, as well as -that uneasy look of the brow and distaste for all ordinary things as if -they were mixed with bitter herbs, which really made a sort of -weather-glass to his vexation and foreboding. These latter states of -mind had one cause amongst others, which he had generously but -mistakenly avoided mentioning to Rosamond, lest it should affect her -health and spirits. Between him and her indeed there was that total -missing of each other’s mental track, which is too evidently possible -even between persons who are continually thinking of each other. To -Lydgate it seemed that he had been spending month after month in -sacrificing more than half of his best intent and best power to his -tenderness for Rosamond; bearing her little claims and interruptions -without impatience, and, above all, bearing without betrayal of -bitterness to look through less and less of interfering illusion at the -blank unreflecting surface her mind presented to his ardor for the more -impersonal ends of his profession and his scientific study, an ardor -which he had fancied that the ideal wife must somehow worship as -sublime, though not in the least knowing why. But his endurance was -mingled with a self-discontent which, if we know how to be candid, we -shall confess to make more than half our bitterness under grievances, -wife or husband included. It always remains true that if we had been -greater, circumstance would have been less strong against us. Lydgate -was aware that his concessions to Rosamond were often little more than -the lapse of slackening resolution, the creeping paralysis apt to seize -an enthusiasm which is out of adjustment to a constant portion of our -lives. And on Lydgate’s enthusiasm there was constantly pressing not a -simple weight of sorrow, but the biting presence of a petty degrading -care, such as casts the blight of irony over all higher effort. - -This was the care which he had hitherto abstained from mentioning to -Rosamond; and he believed, with some wonder, that it had never entered -her mind, though certainly no difficulty could be less mysterious. It -was an inference with a conspicuous handle to it, and had been easily -drawn by indifferent observers, that Lydgate was in debt; and he could -not succeed in keeping out of his mind for long together that he was -every day getting deeper into that swamp, which tempts men towards it -with such a pretty covering of flowers and verdure. It is wonderful how -soon a man gets up to his chin there—in a condition in which, in spite -of himself, he is forced to think chiefly of release, though he had a -scheme of the universe in his soul. - -Eighteen months ago Lydgate was poor, but had never known the eager -want of small sums, and felt rather a burning contempt for any one who -descended a step in order to gain them. He was now experiencing -something worse than a simple deficit: he was assailed by the vulgar -hateful trials of a man who has bought and used a great many things -which might have been done without, and which he is unable to pay for, -though the demand for payment has become pressing. - -How this came about may be easily seen without much arithmetic or -knowledge of prices. When a man in setting up a house and preparing for -marriage finds that his furniture and other initial expenses come to -between four and five hundred pounds more than he has capital to pay -for; when at the end of a year it appears that his household expenses, -horses and et caeteras, amount to nearly a thousand, while the proceeds -of the practice reckoned from the old books to be worth eight hundred -per annum have sunk like a summer pond and make hardly five hundred, -chiefly in unpaid entries, the plain inference is that, whether he -minds it or not, he is in debt. Those were less expensive times than -our own, and provincial life was comparatively modest; but the ease -with which a medical man who had lately bought a practice, who thought -that he was obliged to keep two horses, whose table was supplied -without stint, and who paid an insurance on his life and a high rent -for house and garden, might find his expenses doubling his receipts, -can be conceived by any one who does not think these details beneath -his consideration. Rosamond, accustomed from her childhood to an -extravagant household, thought that good housekeeping consisted simply -in ordering the best of everything—nothing else “answered;” and Lydgate -supposed that “if things were done at all, they must be done -properly”—he did not see how they were to live otherwise. If each head -of household expenditure had been mentioned to him beforehand, he would -have probably observed that “it could hardly come to much,” and if any -one had suggested a saving on a particular article—for example, the -substitution of cheap fish for dear—it would have appeared to him -simply a penny-wise, mean notion. Rosamond, even without such an -occasion as Captain Lydgate’s visit, was fond of giving invitations, -and Lydgate, though he often thought the guests tiresome, did not -interfere. This sociability seemed a necessary part of professional -prudence, and the entertainment must be suitable. It is true Lydgate -was constantly visiting the homes of the poor and adjusting his -prescriptions of diet to their small means; but, dear me! has it not by -this time ceased to be remarkable—is it not rather that we expect in -men, that they should have numerous strands of experience lying side by -side and never compare them with each other? Expenditure—like ugliness -and errors—becomes a totally new thing when we attach our own -personality to it, and measure it by that wide difference which is -manifest (in our own sensations) between ourselves and others. Lydgate -believed himself to be careless about his dress, and he despised a man -who calculated the effects of his costume; it seemed to him only a -matter of course that he had abundance of fresh garments—such things -were naturally ordered in sheaves. It must be remembered that he had -never hitherto felt the check of importunate debt, and he walked by -habit, not by self-criticism. But the check had come. - -Its novelty made it the more irritating. He was amazed, disgusted that -conditions so foreign to all his purposes, so hatefully disconnected -with the objects he cared to occupy himself with, should have lain in -ambush and clutched him when he was unaware. And there was not only the -actual debt; there was the certainty that in his present position he -must go on deepening it. Two furnishing tradesmen at Brassing, whose -bills had been incurred before his marriage, and whom uncalculated -current expenses had ever since prevented him from paying, had -repeatedly sent him unpleasant letters which had forced themselves on -his attention. This could hardly have been more galling to any -disposition than to Lydgate’s, with his intense pride—his dislike of -asking a favor or being under an obligation to any one. He had scorned -even to form conjectures about Mr. Vincy’s intentions on money matters, -and nothing but extremity could have induced him to apply to his -father-in-law, even if he had not been made aware in various indirect -ways since his marriage that Mr. Vincy’s own affairs were not -flourishing, and that the expectation of help from him would be -resented. Some men easily trust in the readiness of friends; it had -never in the former part of his life occurred to Lydgate that he should -need to do so: he had never thought what borrowing would be to him; but -now that the idea had entered his mind, he felt that he would rather -incur any other hardship. In the mean time he had no money or prospects -of money; and his practice was not getting more lucrative. - -No wonder that Lydgate had been unable to suppress all signs of inward -trouble during the last few months, and now that Rosamond was regaining -brilliant health, he meditated taking her entirely into confidence on -his difficulties. New conversance with tradesmen’s bills had forced his -reasoning into a new channel of comparison: he had begun to consider -from a new point of view what was necessary and unnecessary in goods -ordered, and to see that there must be some change of habits. How could -such a change be made without Rosamond’s concurrence? The immediate -occasion of opening the disagreeable fact to her was forced upon him. - -Having no money, and having privately sought advice as to what security -could possibly be given by a man in his position, Lydgate had offered -the one good security in his power to the less peremptory creditor, who -was a silversmith and jeweller, and who consented to take on himself -the upholsterer’s credit also, accepting interest for a given term. The -security necessary was a bill of sale on the furniture of his house, -which might make a creditor easy for a reasonable time about a debt -amounting to less than four hundred pounds; and the silversmith, Mr. -Dover, was willing to reduce it by taking back a portion of the plate -and any other article which was as good as new. “Any other article” was -a phrase delicately implying jewellery, and more particularly some -purple amethysts costing thirty pounds, which Lydgate had bought as a -bridal present. - -Opinions may be divided as to his wisdom in making this present: some -may think that it was a graceful attention to be expected from a man -like Lydgate, and that the fault of any troublesome consequences lay in -the pinched narrowness of provincial life at that time, which offered -no conveniences for professional people whose fortune was not -proportioned to their tastes; also, in Lydgate’s ridiculous -fastidiousness about asking his friends for money. - -However, it had seemed a question of no moment to him on that fine -morning when he went to give a final order for plate: in the presence -of other jewels enormously expensive, and as an addition to orders of -which the amount had not been exactly calculated, thirty pounds for -ornaments so exquisitely suited to Rosamond’s neck and arms could -hardly appear excessive when there was no ready cash for it to exceed. -But at this crisis Lydgate’s imagination could not help dwelling on the -possibility of letting the amethysts take their place again among Mr. -Dover’s stock, though he shrank from the idea of proposing this to -Rosamond. Having been roused to discern consequences which he had never -been in the habit of tracing, he was preparing to act on this -discernment with some of the rigor (by no means all) that he would have -applied in pursuing experiment. He was nerving himself to this rigor as -he rode from Brassing, and meditated on the representations he must -make to Rosamond. - -It was evening when he got home. He was intensely miserable, this -strong man of nine-and-twenty and of many gifts. He was not saying -angrily within himself that he had made a profound mistake; but the -mistake was at work in him like a recognized chronic disease, mingling -its uneasy importunities with every prospect, and enfeebling every -thought. As he went along the passage to the drawing-room, he heard the -piano and singing. Of course, Ladislaw was there. It was some weeks -since Will had parted from Dorothea, yet he was still at the old post -in Middlemarch. Lydgate had no objection in general to Ladislaw’s -coming, but just now he was annoyed that he could not find his hearth -free. When he opened the door the two singers went on towards the -key-note, raising their eyes and looking at him indeed, but not -regarding his entrance as an interruption. To a man galled with his -harness as poor Lydgate was, it is not soothing to see two people -warbling at him, as he comes in with the sense that the painful day has -still pains in store. His face, already paler than usual, took on a -scowl as he walked across the room and flung himself into a chair. - -The singers feeling themselves excused by the fact that they had only -three bars to sing, now turned round. - -“How are you, Lydgate?” said Will, coming forward to shake hands. - -Lydgate took his hand, but did not think it necessary to speak. - -“Have you dined, Tertius? I expected you much earlier,” said Rosamond, -who had already seen that her husband was in a “horrible humor.” She -seated herself in her usual place as she spoke. - -“I have dined. I should like some tea, please,” said Lydgate, curtly, -still scowling and looking markedly at his legs stretched out before -him. - -Will was too quick to need more. “I shall be off,” he said, reaching -his hat. - -“Tea is coming,” said Rosamond; “pray don’t go.” - -“Yes, Lydgate is bored,” said Will, who had more comprehension of -Lydgate than Rosamond had, and was not offended by his manner, easily -imagining outdoor causes of annoyance. - -“There is the more need for you to stay,” said Rosamond, playfully, and -in her lightest accent; “he will not speak to me all the evening.” - -“Yes, Rosamond, I shall,” said Lydgate, in his strong baritone. “I have -some serious business to speak to you about.” - -No introduction of the business could have been less like that which -Lydgate had intended; but her indifferent manner had been too -provoking. - -“There! you see,” said Will. “I’m going to the meeting about the -Mechanics’ Institute. Good-by;” and he went quickly out of the room. - -Rosamond did not look at her husband, but presently rose and took her -place before the tea-tray. She was thinking that she had never seen him -so disagreeable. Lydgate turned his dark eyes on her and watched her as -she delicately handled the tea-service with her taper fingers, and -looked at the objects immediately before her with no curve in her face -disturbed, and yet with an ineffable protest in her air against all -people with unpleasant manners. For the moment he lost the sense of his -wound in a sudden speculation about this new form of feminine -impassibility revealing itself in the sylph-like frame which he had -once interpreted as the sign of a ready intelligent sensitiveness. His -mind glancing back to Laure while he looked at Rosamond, he said -inwardly, “Would _she_ kill me because I wearied her?” and then, “It is -the way with all women.” But this power of generalizing which gives men -so much the superiority in mistake over the dumb animals, was -immediately thwarted by Lydgate’s memory of wondering impressions from -the behavior of another woman—from Dorothea’s looks and tones of -emotion about her husband when Lydgate began to attend him—from her -passionate cry to be taught what would best comfort that man for whose -sake it seemed as if she must quell every impulse in her except the -yearnings of faithfulness and compassion. These revived impressions -succeeded each other quickly and dreamily in Lydgate’s mind while the -tea was being brewed. He had shut his eyes in the last instant of -reverie while he heard Dorothea saying, “Advise me—think what I can -do—he has been all his life laboring and looking forward. He minds -about nothing else—and I mind about nothing else.” - -That voice of deep-souled womanhood had remained within him as the -enkindling conceptions of dead and sceptred genius had remained within -him (is there not a genius for feeling nobly which also reigns over -human spirits and their conclusions?); the tones were a music from -which he was falling away—he had really fallen into a momentary doze, -when Rosamond said in her silvery neutral way, “Here is your tea, -Tertius,” setting it on the small table by his side, and then moved -back to her place without looking at him. Lydgate was too hasty in -attributing insensibility to her; after her own fashion, she was -sensitive enough, and took lasting impressions. Her impression now was -one of offence and repulsion. But then, Rosamond had no scowls and had -never raised her voice: she was quite sure that no one could justly -find fault with her. - -Perhaps Lydgate and she had never felt so far off each other before; -but there were strong reasons for not deferring his revelation, even if -he had not already begun it by that abrupt announcement; indeed some of -the angry desire to rouse her into more sensibility on his account -which had prompted him to speak prematurely, still mingled with his -pain in the prospect of her pain. But he waited till the tray was gone, -the candles were lit, and the evening quiet might be counted on: the -interval had left time for repelled tenderness to return into the old -course. He spoke kindly. - -“Dear Rosy, lay down your work and come to sit by me,” he said, gently, -pushing away the table, and stretching out his arm to draw a chair near -his own. - -Rosamond obeyed. As she came towards him in her drapery of transparent -faintly tinted muslin, her slim yet round figure never looked more -graceful; as she sat down by him and laid one hand on the elbow of his -chair, at last looking at him and meeting his eyes, her delicate neck -and cheek and purely cut lips never had more of that untarnished beauty -which touches as in spring-time and infancy and all sweet freshness. It -touched Lydgate now, and mingled the early moments of his love for her -with all the other memories which were stirred in this crisis of deep -trouble. He laid his ample hand softly on hers, saying— - -“Dear!” with the lingering utterance which affection gives to the word. -Rosamond too was still under the power of that same past, and her -husband was still in part the Lydgate whose approval had stirred -delight. She put his hair lightly away from his forehead, then laid her -other hand on his, and was conscious of forgiving him. - -“I am obliged to tell you what will hurt you, Rosy. But there are -things which husband and wife must think of together. I dare say it has -occurred to you already that I am short of money.” - -Lydgate paused; but Rosamond turned her neck and looked at a vase on -the mantel-piece. - -“I was not able to pay for all the things we had to get before we were -married, and there have been expenses since which I have been obliged -to meet. The consequence is, there is a large debt at Brassing—three -hundred and eighty pounds—which has been pressing on me a good while, -and in fact we are getting deeper every day, for people don’t pay me -the faster because others want the money. I took pains to keep it from -you while you were not well; but now we must think together about it, -and you must help me.” - -“What can _I_ do, Tertius?” said Rosamond, turning her eyes on him -again. That little speech of four words, like so many others in all -languages, is capable by varied vocal inflections of expressing all -states of mind from helpless dimness to exhaustive argumentative -perception, from the completest self-devoting fellowship to the most -neutral aloofness. Rosamond’s thin utterance threw into the words “What -can—I—do!” as much neutrality as they could hold. They fell like a -mortal chill on Lydgate’s roused tenderness. He did not storm in -indignation—he felt too sad a sinking of the heart. And when he spoke -again it was more in the tone of a man who forces himself to fulfil a -task. - -“It is necessary for you to know, because I have to give security for a -time, and a man must come to make an inventory of the furniture.” - -Rosamond colored deeply. “Have you not asked papa for money?” she said, -as soon as she could speak. - -“No.” - -“Then I must ask him!” she said, releasing her hands from Lydgate’s, -and rising to stand at two yards’ distance from him. - -“No, Rosy,” said Lydgate, decisively. “It is too late to do that. The -inventory will be begun to-morrow. Remember it is a mere security: it -will make no difference: it is a temporary affair. I insist upon it -that your father shall not know, unless I choose to tell him,” added -Lydgate, with a more peremptory emphasis. - -This certainly was unkind, but Rosamond had thrown him back on evil -expectation as to what she would do in the way of quiet steady -disobedience. The unkindness seemed unpardonable to her: she was not -given to weeping and disliked it, but now her chin and lips began to -tremble and the tears welled up. Perhaps it was not possible for -Lydgate, under the double stress of outward material difficulty and of -his own proud resistance to humiliating consequences, to imagine fully -what this sudden trial was to a young creature who had known nothing -but indulgence, and whose dreams had all been of new indulgence, more -exactly to her taste. But he did wish to spare her as much as he could, -and her tears cut him to the heart. He could not speak again -immediately; but Rosamond did not go on sobbing: she tried to conquer -her agitation and wiped away her tears, continuing to look before her -at the mantel-piece. - -“Try not to grieve, darling,” said Lydgate, turning his eyes up towards -her. That she had chosen to move away from him in this moment of her -trouble made everything harder to say, but he must absolutely go on. -“We must brace ourselves to do what is necessary. It is I who have been -in fault: I ought to have seen that I could not afford to live in this -way. But many things have told against me in my practice, and it really -just now has ebbed to a low point. I may recover it, but in the mean -time we must pull up—we must change our way of living. We shall weather -it. When I have given this security I shall have time to look about me; -and you are so clever that if you turn your mind to managing you will -school me into carefulness. I have been a thoughtless rascal about -squaring prices—but come, dear, sit down and forgive me.” - -Lydgate was bowing his neck under the yoke like a creature who had -talons, but who had Reason too, which often reduces us to meekness. -When he had spoken the last words in an imploring tone, Rosamond -returned to the chair by his side. His self-blame gave her some hope -that he would attend to her opinion, and she said— - -“Why can you not put off having the inventory made? You can send the -men away to-morrow when they come.” - -“I shall not send them away,” said Lydgate, the peremptoriness rising -again. Was it of any use to explain? - -“If we left Middlemarch? there would of course be a sale, and that -would do as well.” - -“But we are not going to leave Middlemarch.” - -“I am sure, Tertius, it would be much better to do so. Why can we not -go to London? Or near Durham, where your family is known?” - -“We can go nowhere without money, Rosamond.” - -“Your friends would not wish you to be without money. And surely these -odious tradesmen might be made to understand that, and to wait, if you -would make proper representations to them.” - -“This is idle Rosamond,” said Lydgate, angrily. “You must learn to take -my judgment on questions you don’t understand. I have made necessary -arrangements, and they must be carried out. As to friends, I have no -expectations whatever from them, and shall not ask them for anything.” - -Rosamond sat perfectly still. The thought in her mind was that if she -had known how Lydgate would behave, she would never have married him. - -“We have no time to waste now on unnecessary words, dear,” said -Lydgate, trying to be gentle again. “There are some details that I want -to consider with you. Dover says he will take a good deal of the plate -back again, and any of the jewellery we like. He really behaves very -well.” - -“Are we to go without spoons and forks then?” said Rosamond, whose very -lips seemed to get thinner with the thinness of her utterance. She was -determined to make no further resistance or suggestions. - -“Oh no, dear!” said Lydgate. “But look here,” he continued, drawing a -paper from his pocket and opening it; “here is Dover’s account. See, I -have marked a number of articles, which if we returned them would -reduce the amount by thirty pounds and more. I have not marked any of -the jewellery.” Lydgate had really felt this point of the jewellery -very bitter to himself; but he had overcome the feeling by severe -argument. He could not propose to Rosamond that she should return any -particular present of his, but he had told himself that he was bound to -put Dover’s offer before her, and her inward prompting might make the -affair easy. - -“It is useless for me to look, Tertius,” said Rosamond, calmly; “you -will return what you please.” She would not turn her eyes on the paper, -and Lydgate, flushing up to the roots of his hair, drew it back and let -it fall on his knee. Meanwhile Rosamond quietly went out of the room, -leaving Lydgate helpless and wondering. Was she not coming back? It -seemed that she had no more identified herself with him than if they -had been creatures of different species and opposing interests. He -tossed his head and thrust his hands deep into his pockets with a sort -of vengeance. There was still science—there were still good objects to -work for. He must give a tug still—all the stronger because other -satisfactions were going. - -But the door opened and Rosamond re-entered. She carried the leather -box containing the amethysts, and a tiny ornamental basket which -contained other boxes, and laying them on the chair where she had been -sitting, she said, with perfect propriety in her air— - -“This is all the jewellery you ever gave me. You can return what you -like of it, and of the plate also. You will not, of course, expect me -to stay at home to-morrow. I shall go to papa’s.” - -To many women the look Lydgate cast at her would have been more -terrible than one of anger: it had in it a despairing acceptance of the -distance she was placing between them. - -“And when shall you come back again?” he said, with a bitter edge on -his accent. - -“Oh, in the evening. Of course I shall not mention the subject to -mamma.” Rosamond was convinced that no woman could behave more -irreproachably than she was behaving; and she went to sit down at her -work-table. Lydgate sat meditating a minute or two, and the result was -that he said, with some of the old emotion in his tone— - -“Now we have been united, Rosy, you should not leave me to myself in -the first trouble that has come.” - -“Certainly not,” said Rosamond; “I shall do everything it becomes me to -do.” - -“It is not right that the thing should be left to servants, or that I -should have to speak to them about it. And I shall be obliged to go -out—I don’t know how early. I understand your shrinking from the -humiliation of these money affairs. But, my dear Rosamond, as a -question of pride, which I feel just as much as you can, it is surely -better to manage the thing ourselves, and let the servants see as -little of it as possible; and since you are my wife, there is no -hindering your share in my disgraces—if there were disgraces.” - -Rosamond did not answer immediately, but at last she said, “Very well, -I will stay at home.” - -“I shall not touch these jewels, Rosy. Take them away again. But I will -write out a list of plate that we may return, and that can be packed up -and sent at once.” - -“The servants will know _that_,” said Rosamond, with the slightest -touch of sarcasm. - -“Well, we must meet some disagreeables as necessities. Where is the -ink, I wonder?” said Lydgate, rising, and throwing the account on the -larger table where he meant to write. - -Rosamond went to reach the inkstand, and after setting it on the table -was going to turn away, when Lydgate, who was standing close by, put -his arm round her and drew her towards him, saying— - -“Come, darling, let us make the best of things. It will only be for a -time, I hope, that we shall have to be stingy and particular. Kiss me.” - -His native warm-heartedness took a great deal of quenching, and it is a -part of manliness for a husband to feel keenly the fact that an -inexperienced girl has got into trouble by marrying him. She received -his kiss and returned it faintly, and in this way an appearance of -accord was recovered for the time. But Lydgate could not help looking -forward with dread to the inevitable future discussions about -expenditure and the necessity for a complete change in their way of -living. - - - - -CHAPTER LIX. - -“They said of old the Soul had human shape, -But smaller, subtler than the fleshly self, -So wandered forth for airing when it pleased. -And see! beside her cherub-face there floats -A pale-lipped form aerial whispering -Its promptings in that little shell her ear.” - - -News is often dispersed as thoughtlessly and effectively as that pollen -which the bees carry off (having no idea how powdery they are) when -they are buzzing in search of their particular nectar. This fine -comparison has reference to Fred Vincy, who on that evening at Lowick -Parsonage heard a lively discussion among the ladies on the news which -their old servant had got from Tantripp concerning Mr. Casaubon’s -strange mention of Mr. Ladislaw in a codicil to his will made not long -before his death. Miss Winifred was astounded to find that her brother -had known the fact before, and observed that Camden was the most -wonderful man for knowing things and not telling them; whereupon Mary -Garth said that the codicil had perhaps got mixed up with the habits of -spiders, which Miss Winifred never would listen to. Mrs. Farebrother -considered that the news had something to do with their having only -once seen Mr. Ladislaw at Lowick, and Miss Noble made many small -compassionate mewings. - -Fred knew little and cared less about Ladislaw and the Casaubons, and -his mind never recurred to that discussion till one day calling on -Rosamond at his mother’s request to deliver a message as he passed, he -happened to see Ladislaw going away. Fred and Rosamond had little to -say to each other now that marriage had removed her from collision with -the unpleasantness of brothers, and especially now that he had taken -what she held the stupid and even reprehensible step of giving up the -Church to take to such a business as Mr. Garth’s. Hence Fred talked by -preference of what he considered indifferent news, and “a propos of -that young Ladislaw” mentioned what he had heard at Lowick Parsonage. - -Now Lydgate, like Mr. Farebrother, knew a great deal more than he told, -and when he had once been set thinking about the relation between Will -and Dorothea his conjectures had gone beyond the fact. He imagined that -there was a passionate attachment on both sides, and this struck him as -much too serious to gossip about. He remembered Will’s irritability -when he had mentioned Mrs. Casaubon, and was the more circumspect. On -the whole his surmises, in addition to what he knew of the fact, -increased his friendliness and tolerance towards Ladislaw, and made him -understand the vacillation which kept him at Middlemarch after he had -said that he should go away. It was significant of the separateness -between Lydgate’s mind and Rosamond’s that he had no impulse to speak -to her on the subject; indeed, he did not quite trust her reticence -towards Will. And he was right there; though he had no vision of the -way in which her mind would act in urging her to speak. - -When she repeated Fred’s news to Lydgate, he said, “Take care you don’t -drop the faintest hint to Ladislaw, Rosy. He is likely to fly out as if -you insulted him. Of course it is a painful affair.” - -Rosamond turned her neck and patted her hair, looking the image of -placid indifference. But the next time Will came when Lydgate was away, -she spoke archly about his not going to London as he had threatened. - -“I know all about it. I have a confidential little bird,” said she, -showing very pretty airs of her head over the bit of work held high -between her active fingers. “There is a powerful magnet in this -neighborhood.” - -“To be sure there is. Nobody knows that better than you,” said Will, -with light gallantry, but inwardly prepared to be angry. - -“It is really the most charming romance: Mr. Casaubon jealous, and -foreseeing that there was no one else whom Mrs. Casaubon would so much -like to marry, and no one who would so much like to marry her as a -certain gentleman; and then laying a plan to spoil all by making her -forfeit her property if she did marry that gentleman—and then—and -then—and then—oh, I have no doubt the end will be thoroughly romantic.” - -“Great God! what do you mean?” said Will, flushing over face and ears, -his features seeming to change as if he had had a violent shake. “Don’t -joke; tell me what you mean.” - -“You don’t really know?” said Rosamond, no longer playful, and desiring -nothing better than to tell in order that she might evoke effects. - -“No!” he returned, impatiently. - -“Don’t know that Mr. Casaubon has left it in his will that if Mrs. -Casaubon marries you she is to forfeit all her property?” - -“How do you know that it is true?” said Will, eagerly. - -“My brother Fred heard it from the Farebrothers.” Will started up from -his chair and reached his hat. - -“I dare say she likes you better than the property,” said Rosamond, -looking at him from a distance. - -“Pray don’t say any more about it,” said Will, in a hoarse undertone -extremely unlike his usual light voice. “It is a foul insult to her and -to me.” Then he sat down absently, looking before him, but seeing -nothing. - -“Now you are angry with _me_,” said Rosamond. “It is too bad to bear -_me_ malice. You ought to be obliged to me for telling you.” - -“So I am,” said Will, abruptly, speaking with that kind of double soul -which belongs to dreamers who answer questions. - -“I expect to hear of the marriage,” said Rosamond, playfully. - -“Never! You will never hear of the marriage!” - -With those words uttered impetuously, Will rose, put out his hand to -Rosamond, still with the air of a somnambulist, and went away. - -When he was gone, Rosamond left her chair and walked to the other end -of the room, leaning when she got there against a chiffonniere, and -looking out of the window wearily. She was oppressed by ennui, and by -that dissatisfaction which in women’s minds is continually turning into -a trivial jealousy, referring to no real claims, springing from no -deeper passion than the vague exactingness of egoism, and yet capable -of impelling action as well as speech. “There really is nothing to care -for much,” said poor Rosamond inwardly, thinking of the family at -Quallingham, who did not write to her; and that perhaps Tertius when he -came home would tease her about expenses. She had already secretly -disobeyed him by asking her father to help them, and he had ended -decisively by saying, “I am more likely to want help myself.” - - - - -CHAPTER LX. - -Good phrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable. -—_Justice Shallow_. - - -A few days afterwards—it was already the end of August—there was an -occasion which caused some excitement in Middlemarch: the public, if it -chose, was to have the advantage of buying, under the distinguished -auspices of Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, the furniture, books, and pictures -which anybody might see by the handbills to be the best in every kind, -belonging to Edwin Larcher, Esq. This was not one of the sales -indicating the depression of trade; on the contrary, it was due to Mr. -Larcher’s great success in the carrying business, which warranted his -purchase of a mansion near Riverston already furnished in high style by -an illustrious Spa physician—furnished indeed with such large framefuls -of expensive flesh-painting in the dining-room, that Mrs. Larcher was -nervous until reassured by finding the subjects to be Scriptural. Hence -the fine opportunity to purchasers which was well pointed out in the -handbills of Mr. Borthrop Trumbull, whose acquaintance with the history -of art enabled him to state that the hall furniture, to be sold without -reserve, comprised a piece of carving by a contemporary of Gibbons. - -At Middlemarch in those times a large sale was regarded as a kind of -festival. There was a table spread with the best cold eatables, as at a -superior funeral; and facilities were offered for that -generous-drinking of cheerful glasses which might lead to generous and -cheerful bidding for undesirable articles. Mr. Larcher’s sale was the -more attractive in the fine weather because the house stood just at the -end of the town, with a garden and stables attached, in that pleasant -issue from Middlemarch called the London Road, which was also the road -to the New Hospital and to Mr. Bulstrode’s retired residence, known as -the Shrubs. In short, the auction was as good as a fair, and drew all -classes with leisure at command: to some, who risked making bids in -order simply to raise prices, it was almost equal to betting at the -races. The second day, when the best furniture was to be sold, -“everybody” was there; even Mr. Thesiger, the rector of St. Peter’s, -had looked in for a short time, wishing to buy the carved table, and -had rubbed elbows with Mr. Bambridge and Mr. Horrock. There was a -wreath of Middlemarch ladies accommodated with seats round the large -table in the dining-room, where Mr. Borthrop Trumbull was mounted with -desk and hammer; but the rows chiefly of masculine faces behind were -often varied by incomings and outgoings both from the door and the -large bow-window opening on to the lawn. - -“Everybody” that day did not include Mr. Bulstrode, whose health could -not well endure crowds and draughts. But Mrs. Bulstrode had -particularly wished to have a certain picture—a “Supper at Emmaus,” -attributed in the catalogue to Guido; and at the last moment before the -day of the sale Mr. Bulstrode had called at the office of the -“Pioneer,” of which he was now one of the proprietors, to beg of Mr. -Ladislaw as a great favor that he would obligingly use his remarkable -knowledge of pictures on behalf of Mrs. Bulstrode, and judge of the -value of this particular painting—“if,” added the scrupulously polite -banker, “attendance at the sale would not interfere with the -arrangements for your departure, which I know is imminent.” - -This proviso might have sounded rather satirically in Will’s ear if he -had been in a mood to care about such satire. It referred to an -understanding entered into many weeks before with the proprietors of -the paper, that he should be at liberty any day he pleased to hand over -the management to the subeditor whom he had been training; since he -wished finally to quit Middlemarch. But indefinite visions of ambition -are weak against the ease of doing what is habitual or beguilingly -agreeable; and we all know the difficulty of carrying out a resolve -when we secretly long that it may turn out to be unnecessary. In such -states of mind the most incredulous person has a private leaning -towards miracle: impossible to conceive how our wish could be -fulfilled, still—very wonderful things have happened! Will did not -confess this weakness to himself, but he lingered. What was the use of -going to London at that time of the year? The Rugby men who would -remember him were not there; and so far as political writing was -concerned, he would rather for a few weeks go on with the “Pioneer.” At -the present moment, however, when Mr. Bulstrode was speaking to him, he -had both a strengthened resolve to go and an equally strong resolve not -to go till he had once more seen Dorothea. Hence he replied that he had -reasons for deferring his departure a little, and would be happy to go -to the sale. - -Will was in a defiant mood, his consciousness being deeply stung with -the thought that the people who looked at him probably knew a fact -tantamount to an accusation against him as a fellow with low designs -which were to be frustrated by a disposal of property. Like most people -who assert their freedom with regard to conventional distinction, he -was prepared to be sudden and quick at quarrel with any one who might -hint that he had personal reasons for that assertion—that there was -anything in his blood, his bearing, or his character to which he gave -the mask of an opinion. When he was under an irritating impression of -this kind he would go about for days with a defiant look, the color -changing in his transparent skin as if he were on the _qui vive_, -watching for something which he had to dart upon. - -This expression was peculiarly noticeable in him at the sale, and those -who had only seen him in his moods of gentle oddity or of bright -enjoyment would have been struck with a contrast. He was not sorry to -have this occasion for appearing in public before the Middlemarch -tribes of Toller, Hackbutt, and the rest, who looked down on him as an -adventurer, and were in a state of brutal ignorance about Dante—who -sneered at his Polish blood, and were themselves of a breed very much -in need of crossing. He stood in a conspicuous place not far from the -auctioneer, with a fore-finger in each side-pocket and his head thrown -backward, not caring to speak to anybody, though he had been cordially -welcomed as a connoiss_ure_ by Mr. Trumbull, who was enjoying the -utmost activity of his great faculties. - -And surely among all men whose vocation requires them to exhibit their -powers of speech, the happiest is a prosperous provincial auctioneer -keenly alive to his own jokes and sensible of his encyclopedic -knowledge. Some saturnine, sour-blooded persons might object to be -constantly insisting on the merits of all articles from boot-jacks to -“Berghems;” but Mr. Borthrop Trumbull had a kindly liquid in his veins; -he was an admirer by nature, and would have liked to have the universe -under his hammer, feeling that it would go at a higher figure for his -recommendation. - -Meanwhile Mrs. Larcher’s drawing-room furniture was enough for him. -When Will Ladislaw had come in, a second fender, said to have been -forgotten in its right place, suddenly claimed the auctioneer’s -enthusiasm, which he distributed on the equitable principle of praising -those things most which were most in need of praise. The fender was of -polished steel, with much lancet-shaped open-work and a sharp edge. - -“Now, ladies,” said he, “I shall appeal to you. Here is a fender which -at any other sale would hardly be offered with out reserve, being, as I -may say, for quality of steel and quaintness of design, a kind of -thing”—here Mr. Trumbull dropped his voice and became slightly nasal, -trimming his outlines with his left finger—“that might not fall in with -ordinary tastes. Allow me to tell you that by-and-by this style of -workmanship will be the only one in vogue—half-a-crown, you said? thank -you—going at half-a-crown, this characteristic fender; and I have -particular information that the antique style is very much sought after -in high quarters. Three shillings—three-and-sixpence—hold it well up, -Joseph! Look, ladies, at the chastity of the design—I have no doubt -myself that it was turned out in the last century! Four shillings, Mr. -Mawmsey?—four shillings.” - -“It’s not a thing I would put in _my_ drawing-room,” said Mrs. Mawmsey, -audibly, for the warning of the rash husband. “I wonder _at_ Mrs. -Larcher. Every blessed child’s head that fell against it would be cut -in two. The edge is like a knife.” - -“Quite true,” rejoined Mr. Trumbull, quickly, “and most uncommonly -useful to have a fender at hand that will cut, if you have a leather -shoe-tie or a bit of string that wants cutting and no knife at hand: -many a man has been left hanging because there was no knife to cut him -down. Gentlemen, here’s a fender that if you had the misfortune to hang -yourselves would cut you down in no time—with astonishing -celerity—four-and-sixpence—five—five-and-sixpence—an appropriate thing -for a spare bedroom where there was a four-poster and a guest a little -out of his mind—six shillings—thank you, Mr. Clintup—going at six -shillings—going—gone!” The auctioneer’s glance, which had been -searching round him with a preternatural susceptibility to all signs of -bidding, here dropped on the paper before him, and his voice too -dropped into a tone of indifferent despatch as he said, “Mr. Clintup. -Be handy, Joseph.” - -“It was worth six shillings to have a fender you could always tell that -joke on,” said Mr. Clintup, laughing low and apologetically to his next -neighbor. He was a diffident though distinguished nurseryman, and -feared that the audience might regard his bid as a foolish one. - -Meanwhile Joseph had brought a trayful of small articles. “Now, -ladies,” said Mr. Trumbull, taking up one of the articles, “this tray -contains a very recherchy lot—a collection of trifles for the -drawing-room table—and trifles make the sum _of_ human things—nothing -more important than trifles—(yes, Mr. Ladislaw, yes, by-and-by)—but -pass the tray round, Joseph—these bijoux must be examined, ladies. This -I have in my hand is an ingenious contrivance—a sort of practical -rebus, I may call it: here, you see, it looks like an elegant -heart-shaped box, portable—for the pocket; there, again, it becomes -like a splendid double flower—an ornament for the table; and now”—Mr. -Trumbull allowed the flower to fall alarmingly into strings of -heart-shaped leaves—“a book of riddles! No less than five hundred -printed in a beautiful red. Gentlemen, if I had less of a conscience, I -should not wish you to bid high for this lot—I have a longing for it -myself. What can promote innocent mirth, and I may say virtue, more -than a good riddle?—it hinders profane language, and attaches a man to -the society of refined females. This ingenious article itself, without -the elegant domino-box, card-basket, &c., ought alone to give a high -price to the lot. Carried in the pocket it might make an individual -welcome in any society. Four shillings, sir?—four shillings for this -remarkable collection of riddles with the et caeteras. Here is a -sample: ‘How must you spell honey to make it catch lady-birds? -Answer—money.’ You hear?—lady-birds—honey money. This is an amusement -to sharpen the intellect; it has a sting—it has what we call satire, -and wit without indecency. Four-and-sixpence—five shillings.” - -The bidding ran on with warming rivalry. Mr. Bowyer was a bidder, and -this was too exasperating. Bowyer couldn’t afford it, and only wanted -to hinder every other man from making a figure. The current carried -even Mr. Horrock with it, but this committal of himself to an opinion -fell from him with so little sacrifice of his neutral expression, that -the bid might not have been detected as his but for the friendly oaths -of Mr. Bambridge, who wanted to know what Horrock would do with blasted -stuff only fit for haberdashers given over to that state of perdition -which the horse-dealer so cordially recognized in the majority of -earthly existences. The lot was finally knocked down at a guinea to Mr. -Spilkins, a young Slender of the neighborhood, who was reckless with -his pocket-money and felt his want of memory for riddles. - -“Come, Trumbull, this is too bad—you’ve been putting some old maid’s -rubbish into the sale,” murmured Mr. Toller, getting close to the -auctioneer. “I want to see how the prints go, and I must be off soon.” - -“_Im_mediately, Mr. Toller. It was only an act of benevolence which -your noble heart would approve. Joseph! quick with the prints—Lot 235. -Now, gentlemen, you who are connoiss_ures_, you are going to have a -treat. Here is an engraving of the Duke of Wellington surrounded by his -staff on the Field of Waterloo; and notwithstanding recent events which -have, as it were, enveloped our great Hero in a cloud, I will be bold -to say—for a man in my line must not be blown about by political -winds—that a finer subject—of the modern order, belonging to our own -time and epoch—the understanding of man could hardly conceive: angels -might, perhaps, but not men, sirs, not men.” - -“Who painted it?” said Mr. Powderell, much impressed. - -“It is a proof before the letter, Mr. Powderell—the painter is not -known,” answered Trumbull, with a certain gaspingness in his last -words, after which he pursed up his lips and stared round him. - -“I’ll bid a pound!” said Mr. Powderell, in a tone of resolved emotion, -as of a man ready to put himself in the breach. Whether from awe or -pity, nobody raised the price on him. - -Next came two Dutch prints which Mr. Toller had been eager for, and -after he had secured them he went away. Other prints, and afterwards -some paintings, were sold to leading Middlemarchers who had come with a -special desire for them, and there was a more active movement of the -audience in and out; some, who had bought what they wanted, going away, -others coming in either quite newly or from a temporary visit to the -refreshments which were spread under the marquee on the lawn. It was -this marquee that Mr. Bambridge was bent on buying, and he appeared to -like looking inside it frequently, as a foretaste of its possession. On -the last occasion of his return from it he was observed to bring with -him a new companion, a stranger to Mr. Trumbull and every one else, -whose appearance, however, led to the supposition that he might be a -relative of the horse-dealer’s—also “given to indulgence.” His large -whiskers, imposing swagger, and swing of the leg, made him a striking -figure; but his suit of black, rather shabby at the edges, caused the -prejudicial inference that he was not able to afford himself as much -indulgence as he liked. - -“Who is it you’ve picked up, Bam?” said Mr. Horrock, aside. - -“Ask him yourself,” returned Mr. Bambridge. “He said he’d just turned -in from the road.” - -Mr. Horrock eyed the stranger, who was leaning back against his stick -with one hand, using his toothpick with the other, and looking about -him with a certain restlessness apparently under the silence imposed on -him by circumstances. - -At length the “Supper at Emmaus” was brought forward, to Will’s immense -relief, for he was getting so tired of the proceedings that he had -drawn back a little and leaned his shoulder against the wall just -behind the auctioneer. He now came forward again, and his eye caught -the conspicuous stranger, who, rather to his surprise, was staring at -him markedly. But Will was immediately appealed to by Mr. Trumbull. - -“Yes, Mr. Ladislaw, yes; this interests you as a connoiss_ure_, I -think. It is some pleasure,” the auctioneer went on with a rising -fervor, “to have a picture like this to show to a company of ladies and -gentlemen—a picture worth any sum to an individual whose means were on -a level with his judgment. It is a painting of the Italian school—by -the celebrated _Guydo_, the greatest painter in the world, the chief of -the Old Masters, as they are called—I take it, because they were up to -a thing or two beyond most of us—in possession of secrets now lost to -the bulk of mankind. Let me tell you, gentlemen, I have seen a great -many pictures by the Old Masters, and they are not all up to this -mark—some of them are darker than you might like and not family -subjects. But here is a _Guydo_—the frame alone is worth pounds—which -any lady might be proud to hang up—a suitable thing for what we call a -refectory in a charitable institution, if any gentleman of the -Corporation wished to show his munifi_cence_. Turn it a little, sir? -yes. Joseph, turn it a little towards Mr. Ladislaw—Mr. Ladislaw, having -been abroad, understands the merit of these things, you observe.” - -All eyes were for a moment turned towards Will, who said, coolly, “Five -pounds.” The auctioneer burst out in deep remonstrance. - -“Ah! Mr. Ladislaw! the frame alone is worth that. Ladies and gentlemen, -for the credit of the town! Suppose it should be discovered hereafter -that a gem of art has been amongst us in this town, and nobody in -Middlemarch awake to it. Five guineas—five seven-six—five ten. Still, -ladies, still! It is a gem, and ‘Full many a gem,’ as the poet says, -has been allowed to go at a nominal price because the public knew no -better, because it was offered in circles where there was—I was going -to say a low feeling, but no!—Six pounds—six guineas—a _Guydo_ of the -first order going at six guineas—it is an insult to religion, ladies; -it touches us all as Christians, gentlemen, that a subject like this -should go at such a low figure—six pounds ten—seven—” - -The bidding was brisk, and Will continued to share in it, remembering -that Mrs. Bulstrode had a strong wish for the picture, and thinking -that he might stretch the price to twelve pounds. But it was knocked -down to him at ten guineas, whereupon he pushed his way towards the -bow-window and went out. He chose to go under the marquee to get a -glass of water, being hot and thirsty: it was empty of other visitors, -and he asked the woman in attendance to fetch him some fresh water; but -before she was well gone he was annoyed to see entering the florid -stranger who had stared at him. It struck Will at this moment that the -man might be one of those political parasitic insects of the bloated -kind who had once or twice claimed acquaintance with him as having -heard him speak on the Reform question, and who might think of getting -a shilling by news. In this light his person, already rather heating to -behold on a summer’s day, appeared the more disagreeable; and Will, -half-seated on the elbow of a garden-chair, turned his eyes carefully -away from the comer. But this signified little to our acquaintance Mr. -Raffles, who never hesitated to thrust himself on unwilling -observation, if it suited his purpose to do so. He moved a step or two -till he was in front of Will, and said with full-mouthed haste, “Excuse -me, Mr. Ladislaw—was your mother’s name Sarah Dunkirk?” - -Will, starting to his feet, moved backward a step, frowning, and saying -with some fierceness, “Yes, sir, it was. And what is that to you?” - -It was in Will’s nature that the first spark it threw out was a direct -answer of the question and a challenge of the consequences. To have -said, “What is that to you?” in the first instance, would have seemed -like shuffling—as if he minded who knew anything about his origin! - -Raffles on his side had not the same eagerness for a collision which -was implied in Ladislaw’s threatening air. The slim young fellow with -his girl’s complexion looked like a tiger-cat ready to spring on him. -Under such circumstances Mr. Raffles’s pleasure in annoying his company -was kept in abeyance. - -“No offence, my good sir, no offence! I only remember your mother—knew -her when she was a girl. But it is your father that you feature, sir. I -had the pleasure of seeing your father too. Parents alive, Mr. -Ladislaw?” - -“No!” thundered Will, in the same attitude as before. - -“Should be glad to do you a service, Mr. Ladislaw—by Jove, I should! -Hope to meet again.” - -Hereupon Raffles, who had lifted his hat with the last words, turned -himself round with a swing of his leg and walked away. Will looked -after him a moment, and could see that he did not re-enter the -auction-room, but appeared to be walking towards the road. For an -instant he thought that he had been foolish not to let the man go on -talking;—but no! on the whole he preferred doing without knowledge from -that source. - -Later in the evening, however, Raffles overtook him in the street, and -appearing either to have forgotten the roughness of his former -reception or to intend avenging it by a forgiving familiarity, greeted -him jovially and walked by his side, remarking at first on the -pleasantness of the town and neighborhood. Will suspected that the man -had been drinking and was considering how to shake him off when Raffles -said— - -“I’ve been abroad myself, Mr. Ladislaw—I’ve seen the world—used to -parley-vous a little. It was at Boulogne I saw your father—a most -uncommon likeness you are of him, by Jove! mouth—nose—eyes—hair turned -off your brow just like his—a little in the foreign style. John Bull -doesn’t do much of that. But your father was very ill when I saw him. -Lord, lord! hands you might see through. You were a small youngster -then. Did he get well?” - -“No,” said Will, curtly. - -“Ah! Well! I’ve often wondered what became of your mother. She ran away -from her friends when she was a young lass—a proud-spirited lass, and -pretty, by Jove! I knew the reason why she ran away,” said Raffles, -winking slowly as he looked sideways at Will. - -“You know nothing dishonorable of her, sir,” said Will, turning on him -rather savagely. But Mr. Raffles just now was not sensitive to shades -of manner. - -“Not a bit!” said he, tossing his head decisively. “She was a little -too honorable to like her friends—that was it!” Here Raffles again -winked slowly. “Lord bless you, I knew all about ’em—a little in what -you may call the respectable thieving line—the high style of -receiving-house—none of your holes and corners—first-rate. Slap-up -shop, high profits and no mistake. But Lord! Sarah would have known -nothing about it—a dashing young lady she was—fine boarding-school—fit -for a lord’s wife—only Archie Duncan threw it at her out of spite, -because she would have nothing to do with him. And so she ran away from -the whole concern. I travelled for ’em, sir, in a gentlemanly way—at a -high salary. They didn’t mind her running away at first—godly folks, -sir, very godly—and she was for the stage. The son was alive then, and -the daughter was at a discount. Hallo! here we are at the Blue Bull. -What do you say, Mr. Ladislaw?—shall we turn in and have a glass?” - -“No, I must say good evening,” said Will, dashing up a passage which -led into Lowick Gate, and almost running to get out of Raffles’s reach. - -He walked a long while on the Lowick road away from the town, glad of -the starlit darkness when it came. He felt as if he had had dirt cast -on him amidst shouts of scorn. There was this to confirm the fellow’s -statement—that his mother never would tell him the reason why she had -run away from her family. - -Well! what was he, Will Ladislaw, the worse, supposing the truth about -that family to be the ugliest? His mother had braved hardship in order -to separate herself from it. But if Dorothea’s friends had known this -story—if the Chettams had known it—they would have had a fine color to -give their suspicions a welcome ground for thinking him unfit to come -near her. However, let them suspect what they pleased, they would find -themselves in the wrong. They would find out that the blood in his -veins was as free from the taint of meanness as theirs. - - - - -CHAPTER LXI. - -“Inconsistencies,” answered Imlac, “cannot both be right, but imputed -to man they may both be true.”—_Rasselas_. - - -The same night, when Mr. Bulstrode returned from a journey to Brassing -on business, his good wife met him in the entrance-hall and drew him -into his private sitting-room. - -“Nicholas,” she said, fixing her honest eyes upon him anxiously, “there -has been such a disagreeable man here asking for you—it has made me -quite uncomfortable.” - -“What kind of man, my dear,” said Mr. Bulstrode, dreadfully certain of -the answer. - -“A red-faced man with large whiskers, and most impudent in his manner. -He declared he was an old friend of yours, and said you would be sorry -not to see him. He wanted to wait for you here, but I told him he could -see you at the Bank to-morrow morning. Most impudent he was!—stared at -me, and said his friend Nick had luck in wives. I don’t believe he -would have gone away, if Blucher had not happened to break his chain -and come running round on the gravel—for I was in the garden; so I -said, ‘You’d better go away—the dog is very fierce, and I can’t hold -him.’ Do you really know anything of such a man?” - -“I believe I know who he is, my dear,” said Mr. Bulstrode, in his usual -subdued voice, “an unfortunate dissolute wretch, whom I helped too much -in days gone by. However, I presume you will not be troubled by him -again. He will probably come to the Bank—to beg, doubtless.” - -No more was said on the subject until the next day, when Mr. Bulstrode -had returned from the town and was dressing for dinner. His wife, not -sure that he was come home, looked into his dressing-room and saw him -with his coat and cravat off, leaning one arm on a chest of drawers and -staring absently at the ground. He started nervously and looked up as -she entered. - -“You look very ill, Nicholas. Is there anything the matter?” - -“I have a good deal of pain in my head,” said Mr. Bulstrode, who was so -frequently ailing that his wife was always ready to believe in this -cause of depression. - -“Sit down and let me sponge it with vinegar.” - -Physically Mr. Bulstrode did not want the vinegar, but morally the -affectionate attention soothed him. Though always polite, it was his -habit to receive such services with marital coolness, as his wife’s -duty. But to-day, while she was bending over him, he said, “You are -very good, Harriet,” in a tone which had something new in it to her -ear; she did not know exactly what the novelty was, but her woman’s -solicitude shaped itself into a darting thought that he might be going -to have an illness. - -“Has anything worried you?” she said. “Did that man come to you at the -Bank?” - -“Yes; it was as I had supposed. He is a man who at one time might have -done better. But he has sunk into a drunken debauched creature.” - -“Is he quite gone away?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, anxiously; but for -certain reasons she refrained from adding, “It was very disagreeable to -hear him calling himself a friend of yours.” At that moment she would -not have liked to say anything which implied her habitual consciousness -that her husband’s earlier connections were not quite on a level with -her own. Not that she knew much about them. That her husband had at -first been employed in a bank, that he had afterwards entered into what -he called city business and gained a fortune before he was -three-and-thirty, that he had married a widow who was much older than -himself—a Dissenter, and in other ways probably of that disadvantageous -quality usually perceptible in a first wife if inquired into with the -dispassionate judgment of a second—was almost as much as she had cared -to learn beyond the glimpses which Mr. Bulstrode’s narrative -occasionally gave of his early bent towards religion, his inclination -to be a preacher, and his association with missionary and philanthropic -efforts. She believed in him as an excellent man whose piety carried a -peculiar eminence in belonging to a layman, whose influence had turned -her own mind toward seriousness, and whose share of perishable good had -been the means of raising her own position. But she also liked to think -that it was well in every sense for Mr. Bulstrode to have won the hand -of Harriet Vincy; whose family was undeniable in a Middlemarch light—a -better light surely than any thrown in London thoroughfares or -dissenting chapel-yards. The unreformed provincial mind distrusted -London; and while true religion was everywhere saving, honest Mrs. -Bulstrode was convinced that to be saved in the Church was more -respectable. She so much wished to ignore towards others that her -husband had ever been a London Dissenter, that she liked to keep it out -of sight even in talking to him. He was quite aware of this; indeed in -some respects he was rather afraid of this ingenuous wife, whose -imitative piety and native worldliness were equally sincere, who had -nothing to be ashamed of, and whom he had married out of a thorough -inclination still subsisting. But his fears were such as belong to a -man who cares to maintain his recognized supremacy: the loss of high -consideration from his wife, as from every one else who did not clearly -hate him out of enmity to the truth, would be as the beginning of death -to him. When she said— - -“Is he quite gone away?” - -“Oh, I trust so,” he answered, with an effort to throw as much sober -unconcern into his tone as possible! - -But in truth Mr. Bulstrode was very far from a state of quiet trust. In -the interview at the Bank, Raffles had made it evident that his -eagerness to torment was almost as strong in him as any other greed. He -had frankly said that he had turned out of the way to come to -Middlemarch, just to look about him and see whether the neighborhood -would suit him to live in. He had certainly had a few debts to pay more -than he expected, but the two hundred pounds were not gone yet: a cool -five-and-twenty would suffice him to go away with for the present. What -he had wanted chiefly was to see his friend Nick and family, and know -all about the prosperity of a man to whom he was so much attached. -By-and-by he might come back for a longer stay. This time Raffles -declined to be “seen off the premises,” as he expressed it—declined to -quit Middlemarch under Bulstrode’s eyes. He meant to go by coach the -next day—if he chose. - -Bulstrode felt himself helpless. Neither threats nor coaxing could -avail: he could not count on any persistent fear nor on any promise. On -the contrary, he felt a cold certainty at his heart that Raffles—unless -providence sent death to hinder him—would come back to Middlemarch -before long. And that certainty was a terror. - -It was not that he was in danger of legal punishment or of beggary: he -was in danger only of seeing disclosed to the judgment of his neighbors -and the mournful perception of his wife certain facts of his past life -which would render him an object of scorn and an opprobrium of the -religion with which he had diligently associated himself. The terror of -being judged sharpens the memory: it sends an inevitable glare over -that long-unvisited past which has been habitually recalled only in -general phrases. Even without memory, the life is bound into one by a -zone of dependence in growth and decay; but intense memory forces a man -to own his blameworthy past. With memory set smarting like a reopened -wound, a man’s past is not simply a dead history, an outworn -preparation of the present: it is not a repented error shaken loose -from the life: it is a still quivering part of himself, bringing -shudders and bitter flavors and the tinglings of a merited shame. - -Into this second life Bulstrode’s past had now risen, only the -pleasures of it seeming to have lost their quality. Night and day, -without interruption save of brief sleep which only wove retrospect and -fear into a fantastic present, he felt the scenes of his earlier life -coming between him and everything else, as obstinately as when we look -through the window from a lighted room, the objects we turn our backs -on are still before us, instead of the grass and the trees. The -successive events inward and outward were there in one view: though -each might be dwelt on in turn, the rest still kept their hold in the -consciousness. - -Once more he saw himself the young banker’s clerk, with an agreeable -person, as clever in figures as he was fluent in speech and fond of -theological definition: an eminent though young member of a Calvinistic -dissenting church at Highbury, having had striking experience in -conviction of sin and sense of pardon. Again he heard himself called -for as Brother Bulstrode in prayer meetings, speaking on religious -platforms, preaching in private houses. Again he felt himself thinking -of the ministry as possibly his vocation, and inclined towards -missionary labor. That was the happiest time of his life: that was the -spot he would have chosen now to awake in and find the rest a dream. -The people among whom Brother Bulstrode was distinguished were very -few, but they were very near to him, and stirred his satisfaction the -more; his power stretched through a narrow space, but he felt its -effect the more intensely. He believed without effort in the peculiar -work of grace within him, and in the signs that God intended him for -special instrumentality. - -Then came the moment of transition; it was with the sense of promotion -he had when he, an orphan educated at a commercial charity-school, was -invited to a fine villa belonging to Mr. Dunkirk, the richest man in -the congregation. Soon he became an intimate there, honored for his -piety by the wife, marked out for his ability by the husband, whose -wealth was due to a flourishing city and west-end trade. That was the -setting-in of a new current for his ambition, directing his prospects -of “instrumentality” towards the uniting of distinguished religious -gifts with successful business. - -By-and-by came a decided external leading: a confidential subordinate -partner died, and nobody seemed to the principal so well fitted to fill -the severely felt vacancy as his young friend Bulstrode, if he would -become confidential accountant. The offer was accepted. The business -was a pawnbroker’s, of the most magnificent sort both in extent and -profits; and on a short acquaintance with it Bulstrode became aware -that one source of magnificent profit was the easy reception of any -goods offered, without strict inquiry as to where they came from. But -there was a branch house at the west end, and no pettiness or dinginess -to give suggestions of shame. - -He remembered his first moments of shrinking. They were private, and -were filled with arguments; some of these taking the form of prayer. -The business was established and had old roots; is it not one thing to -set up a new gin-palace and another to accept an investment in an old -one? The profits made out of lost souls—where can the line be drawn at -which they begin in human transactions? Was it not even God’s way of -saving His chosen? “Thou knowest,”—the young Bulstrode had said then, -as the older Bulstrode was saying now—“Thou knowest how loose my soul -sits from these things—how I view them all as implements for tilling -Thy garden rescued here and there from the wilderness.” - -Metaphors and precedents were not wanting; peculiar spiritual -experiences were not wanting which at last made the retention of his -position seem a service demanded of him: the vista of a fortune had -already opened itself, and Bulstrode’s shrinking remained private. Mr. -Dunkirk had never expected that there would be any shrinking at all: he -had never conceived that trade had anything to do with the scheme of -salvation. And it was true that Bulstrode found himself carrying on two -distinct lives; his religious activity could not be incompatible with -his business as soon as he had argued himself into not feeling it -incompatible. - -Mentally surrounded with that past again, Bulstrode had the same -pleas—indeed, the years had been perpetually spinning them into -intricate thickness, like masses of spider-web, padding the moral -sensibility; nay, as age made egoism more eager but less enjoying, his -soul had become more saturated with the belief that he did everything -for God’s sake, being indifferent to it for his own. And yet—if he -could be back in that far-off spot with his youthful poverty—why, then -he would choose to be a missionary. - -But the train of causes in which he had locked himself went on. There -was trouble in the fine villa at Highbury. Years before, the only -daughter had run away, defied her parents, and gone on the stage; and -now the only boy died, and after a short time Mr. Dunkirk died also. -The wife, a simple pious woman, left with all the wealth in and out of -the magnificent trade, of which she never knew the precise nature, had -come to believe in Bulstrode, and innocently adore him as women often -adore their priest or “man-made” minister. It was natural that after a -time marriage should have been thought of between them. But Mrs. -Dunkirk had qualms and yearnings about her daughter, who had long been -regarded as lost both to God and her parents. It was known that the -daughter had married, but she was utterly gone out of sight. The -mother, having lost her boy, imagined a grandson, and wished in a -double sense to reclaim her daughter. If she were found, there would be -a channel for property—perhaps a wide one—in the provision for several -grandchildren. Efforts to find her must be made before Mrs. Dunkirk -would marry again. Bulstrode concurred; but after advertisement as well -as other modes of inquiry had been tried, the mother believed that her -daughter was not to be found, and consented to marry without -reservation of property. - -The daughter had been found; but only one man besides Bulstrode knew -it, and he was paid for keeping silence and carrying himself away. - -That was the bare fact which Bulstrode was now forced to see in the -rigid outline with which acts present themselves to onlookers. But for -himself at that distant time, and even now in burning memory, the fact -was broken into little sequences, each justified as it came by -reasonings which seemed to prove it righteous. Bulstrode’s course up to -that time had, he thought, been sanctioned by remarkable providences, -appearing to point the way for him to be the agent in making the best -use of a large property and withdrawing it from perversion. Death and -other striking dispositions, such as feminine trustfulness, had come; -and Bulstrode would have adopted Cromwell’s words—“Do you call these -bare events? The Lord pity you!” The events were comparatively small, -but the essential condition was there—namely, that they were in favor -of his own ends. It was easy for him to settle what was due from him to -others by inquiring what were God’s intentions with regard to himself. -Could it be for God’s service that this fortune should in any -considerable proportion go to a young woman and her husband who were -given up to the lightest pursuits, and might scatter it abroad in -triviality—people who seemed to lie outside the path of remarkable -providences? Bulstrode had never said to himself beforehand, “The -daughter shall not be found”—nevertheless when the moment came he kept -her existence hidden; and when other moments followed, he soothed the -mother with consolation in the probability that the unhappy young woman -might be no more. - -There were hours in which Bulstrode felt that his action was -unrighteous; but how could he go back? He had mental exercises, called -himself nought, laid hold on redemption, and went on in his course of -instrumentality. And after five years Death again came to widen his -path, by taking away his wife. He did gradually withdraw his capital, -but he did not make the sacrifices requisite to put an end to the -business, which was carried on for thirteen years afterwards before it -finally collapsed. Meanwhile Nicholas Bulstrode had used his hundred -thousand discreetly, and was become provincially, solidly important—a -banker, a Churchman, a public benefactor; also a sleeping partner in -trading concerns, in which his ability was directed to economy in the -raw material, as in the case of the dyes which rotted Mr. Vincy’s silk. -And now, when this respectability had lasted undisturbed for nearly -thirty years—when all that preceded it had long lain benumbed in the -consciousness—that past had risen and immersed his thought as if with -the terrible irruption of a new sense overburthening the feeble being. - -Meanwhile, in his conversation with Raffles, he had learned something -momentous, something which entered actively into the struggle of his -longings and terrors. There, he thought, lay an opening towards -spiritual, perhaps towards material rescue. - -The spiritual kind of rescue was a genuine need with him. There may be -coarse hypocrites, who consciously affect beliefs and emotions for the -sake of gulling the world, but Bulstrode was not one of them. He was -simply a man whose desires had been stronger than his theoretic -beliefs, and who had gradually explained the gratification of his -desires into satisfactory agreement with those beliefs. If this be -hypocrisy, it is a process which shows itself occasionally in us all, -to whatever confession we belong, and whether we believe in the future -perfection of our race or in the nearest date fixed for the end of the -world; whether we regard the earth as a putrefying nidus for a saved -remnant, including ourselves, or have a passionate belief in the -solidarity of mankind. - -The service he could do to the cause of religion had been through life -the ground he alleged to himself for his choice of action: it had been -the motive which he had poured out in his prayers. Who would use money -and position better than he meant to use them? Who could surpass him in -self-abhorrence and exaltation of God’s cause? And to Mr. Bulstrode -God’s cause was something distinct from his own rectitude of conduct: -it enforced a discrimination of God’s enemies, who were to be used -merely as instruments, and whom it would be as well if possible to keep -out of money and consequent influence. Also, profitable investments in -trades where the power of the prince of this world showed its most -active devices, became sanctified by a right application of the profits -in the hands of God’s servant. - -This implicit reasoning is essentially no more peculiar to evangelical -belief than the use of wide phrases for narrow motives is peculiar to -Englishmen. There is no general doctrine which is not capable of eating -out our morality if unchecked by the deep-seated habit of direct -fellow-feeling with individual fellow-men. - -But a man who believes in something else than his own greed, has -necessarily a conscience or standard to which he more or less adapts -himself. Bulstrode’s standard had been his serviceableness to God’s -cause: “I am sinful and nought—a vessel to be consecrated by use—but -use me!”—had been the mould into which he had constrained his immense -need of being something important and predominating. And now had come a -moment in which that mould seemed in danger of being broken and utterly -cast away. - -What if the acts he had reconciled himself to because they made him a -stronger instrument of the divine glory, were to become the pretext of -the scoffer, and a darkening of that glory? If this were to be the -ruling of Providence, he was cast out from the temple as one who had -brought unclean offerings. - -He had long poured out utterances of repentance. But today a repentance -had come which was of a bitterer flavor, and a threatening Providence -urged him to a kind of propitiation which was not simply a doctrinal -transaction. The divine tribunal had changed its aspect for him; -self-prostration was no longer enough, and he must bring restitution in -his hand. It was really before his God that Bulstrode was about to -attempt such restitution as seemed possible: a great dread had seized -his susceptible frame, and the scorching approach of shame wrought in -him a new spiritual need. Night and day, while the resurgent -threatening past was making a conscience within him, he was thinking by -what means he could recover peace and trust—by what sacrifice he could -stay the rod. His belief in these moments of dread was, that if he -spontaneously did something right, God would save him from the -consequences of wrong-doing. For religion can only change when the -emotions which fill it are changed; and the religion of personal fear -remains nearly at the level of the savage. - -He had seen Raffles actually going away on the Brassing coach, and this -was a temporary relief; it removed the pressure of an immediate dread, -but did not put an end to the spiritual conflict and the need to win -protection. At last he came to a difficult resolve, and wrote a letter -to Will Ladislaw, begging him to be at the Shrubs that evening for a -private interview at nine o’clock. Will had felt no particular surprise -at the request, and connected it with some new notions about the -“Pioneer;” but when he was shown into Mr. Bulstrode’s private room, he -was struck with the painfully worn look on the banker’s face, and was -going to say, “Are you ill?” when, checking himself in that abruptness, -he only inquired after Mrs. Bulstrode, and her satisfaction with the -picture bought for her. - -“Thank you, she is quite satisfied; she has gone out with her daughters -this evening. I begged you to come, Mr. Ladislaw, because I have a -communication of a very private—indeed, I will say, of a sacredly -confidential nature, which I desire to make to you. Nothing, I dare -say, has been farther from your thoughts than that there had been -important ties in the past which could connect your history with mine.” - -Will felt something like an electric shock. He was already in a state -of keen sensitiveness and hardly allayed agitation on the subject of -ties in the past, and his presentiments were not agreeable. It seemed -like the fluctuations of a dream—as if the action begun by that loud -bloated stranger were being carried on by this pale-eyed sickly looking -piece of respectability, whose subdued tone and glib formality of -speech were at this moment almost as repulsive to him as their -remembered contrast. He answered, with a marked change of color— - -“No, indeed, nothing.” - -“You see before you, Mr. Ladislaw, a man who is deeply stricken. But -for the urgency of conscience and the knowledge that I am before the -bar of One who seeth not as man seeth, I should be under no compulsion -to make the disclosure which has been my object in asking you to come -here to-night. So far as human laws go, you have no claim on me -whatever.” - -Will was even more uncomfortable than wondering. Mr. Bulstrode had -paused, leaning his head on his hand, and looking at the floor. But he -now fixed his examining glance on Will and said— - -“I am told that your mother’s name was Sarah Dunkirk, and that she ran -away from her friends to go on the stage. Also, that your father was at -one time much emaciated by illness. May I ask if you can confirm these -statements?” - -“Yes, they are all true,” said Will, struck with the order in which an -inquiry had come, that might have been expected to be preliminary to -the banker’s previous hints. But Mr. Bulstrode had to-night followed -the order of his emotions; he entertained no doubt that the opportunity -for restitution had come, and he had an overpowering impulse towards -the penitential expression by which he was deprecating chastisement. - -“Do you know any particulars of your mother’s family?” he continued. - -“No; she never liked to speak of them. She was a very generous, -honorable woman,” said Will, almost angrily. - -“I do not wish to allege anything against her. Did she never mention -her mother to you at all?” - -“I have heard her say that she thought her mother did not know the -reason of her running away. She said ‘poor mother’ in a pitying tone.” - -“That mother became my wife,” said Bulstrode, and then paused a moment -before he added, “you have a claim on me, Mr. Ladislaw: as I said -before, not a legal claim, but one which my conscience recognizes. I -was enriched by that marriage—a result which would probably not have -taken place—certainly not to the same extent—if your grandmother could -have discovered her daughter. That daughter, I gather, is no longer -living!” - -“No,” said Will, feeling suspicion and repugnance rising so strongly -within him, that without quite knowing what he did, he took his hat -from the floor and stood up. The impulse within him was to reject the -disclosed connection. - -“Pray be seated, Mr. Ladislaw,” said Bulstrode, anxiously. “Doubtless -you are startled by the suddenness of this discovery. But I entreat -your patience with one who is already bowed down by inward trial.” - -Will reseated himself, feeling some pity which was half contempt for -this voluntary self-abasement of an elderly man. - -“It is my wish, Mr. Ladislaw, to make amends for the deprivation which -befell your mother. I know that you are without fortune, and I wish to -supply you adequately from a store which would have probably already -been yours had your grandmother been certain of your mother’s existence -and been able to find her.” - -Mr. Bulstrode paused. He felt that he was performing a striking piece -of scrupulosity in the judgment of his auditor, and a penitential act -in the eyes of God. He had no clew to the state of Will Ladislaw’s -mind, smarting as it was from the clear hints of Raffles, and with its -natural quickness in construction stimulated by the expectation of -discoveries which he would have been glad to conjure back into -darkness. Will made no answer for several moments, till Mr. Bulstrode, -who at the end of his speech had cast his eyes on the floor, now raised -them with an examining glance, which Will met fully, saying— - -“I suppose you did know of my mother’s existence, and knew where she -might have been found.” - -Bulstrode shrank—there was a visible quivering in his face and hands. -He was totally unprepared to have his advances met in this way, or to -find himself urged into more revelation than he had beforehand set down -as needful. But at that moment he dared not tell a lie, and he felt -suddenly uncertain of his ground which he had trodden with some -confidence before. - -“I will not deny that you conjecture rightly,” he answered, with a -faltering in his tone. “And I wish to make atonement to you as the one -still remaining who has suffered a loss through me. You enter, I trust, -into my purpose, Mr. Ladislaw, which has a reference to higher than -merely human claims, and as I have already said, is entirely -independent of any legal compulsion. I am ready to narrow my own -resources and the prospects of my family by binding myself to allow you -five hundred pounds yearly during my life, and to leave you a -proportional capital at my death—nay, to do still more, if more should -be definitely necessary to any laudable project on your part.” Mr. -Bulstrode had gone on to particulars in the expectation that these -would work strongly on Ladislaw, and merge other feelings in grateful -acceptance. - -But Will was looking as stubborn as possible, with his lip pouting and -his fingers in his side-pockets. He was not in the least touched, and -said firmly,— - -“Before I make any reply to your proposition, Mr. Bulstrode, I must beg -you to answer a question or two. Were you connected with the business -by which that fortune you speak of was originally made?” - -Mr. Bulstrode’s thought was, “Raffles has told him.” How could he -refuse to answer when he had volunteered what drew forth the question? -He answered, “Yes.” - -“And was that business—or was it not—a thoroughly dishonorable one—nay, -one that, if its nature had been made public, might have ranked those -concerned in it with thieves and convicts?” - -Will’s tone had a cutting bitterness: he was moved to put his question -as nakedly as he could. - -Bulstrode reddened with irrepressible anger. He had been prepared for a -scene of self-abasement, but his intense pride and his habit of -supremacy overpowered penitence, and even dread, when this young man, -whom he had meant to benefit, turned on him with the air of a judge. - -“The business was established before I became connected with it, sir; -nor is it for you to institute an inquiry of that kind,” he answered, -not raising his voice, but speaking with quick defiantness. - -“Yes, it is,” said Will, starting up again with his hat in his hand. -“It is eminently mine to ask such questions, when I have to decide -whether I will have transactions with you and accept your money. My -unblemished honor is important to me. It is important to me to have no -stain on my birth and connections. And now I find there is a stain -which I can’t help. My mother felt it, and tried to keep as clear of it -as she could, and so will I. You shall keep your ill-gotten money. If I -had any fortune of my own, I would willingly pay it to any one who -could disprove what you have told me. What I have to thank you for is -that you kept the money till now, when I can refuse it. It ought to lie -with a man’s self that he is a gentleman. Good-night, sir.” - -Bulstrode was going to speak, but Will, with determined quickness, was -out of the room in an instant, and in another the hall-door had closed -behind him. He was too strongly possessed with passionate rebellion -against this inherited blot which had been thrust on his knowledge to -reflect at present whether he had not been too hard on Bulstrode—too -arrogantly merciless towards a man of sixty, who was making efforts at -retrieval when time had rendered them vain. - -No third person listening could have thoroughly understood the -impetuosity of Will’s repulse or the bitterness of his words. No one -but himself then knew how everything connected with the sentiment of -his own dignity had an immediate bearing for him on his relation to -Dorothea and to Mr. Casaubon’s treatment of him. And in the rush of -impulses by which he flung back that offer of Bulstrode’s there was -mingled the sense that it would have been impossible for him ever to -tell Dorothea that he had accepted it. - -As for Bulstrode—when Will was gone he suffered a violent reaction, and -wept like a woman. It was the first time he had encountered an open -expression of scorn from any man higher than Raffles; and with that -scorn hurrying like venom through his system, there was no sensibility -left to consolations. But the relief of weeping had to be checked. His -wife and daughters soon came home from hearing the address of an -Oriental missionary, and were full of regret that papa had not heard, -in the first instance, the interesting things which they tried to -repeat to him. - -Perhaps, through all other hidden thoughts, the one that breathed most -comfort was, that Will Ladislaw at least was not likely to publish what -had taken place that evening. - - - - -CHAPTER LXII. - -He was a squyer of lowe degre, -That loved the king’s daughter of Hungrie. -—_Old Romance_. - - -Will Ladislaw’s mind was now wholly bent on seeing Dorothea again, and -forthwith quitting Middlemarch. The morning after his agitating scene -with Bulstrode he wrote a brief letter to her, saying that various -causes had detained him in the neighborhood longer than he had -expected, and asking her permission to call again at Lowick at some -hour which she would mention on the earliest possible day, he being -anxious to depart, but unwilling to do so until she had granted him an -interview. He left the letter at the office, ordering the messenger to -carry it to Lowick Manor, and wait for an answer. - -Ladislaw felt the awkwardness of asking for more last words. His former -farewell had been made in the hearing of Sir James Chettam, and had -been announced as final even to the butler. It is certainly trying to a -man’s dignity to reappear when he is not expected to do so: a first -farewell has pathos in it, but to come back for a second lends an -opening to comedy, and it was possible even that there might be bitter -sneers afloat about Will’s motives for lingering. Still it was on the -whole more satisfactory to his feeling to take the directest means of -seeing Dorothea, than to use any device which might give an air of -chance to a meeting of which he wished her to understand that it was -what he earnestly sought. When he had parted from her before, he had -been in ignorance of facts which gave a new aspect to the relation -between them, and made a more absolute severance than he had then -believed in. He knew nothing of Dorothea’s private fortune, and being -little used to reflect on such matters, took it for granted that -according to Mr. Casaubon’s arrangement marriage to him, Will Ladislaw, -would mean that she consented to be penniless. That was not what he -could wish for even in his secret heart, or even if she had been ready -to meet such hard contrast for his sake. And then, too, there was the -fresh smart of that disclosure about his mother’s family, which if -known would be an added reason why Dorothea’s friends should look down -upon him as utterly below her. The secret hope that after some years he -might come back with the sense that he had at least a personal value -equal to her wealth, seemed now the dreamy continuation of a dream. -This change would surely justify him in asking Dorothea to receive him -once more. - -But Dorothea on that morning was not at home to receive Will’s note. In -consequence of a letter from her uncle announcing his intention to be -at home in a week, she had driven first to Freshitt to carry the news, -meaning to go on to the Grange to deliver some orders with which her -uncle had intrusted her—thinking, as he said, “a little mental -occupation of this sort good for a widow.” - -If Will Ladislaw could have overheard some of the talk at Freshitt that -morning, he would have felt all his suppositions confirmed as to the -readiness of certain people to sneer at his lingering in the -neighborhood. Sir James, indeed, though much relieved concerning -Dorothea, had been on the watch to learn Ladislaw’s movements, and had -an instructed informant in Mr. Standish, who was necessarily in his -confidence on this matter. That Ladislaw had stayed in Middlemarch -nearly two months after he had declared that he was going immediately, -was a fact to embitter Sir James’s suspicions, or at least to justify -his aversion to a “young fellow” whom he represented to himself as -slight, volatile, and likely enough to show such recklessness as -naturally went along with a position unriveted by family ties or a -strict profession. But he had just heard something from Standish which, -while it justified these surmises about Will, offered a means of -nullifying all danger with regard to Dorothea. - -Unwonted circumstances may make us all rather unlike ourselves: there -are conditions under which the most majestic person is obliged to -sneeze, and our emotions are liable to be acted on in the same -incongruous manner. Good Sir James was this morning so far unlike -himself that he was irritably anxious to say something to Dorothea on a -subject which he usually avoided as if it had been a matter of shame to -them both. He could not use Celia as a medium, because he did not -choose that she should know the kind of gossip he had in his mind; and -before Dorothea happened to arrive he had been trying to imagine how, -with his shyness and unready tongue, he could ever manage to introduce -his communication. Her unexpected presence brought him to utter -hopelessness in his own power of saying anything unpleasant; but -desperation suggested a resource; he sent the groom on an unsaddled -horse across the park with a pencilled note to Mrs. Cadwallader, who -already knew the gossip, and would think it no compromise of herself to -repeat it as often as required. - -Dorothea was detained on the good pretext that Mr. Garth, whom she -wanted to see, was expected at the hall within the hour, and she was -still talking to Caleb on the gravel when Sir James, on the watch for -the rector’s wife, saw her coming and met her with the needful hints. - -“Enough! I understand,”—said Mrs. Cadwallader. “You shall be innocent. -I am such a blackamoor that I cannot smirch myself.” - -“I don’t mean that it’s of any consequence,” said Sir James, disliking -that Mrs. Cadwallader should understand too much. “Only it is desirable -that Dorothea should know there are reasons why she should not receive -him again; and I really can’t say so to her. It will come lightly from -you.” - -It came very lightly indeed. When Dorothea quitted Caleb and turned to -meet them, it appeared that Mrs. Cadwallader had stepped across the -park by the merest chance in the world, just to chat with Celia in a -matronly way about the baby. And so Mr. Brooke was coming back? -Delightful!—coming back, it was to be hoped, quite cured of -Parliamentary fever and pioneering. Apropos of the “Pioneer”—somebody -had prophesied that it would soon be like a dying dolphin, and turn all -colors for want of knowing how to help itself, because Mr. Brooke’s -protege, the brilliant young Ladislaw, was gone or going. Had Sir James -heard that? - -The three were walking along the gravel slowly, and Sir James, turning -aside to whip a shrub, said he had heard something of that sort. - -“All false!” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “He is not gone, or going, -apparently; the ‘Pioneer’ keeps its color, and Mr. Orlando Ladislaw is -making a sad dark-blue scandal by warbling continually with your Mr. -Lydgate’s wife, who they tell me is as pretty as pretty can be. It -seems nobody ever goes into the house without finding this young -gentleman lying on the rug or warbling at the piano. But the people in -manufacturing towns are always disreputable.” - -“You began by saying that one report was false, Mrs. Cadwallader, and I -believe this is false too,” said Dorothea, with indignant energy; “at -least, I feel sure it is a misrepresentation. I will not hear any evil -spoken of Mr. Ladislaw; he has already suffered too much injustice.” - -Dorothea when thoroughly moved cared little what any one thought of her -feelings; and even if she had been able to reflect, she would have held -it petty to keep silence at injurious words about Will from fear of -being herself misunderstood. Her face was flushed and her lip trembled. - -Sir James, glancing at her, repented of his stratagem; but Mrs. -Cadwallader, equal to all occasions, spread the palms of her hands -outward and said—“Heaven grant it, my dear!—I mean that all bad tales -about anybody may be false. But it is a pity that young Lydgate should -have married one of these Middlemarch girls. Considering he’s a son of -somebody, he might have got a woman with good blood in her veins, and -not too young, who would have put up with his profession. There’s Clara -Harfager, for instance, whose friends don’t know what to do with her; -and she has a portion. Then we might have had her among us. -However!—it’s no use being wise for other people. Where is Celia? Pray -let us go in.” - -“I am going on immediately to Tipton,” said Dorothea, rather haughtily. -“Good-by.” - -Sir James could say nothing as he accompanied her to the carriage. He -was altogether discontented with the result of a contrivance which had -cost him some secret humiliation beforehand. - -Dorothea drove along between the berried hedgerows and the shorn -corn-fields, not seeing or hearing anything around. The tears came and -rolled down her cheeks, but she did not know it. The world, it seemed, -was turning ugly and hateful, and there was no place for her -trustfulness. “It is not true—it is not true!” was the voice within her -that she listened to; but all the while a remembrance to which there -had always clung a vague uneasiness would thrust itself on her -attention—the remembrance of that day when she had found Will Ladislaw -with Mrs. Lydgate, and had heard his voice accompanied by the piano. - -“He said he would never do anything that I disapproved—I wish I could -have told him that I disapproved of that,” said poor Dorothea, -inwardly, feeling a strange alternation between anger with Will and the -passionate defence of him. “They all try to blacken him before me; but -I will care for no pain, if he is not to blame. I always believed he -was good.”—These were her last thoughts before she felt that the -carriage was passing under the archway of the lodge-gate at the Grange, -when she hurriedly pressed her handkerchief to her face and began to -think of her errands. The coachman begged leave to take out the horses -for half an hour as there was something wrong with a shoe; and -Dorothea, having the sense that she was going to rest, took off her -gloves and bonnet, while she was leaning against a statue in the -entrance-hall, and talking to the housekeeper. At last she said— - -“I must stay here a little, Mrs. Kell. I will go into the library and -write you some memoranda from my uncle’s letter, if you will open the -shutters for me.” - -“The shutters are open, madam,” said Mrs. Kell, following Dorothea, who -had walked along as she spoke. “Mr. Ladislaw is there, looking for -something.” - -(Will had come to fetch a portfolio of his own sketches which he had -missed in the act of packing his movables, and did not choose to leave -behind.) - -Dorothea’s heart seemed to turn over as if it had had a blow, but she -was not perceptibly checked: in truth, the sense that Will was there -was for the moment all-satisfying to her, like the sight of something -precious that one has lost. When she reached the door she said to Mrs. -Kell— - -“Go in first, and tell him that I am here.” - -Will had found his portfolio, and had laid it on the table at the far -end of the room, to turn over the sketches and please himself by -looking at the memorable piece of art which had a relation to nature -too mysterious for Dorothea. He was smiling at it still, and shaking -the sketches into order with the thought that he might find a letter -from her awaiting him at Middlemarch, when Mrs. Kell close to his elbow -said— - -“Mrs. Casaubon is coming in, sir.” - -Will turned round quickly, and the next moment Dorothea was entering. -As Mrs. Kell closed the door behind her they met: each was looking at -the other, and consciousness was overflowed by something that -suppressed utterance. It was not confusion that kept them silent, for -they both felt that parting was near, and there is no shamefacedness in -a sad parting. - -She moved automatically towards her uncle’s chair against the -writing-table, and Will, after drawing it out a little for her, went a -few paces off and stood opposite to her. - -“Pray sit down,” said Dorothea, crossing her hands on her lap; “I am -very glad you were here.” Will thought that her face looked just as it -did when she first shook hands with him in Rome; for her widow’s cap, -fixed in her bonnet, had gone off with it, and he could see that she -had lately been shedding tears. But the mixture of anger in her -agitation had vanished at the sight of him; she had been used, when -they were face to face, always to feel confidence and the happy freedom -which comes with mutual understanding, and how could other people’s -words hinder that effect on a sudden? Let the music which can take -possession of our frame and fill the air with joy for us, sound once -more—what does it signify that we heard it found fault with in its -absence? - -“I have sent a letter to Lowick Manor to-day, asking leave to see you,” -said Will, seating himself opposite to her. “I am going away -immediately, and I could not go without speaking to you again.” - -“I thought we had parted when you came to Lowick many weeks ago—you -thought you were going then,” said Dorothea, her voice trembling a -little. - -“Yes; but I was in ignorance then of things which I know now—things -which have altered my feelings about the future. When I saw you before, -I was dreaming that I might come back some day. I don’t think I ever -shall—now.” Will paused here. - -“You wished me to know the reasons?” said Dorothea, timidly. - -“Yes,” said Will, impetuously, shaking his head backward, and looking -away from her with irritation in his face. “Of course I must wish it. I -have been grossly insulted in your eyes and in the eyes of others. -There has been a mean implication against my character. I wish you to -know that under no circumstances would I have lowered myself by—under -no circumstances would I have given men the chance of saying that I -sought money under the pretext of seeking—something else. There was no -need of other safeguard against me—the safeguard of wealth was enough.” - -Will rose from his chair with the last word and went—he hardly knew -where; but it was to the projecting window nearest him, which had been -open as now about the same season a year ago, when he and Dorothea had -stood within it and talked together. Her whole heart was going out at -this moment in sympathy with Will’s indignation: she only wanted to -convince him that she had never done him injustice, and he seemed to -have turned away from her as if she too had been part of the unfriendly -world. - -“It would be very unkind of you to suppose that I ever attributed any -meanness to you,” she began. Then in her ardent way, wanting to plead -with him, she moved from her chair and went in front of him to her old -place in the window, saying, “Do you suppose that I ever disbelieved in -you?” - -When Will saw her there, he gave a start and moved backward out of the -window, without meeting her glance. Dorothea was hurt by this movement -following up the previous anger of his tone. She was ready to say that -it was as hard on her as on him, and that she was helpless; but those -strange particulars of their relation which neither of them could -explicitly mention kept her always in dread of saying too much. At this -moment she had no belief that Will would in any case have wanted to -marry her, and she feared using words which might imply such a belief. -She only said earnestly, recurring to his last word— - -“I am sure no safeguard was ever needed against you.” - -Will did not answer. In the stormy fluctuation of his feelings these -words of hers seemed to him cruelly neutral, and he looked pale and -miserable after his angry outburst. He went to the table and fastened -up his portfolio, while Dorothea looked at him from the distance. They -were wasting these last moments together in wretched silence. What -could he say, since what had got obstinately uppermost in his mind was -the passionate love for her which he forbade himself to utter? What -could she say, since she might offer him no help—since she was forced -to keep the money that ought to have been his?—since to-day he seemed -not to respond as he used to do to her thorough trust and liking? - -But Will at last turned away from his portfolio and approached the -window again. - -“I must go,” he said, with that peculiar look of the eyes which -sometimes accompanies bitter feeling, as if they had been tired and -burned with gazing too close at a light. - -“What shall you do in life?” said Dorothea, timidly. “Have your -intentions remained just the same as when we said good-by before?” - -“Yes,” said Will, in a tone that seemed to waive the subject as -uninteresting. “I shall work away at the first thing that offers. I -suppose one gets a habit of doing without happiness or hope.” - -“Oh, what sad words!” said Dorothea, with a dangerous tendency to sob. -Then trying to smile, she added, “We used to agree that we were alike -in speaking too strongly.” - -“I have not spoken too strongly now,” said Will, leaning back against -the angle of the wall. “There are certain things which a man can only -go through once in his life; and he must know some time or other that -the best is over with him. This experience has happened to me while I -am very young—that is all. What I care more for than I can ever care -for anything else is absolutely forbidden to me—I don’t mean merely by -being out of my reach, but forbidden me, even if it were within my -reach, by my own pride and honor—by everything I respect myself for. Of -course I shall go on living as a man might do who had seen heaven in a -trance.” - -Will paused, imagining that it would be impossible for Dorothea to -misunderstand this; indeed he felt that he was contradicting himself -and offending against his self-approval in speaking to her so plainly; -but still—it could not be fairly called wooing a woman to tell her that -he would never woo her. It must be admitted to be a ghostly kind of -wooing. - -But Dorothea’s mind was rapidly going over the past with quite another -vision than his. The thought that she herself might be what Will most -cared for did throb through her an instant, but then came doubt: the -memory of the little they had lived through together turned pale and -shrank before the memory which suggested how much fuller might have -been the intercourse between Will and some one else with whom he had -had constant companionship. Everything he had said might refer to that -other relation, and whatever had passed between him and herself was -thoroughly explained by what she had always regarded as their simple -friendship and the cruel obstruction thrust upon it by her husband’s -injurious act. Dorothea stood silent, with her eyes cast down dreamily, -while images crowded upon her which left the sickening certainty that -Will was referring to Mrs. Lydgate. But why sickening? He wanted her to -know that here too his conduct should be above suspicion. - -Will was not surprised at her silence. His mind also was tumultuously -busy while he watched her, and he was feeling rather wildly that -something must happen to hinder their parting—some miracle, clearly -nothing in their own deliberate speech. Yet, after all, had she any -love for him?—he could not pretend to himself that he would rather -believe her to be without that pain. He could not deny that a secret -longing for the assurance that she loved him was at the root of all his -words. - -Neither of them knew how long they stood in that way. Dorothea was -raising her eyes, and was about to speak, when the door opened and her -footman came to say— - -“The horses are ready, madam, whenever you like to start.” - -“Presently,” said Dorothea. Then turning to Will, she said, “I have -some memoranda to write for the housekeeper.” - -“I must go,” said Will, when the door had closed again—advancing -towards her. “The day after to-morrow I shall leave Middlemarch.” - -“You have acted in every way rightly,” said Dorothea, in a low tone, -feeling a pressure at her heart which made it difficult to speak. - -She put out her hand, and Will took it for an instant without speaking, -for her words had seemed to him cruelly cold and unlike herself. Their -eyes met, but there was discontent in his, and in hers there was only -sadness. He turned away and took his portfolio under his arm. - -“I have never done you injustice. Please remember me,” said Dorothea, -repressing a rising sob. - -“Why should you say that?” said Will, with irritation. “As if I were -not in danger of forgetting everything else.” - -He had really a movement of anger against her at that moment, and it -impelled him to go away without pause. It was all one flash to -Dorothea—his last words—his distant bow to her as he reached the -door—the sense that he was no longer there. She sank into the chair, -and for a few moments sat like a statue, while images and emotions were -hurrying upon her. Joy came first, in spite of the threatening train -behind it—joy in the impression that it was really herself whom Will -loved and was renouncing, that there was really no other love less -permissible, more blameworthy, which honor was hurrying him away from. -They were parted all the same, but—Dorothea drew a deep breath and felt -her strength return—she could think of him unrestrainedly. At that -moment the parting was easy to bear: the first sense of loving and -being loved excluded sorrow. It was as if some hard icy pressure had -melted, and her consciousness had room to expand: her past was come -back to her with larger interpretation. The joy was not the -less—perhaps it was the more complete just then—because of the -irrevocable parting; for there was no reproach, no contemptuous wonder -to imagine in any eye or from any lips. He had acted so as to defy -reproach, and make wonder respectful. - -Any one watching her might have seen that there was a fortifying -thought within her. Just as when inventive power is working with glad -ease some small claim on the attention is fully met as if it were only -a cranny opened to the sunlight, it was easy now for Dorothea to write -her memoranda. She spoke her last words to the housekeeper in cheerful -tones, and when she seated herself in the carriage her eyes were bright -and her cheeks blooming under the dismal bonnet. She threw back the -heavy “weepers,” and looked before her, wondering which road Will had -taken. It was in her nature to be proud that he was blameless, and -through all her feelings there ran this vein—“I was right to defend -him.” - -The coachman was used to drive his grays at a good pace, Mr. Casaubon -being unenjoying and impatient in everything away from his desk, and -wanting to get to the end of all journeys; and Dorothea was now bowled -along quickly. Driving was pleasant, for rain in the night had laid the -dust, and the blue sky looked far off, away from the region of the -great clouds that sailed in masses. The earth looked like a happy place -under the vast heavens, and Dorothea was wishing that she might -overtake Will and see him once more. - -After a turn of the road, there he was with the portfolio under his -arm; but the next moment she was passing him while he raised his hat, -and she felt a pang at being seated there in a sort of exaltation, -leaving him behind. She could not look back at him. It was as if a -crowd of indifferent objects had thrust them asunder, and forced them -along different paths, taking them farther and farther away from each -other, and making it useless to look back. She could no more make any -sign that would seem to say, “Need we part?” than she could stop the -carriage to wait for him. Nay, what a world of reasons crowded upon her -against any movement of her thought towards a future that might reverse -the decision of this day! - -“I only wish I had known before—I wish he knew—then we could be quite -happy in thinking of each other, though we are forever parted. And if I -could but have given him the money, and made things easier for -him!”—were the longings that came back the most persistently. And yet, -so heavily did the world weigh on her in spite of her independent -energy, that with this idea of Will as in need of such help and at a -disadvantage with the world, there came always the vision of that -unfittingness of any closer relation between them which lay in the -opinion of every one connected with her. She felt to the full all the -imperativeness of the motives which urged Will’s conduct. How could he -dream of her defying the barrier that her husband had placed between -them?—how could she ever say to herself that she would defy it? - -Will’s certainty as the carriage grew smaller in the distance, had much -more bitterness in it. Very slight matters were enough to gall him in -his sensitive mood, and the sight of Dorothea driving past him while he -felt himself plodding along as a poor devil seeking a position in a -world which in his present temper offered him little that he coveted, -made his conduct seem a mere matter of necessity, and took away the -sustainment of resolve. After all, he had no assurance that she loved -him: could any man pretend that he was simply glad in such a case to -have the suffering all on his own side? - -That evening Will spent with the Lydgates; the next evening he was -gone. - - - - -BOOK VII. -TWO TEMPTATIONS. - - - - -CHAPTER LXIII. - -These little things are great to little man.—GOLDSMITH. - - -“Have you seen much of your scientific phoenix, Lydgate, lately?” said -Mr. Toller at one of his Christmas dinner-parties, speaking to Mr. -Farebrother on his right hand. - -“Not much, I am sorry to say,” answered the Vicar, accustomed to parry -Mr. Toller’s banter about his belief in the new medical light. “I am -out of the way and he is too busy.” - -“Is he? I am glad to hear it,” said Dr. Minchin, with mingled suavity -and surprise. - -“He gives a great deal of time to the New Hospital,” said Mr. -Farebrother, who had his reasons for continuing the subject: “I hear of -that from my neighbor, Mrs. Casaubon, who goes there often. She says -Lydgate is indefatigable, and is making a fine thing of Bulstrode’s -institution. He is preparing a new ward in case of the cholera coming -to us.” - -“And preparing theories of treatment to try on the patients, I -suppose,” said Mr. Toller. - -“Come, Toller, be candid,” said Mr. Farebrother. “You are too clever -not to see the good of a bold fresh mind in medicine, as well as in -everything else; and as to cholera, I fancy, none of you are very sure -what you ought to do. If a man goes a little too far along a new road, -it is usually himself that he harms more than any one else.” - -“I am sure you and Wrench ought to be obliged to him,” said Dr. -Minchin, looking towards Toller, “for he has sent you the cream of -Peacock’s patients.” - -“Lydgate has been living at a great rate for a young beginner,” said -Mr. Harry Toller, the brewer. “I suppose his relations in the North -back him up.” - -“I hope so,” said Mr. Chichely, “else he ought not to have married that -nice girl we were all so fond of. Hang it, one has a grudge against a -man who carries off the prettiest girl in the town.” - -“Ay, by God! and the best too,” said Mr. Standish. - -“My friend Vincy didn’t half like the marriage, I know that,” said Mr. -Chichely. “_He_ wouldn’t do much. How the relations on the other side -may have come down I can’t say.” There was an emphatic kind of -reticence in Mr. Chichely’s manner of speaking. - -“Oh, I shouldn’t think Lydgate ever looked to practice for a living,” -said Mr. Toller, with a slight touch of sarcasm, and there the subject -was dropped. - -This was not the first time that Mr. Farebrother had heard hints of -Lydgate’s expenses being obviously too great to be met by his practice, -but he thought it not unlikely that there were resources or -expectations which excused the large outlay at the time of Lydgate’s -marriage, and which might hinder any bad consequences from the -disappointment in his practice. One evening, when he took the pains to -go to Middlemarch on purpose to have a chat with Lydgate as of old, he -noticed in him an air of excited effort quite unlike his usual easy way -of keeping silence or breaking it with abrupt energy whenever he had -anything to say. Lydgate talked persistently when they were in his -work-room, putting arguments for and against the probability of certain -biological views; but he had none of those definite things to say or to -show which give the waymarks of a patient uninterrupted pursuit, such -as he used himself to insist on, saying that “there must be a systole -and diastole in all inquiry,” and that “a man’s mind must be -continually expanding and shrinking between the whole human horizon and -the horizon of an object-glass.” That evening he seemed to be talking -widely for the sake of resisting any personal bearing; and before long -they went into the drawing room, where Lydgate, having asked Rosamond -to give them music, sank back in his chair in silence, but with a -strange light in his eyes. “He may have been taking an opiate,” was a -thought that crossed Mr. Farebrother’s mind—“tic-douloureux perhaps—or -medical worries.” - -It did not occur to him that Lydgate’s marriage was not delightful: he -believed, as the rest did, that Rosamond was an amiable, docile -creature, though he had always thought her rather uninteresting—a -little too much the pattern-card of the finishing-school; and his -mother could not forgive Rosamond because she never seemed to see that -Henrietta Noble was in the room. “However, Lydgate fell in love with -her,” said the Vicar to himself, “and she must be to his taste.” - -Mr. Farebrother was aware that Lydgate was a proud man, but having very -little corresponding fibre in himself, and perhaps too little care -about personal dignity, except the dignity of not being mean or -foolish, he could hardly allow enough for the way in which Lydgate -shrank, as from a burn, from the utterance of any word about his -private affairs. And soon after that conversation at Mr. Toller’s, the -Vicar learned something which made him watch the more eagerly for an -opportunity of indirectly letting Lydgate know that if he wanted to -open himself about any difficulty there was a friendly ear ready. - -The opportunity came at Mr. Vincy’s, where, on New Year’s Day, there -was a party, to which Mr. Farebrother was irresistibly invited, on the -plea that he must not forsake his old friends on the first new year of -his being a greater man, and Rector as well as Vicar. And this party -was thoroughly friendly: all the ladies of the Farebrother family were -present; the Vincy children all dined at the table, and Fred had -persuaded his mother that if she did not invite Mary Garth, the -Farebrothers would regard it as a slight to themselves, Mary being -their particular friend. Mary came, and Fred was in high spirits, -though his enjoyment was of a checkered kind—triumph that his mother -should see Mary’s importance with the chief personages in the party -being much streaked with jealousy when Mr. Farebrother sat down by her. -Fred used to be much more easy about his own accomplishments in the -days when he had not begun to dread being “bowled out by Farebrother,” -and this terror was still before him. Mrs. Vincy, in her fullest -matronly bloom, looked at Mary’s little figure, rough wavy hair, and -visage quite without lilies and roses, and wondered; trying -unsuccessfully to fancy herself caring about Mary’s appearance in -wedding clothes, or feeling complacency in grandchildren who would -“feature” the Garths. However, the party was a merry one, and Mary was -particularly bright; being glad, for Fred’s sake, that his friends were -getting kinder to her, and being also quite willing that they should -see how much she was valued by others whom they must admit to be -judges. - -Mr. Farebrother noticed that Lydgate seemed bored, and that Mr. Vincy -spoke as little as possible to his son-in-law. Rosamond was perfectly -graceful and calm, and only a subtle observation such as the Vicar had -not been roused to bestow on her would have perceived the total absence -of that interest in her husband’s presence which a loving wife is sure -to betray, even if etiquette keeps her aloof from him. When Lydgate was -taking part in the conversation, she never looked towards him any more -than if she had been a sculptured Psyche modelled to look another way: -and when, after being called out for an hour or two, he re-entered the -room, she seemed unconscious of the fact, which eighteen months before -would have had the effect of a numeral before ciphers. In reality, -however, she was intensely aware of Lydgate’s voice and movements; and -her pretty good-tempered air of unconsciousness was a studied negation -by which she satisfied her inward opposition to him without compromise -of propriety. When the ladies were in the drawing-room after Lydgate -had been called away from the dessert, Mrs. Farebrother, when Rosamond -happened to be near her, said—“You have to give up a great deal of your -husband’s society, Mrs. Lydgate.” - -“Yes, the life of a medical man is very arduous: especially when he is -so devoted to his profession as Mr. Lydgate is,” said Rosamond, who was -standing, and moved easily away at the end of this correct little -speech. - -“It is dreadfully dull for her when there is no company,” said Mrs. -Vincy, who was seated at the old lady’s side. “I am sure I thought so -when Rosamond was ill, and I was staying with her. You know, Mrs. -Farebrother, ours is a cheerful house. I am of a cheerful disposition -myself, and Mr. Vincy always likes something to be going on. That is -what Rosamond has been used to. Very different from a husband out at -odd hours, and never knowing when he will come home, and of a close, -proud disposition, _I_ think”—indiscreet Mrs. Vincy did lower her tone -slightly with this parenthesis. “But Rosamond always had an angel of a -temper; her brothers used very often not to please her, but she was -never the girl to show temper; from a baby she was always as good as -good, and with a complexion beyond anything. But my children are all -good-tempered, thank God.” - -This was easily credible to any one looking at Mrs. Vincy as she threw -back her broad cap-strings, and smiled towards her three little girls, -aged from seven to eleven. But in that smiling glance she was obliged -to include Mary Garth, whom the three girls had got into a corner to -make her tell them stories. Mary was just finishing the delicious tale -of Rumpelstiltskin, which she had well by heart, because Letty was -never tired of communicating it to her ignorant elders from a favorite -red volume. Louisa, Mrs. Vincy’s darling, now ran to her with wide-eyed -serious excitement, crying, “Oh mamma, mamma, the little man stamped so -hard on the floor he couldn’t get his leg out again!” - -“Bless you, my cherub!” said mamma; “you shall tell me all about it -to-morrow. Go and listen!” and then, as her eyes followed Louisa back -towards the attractive corner, she thought that if Fred wished her to -invite Mary again she would make no objection, the children being so -pleased with her. - -But presently the corner became still more animated, for Mr. -Farebrother came in, and seating himself behind Louisa, took her on his -lap; whereupon the girls all insisted that he must hear -Rumpelstiltskin, and Mary must tell it over again. He insisted too, and -Mary, without fuss, began again in her neat fashion, with precisely the -same words as before. Fred, who had also seated himself near, would -have felt unmixed triumph in Mary’s effectiveness if Mr. Farebrother -had not been looking at her with evident admiration, while he -dramatized an intense interest in the tale to please the children. - -“You will never care any more about my one-eyed giant, Loo,” said Fred -at the end. - -“Yes, I shall. Tell about him now,” said Louisa. - -“Oh, I dare say; I am quite cut out. Ask Mr. Farebrother.” - -“Yes,” added Mary; “ask Mr. Farebrother to tell you about the ants -whose beautiful house was knocked down by a giant named Tom, and he -thought they didn’t mind because he couldn’t hear them cry, or see them -use their pocket-handkerchiefs.” - -“Please,” said Louisa, looking up at the Vicar. - -“No, no, I am a grave old parson. If I try to draw a story out of my -bag a sermon comes instead. Shall I preach you a sermon?” said he, -putting on his short-sighted glasses, and pursing up his lips. - -“Yes,” said Louisa, falteringly. - -“Let me see, then. Against cakes: how cakes are bad things, especially -if they are sweet and have plums in them.” - -Louisa took the affair rather seriously, and got down from the Vicar’s -knee to go to Fred. - -“Ah, I see it will not do to preach on New Year’s Day,” said Mr. -Farebrother, rising and walking away. He had discovered of late that -Fred had become jealous of him, and also that he himself was not losing -his preference for Mary above all other women. - -“A delightful young person is Miss Garth,” said Mrs. Farebrother, who -had been watching her son’s movements. - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Vincy, obliged to reply, as the old lady turned to her -expectantly. “It is a pity she is not better-looking.” - -“I cannot say that,” said Mrs. Farebrother, decisively. “I like her -countenance. We must not always ask for beauty, when a good God has -seen fit to make an excellent young woman without it. I put good -manners first, and Miss Garth will know how to conduct herself in any -station.” - -The old lady was a little sharp in her tone, having a prospective -reference to Mary’s becoming her daughter-in-law; for there was this -inconvenience in Mary’s position with regard to Fred, that it was not -suitable to be made public, and hence the three ladies at Lowick -Parsonage were still hoping that Camden would choose Miss Garth. - -New visitors entered, and the drawing-room was given up to music and -games, while whist-tables were prepared in the quiet room on the other -side of the hall. Mr. Farebrother played a rubber to satisfy his -mother, who regarded her occasional whist as a protest against scandal -and novelty of opinion, in which light even a revoke had its dignity. -But at the end he got Mr. Chichely to take his place, and left the -room. As he crossed the hall, Lydgate had just come in and was taking -off his great-coat. - -“You are the man I was going to look for,” said the Vicar; and instead -of entering the drawing-room, they walked along the hall and stood -against the fireplace, where the frosty air helped to make a glowing -bank. “You see, I can leave the whist-table easily enough,” he went on, -smiling at Lydgate, “now I don’t play for money. I owe that to you, -Mrs. Casaubon says.” - -“How?” said Lydgate, coldly. - -“Ah, you didn’t mean me to know it; I call that ungenerous reticence. -You should let a man have the pleasure of feeling that you have done -him a good turn. I don’t enter into some people’s dislike of being -under an obligation: upon my word, I prefer being under an obligation -to everybody for behaving well to me.” - -“I can’t tell what you mean,” said Lydgate, “unless it is that I once -spoke of you to Mrs. Casaubon. But I did not think that she would break -her promise not to mention that I had done so,” said Lydgate, leaning -his back against the corner of the mantel-piece, and showing no -radiance in his face. - -“It was Brooke who let it out, only the other day. He paid me the -compliment of saying that he was very glad I had the living though you -had come across his tactics, and had praised me up as a Ken and a -Tillotson, and that sort of thing, till Mrs. Casaubon would hear of no -one else.” - -“Oh, Brooke is such a leaky-minded fool,” said Lydgate, contemptuously. - -“Well, I was glad of the leakiness then. I don’t see why you shouldn’t -like me to know that you wished to do me a service, my dear fellow. And -you certainly have done me one. It’s rather a strong check to one’s -self-complacency to find how much of one’s right doing depends on not -being in want of money. A man will not be tempted to say the Lord’s -Prayer backward to please the devil, if he doesn’t want the devil’s -services. I have no need to hang on the smiles of chance now.” - -“I don’t see that there’s any money-getting without chance,” said -Lydgate; “if a man gets it in a profession, it’s pretty sure to come by -chance.” - -Mr. Farebrother thought he could account for this speech, in striking -contrast with Lydgate’s former way of talking, as the perversity which -will often spring from the moodiness of a man ill at ease in his -affairs. He answered in a tone of good-humored admission— - -“Ah, there’s enormous patience wanted with the way of the world. But it -is the easier for a man to wait patiently when he has friends who love -him, and ask for nothing better than to help him through, so far as it -lies in their power.” - -“Oh yes,” said Lydgate, in a careless tone, changing his attitude and -looking at his watch. “People make much more of their difficulties than -they need to do.” - -He knew as distinctly as possible that this was an offer of help to -himself from Mr. Farebrother, and he could not bear it. So strangely -determined are we mortals, that, after having been long gratified with -the sense that he had privately done the Vicar a service, the -suggestion that the Vicar discerned his need of a service in return -made him shrink into unconquerable reticence. Besides, behind all -making of such offers what else must come?—that he should “mention his -case,” imply that he wanted specific things. At that moment, suicide -seemed easier. - -Mr. Farebrother was too keen a man not to know the meaning of that -reply, and there was a certain massiveness in Lydgate’s manner and -tone, corresponding with his physique, which if he repelled your -advances in the first instance seemed to put persuasive devices out of -question. - -“What time are you?” said the Vicar, devouring his wounded feeling. - -“After eleven,” said Lydgate. And they went into the drawing-room. - - - - -CHAPTER LXIV. - -1_st Gent_. Where lies the power, there let the blame lie too. - -2_d Gent_. Nay, power is relative; you cannot fright - The coming pest with border fortresses, - Or catch your carp with subtle argument. - All force is twain in one: cause is not cause - Unless effect be there; and action’s self - Must needs contain a passive. So command - Exists but with obedience. - - -Even if Lydgate had been inclined to be quite open about his affairs, -he knew that it would have hardly been in Mr. Farebrother’s power to -give him the help he immediately wanted. With the year’s bills coming -in from his tradesmen, with Dover’s threatening hold on his furniture, -and with nothing to depend on but slow dribbling payments from patients -who must not be offended—for the handsome fees he had had from Freshitt -Hall and Lowick Manor had been easily absorbed—nothing less than a -thousand pounds would have freed him from actual embarrassment, and -left a residue which, according to the favorite phrase of hopefulness -in such circumstances, would have given him “time to look about him.” - -Naturally, the merry Christmas bringing the happy New Year, when -fellow-citizens expect to be paid for the trouble and goods they have -smilingly bestowed on their neighbors, had so tightened the pressure of -sordid cares on Lydgate’s mind that it was hardly possible for him to -think unbrokenly of any other subject, even the most habitual and -soliciting. He was not an ill-tempered man; his intellectual activity, -the ardent kindness of his heart, as well as his strong frame, would -always, under tolerably easy conditions, have kept him above the petty -uncontrolled susceptibilities which make bad temper. But he was now a -prey to that worst irritation which arises not simply from annoyances, -but from the second consciousness underlying those annoyances, of -wasted energy and a degrading preoccupation, which was the reverse of -all his former purposes. “_This_ is what I am thinking of; and _that_ -is what I might have been thinking of,” was the bitter incessant murmur -within him, making every difficulty a double goad to impatience. - -Some gentlemen have made an amazing figure in literature by general -discontent with the universe as a trap of dulness into which their -great souls have fallen by mistake; but the sense of a stupendous self -and an insignificant world may have its consolations. Lydgate’s -discontent was much harder to bear: it was the sense that there was a -grand existence in thought and effective action lying around him, while -his self was being narrowed into the miserable isolation of egoistic -fears, and vulgar anxieties for events that might allay such fears. His -troubles will perhaps appear miserably sordid, and beneath the -attention of lofty persons who can know nothing of debt except on a -magnificent scale. Doubtless they were sordid; and for the majority, -who are not lofty, there is no escape from sordidness but by being free -from money-craving, with all its base hopes and temptations, its -watching for death, its hinted requests, its horse-dealer’s desire to -make bad work pass for good, its seeking for function which ought to be -another’s, its compulsion often to long for Luck in the shape of a wide -calamity. - -It was because Lydgate writhed under the idea of getting his neck -beneath this vile yoke that he had fallen into a bitter moody state -which was continually widening Rosamond’s alienation from him. After -the first disclosure about the bill of sale, he had made many efforts -to draw her into sympathy with him about possible measures for -narrowing their expenses, and with the threatening approach of -Christmas his propositions grew more and more definite. “We two can do -with only one servant, and live on very little,” he said, “and I shall -manage with one horse.” For Lydgate, as we have seen, had begun to -reason, with a more distinct vision, about the expenses of living, and -any share of pride he had given to appearances of that sort was meagre -compared with the pride which made him revolt from exposure as a -debtor, or from asking men to help him with their money. - -“Of course you can dismiss the other two servants, if you like,” said -Rosamond; “but I should have thought it would be very injurious to your -position for us to live in a poor way. You must expect your practice to -be lowered.” - -“My dear Rosamond, it is not a question of choice. We have begun too -expensively. Peacock, you know, lived in a much smaller house than -this. It is my fault: I ought to have known better, and I deserve a -thrashing—if there were anybody who had a right to give it me—for -bringing you into the necessity of living in a poorer way than you have -been used to. But we married because we loved each other, I suppose. -And that may help us to pull along till things get better. Come, dear, -put down that work and come to me.” - -He was really in chill gloom about her at that moment, but he dreaded a -future without affection, and was determined to resist the oncoming of -division between them. Rosamond obeyed him, and he took her on his -knee, but in her secret soul she was utterly aloof from him. The poor -thing saw only that the world was not ordered to her liking, and -Lydgate was part of that world. But he held her waist with one hand and -laid the other gently on both of hers; for this rather abrupt man had -much tenderness in his manners towards women, seeming to have always -present in his imagination the weakness of their frames and the -delicate poise of their health both in body and mind. And he began -again to speak persuasively. - -“I find, now I look into things a little, Rosy, that it is wonderful -what an amount of money slips away in our housekeeping. I suppose the -servants are careless, and we have had a great many people coming. But -there must be many in our rank who manage with much less: they must do -with commoner things, I suppose, and look after the scraps. It seems, -money goes but a little way in these matters, for Wrench has everything -as plain as possible, and he has a very large practice.” - -“Oh, if you think of living as the Wrenches do!” said Rosamond, with a -little turn of her neck. “But I have heard you express your disgust at -that way of living.” - -“Yes, they have bad taste in everything—they make economy look ugly. We -needn’t do that. I only meant that they avoid expenses, although Wrench -has a capital practice.” - -“Why should not you have a good practice, Tertius? Mr. Peacock had. You -should be more careful not to offend people, and you should send out -medicines as the others do. I am sure you began well, and you got -several good houses. It cannot answer to be eccentric; you should think -what will be generally liked,” said Rosamond, in a decided little tone -of admonition. - -Lydgate’s anger rose: he was prepared to be indulgent towards feminine -weakness, but not towards feminine dictation. The shallowness of a -waternixie’s soul may have a charm until she becomes didactic. But he -controlled himself, and only said, with a touch of despotic firmness— - -“What I am to do in my practice, Rosy, it is for me to judge. That is -not the question between us. It is enough for you to know that our -income is likely to be a very narrow one—hardly four hundred, perhaps -less, for a long time to come, and we must try to re-arrange our lives -in accordance with that fact.” - -Rosamond was silent for a moment or two, looking before her, and then -said, “My uncle Bulstrode ought to allow you a salary for the time you -give to the Hospital: it is not right that you should work for -nothing.” - -“It was understood from the beginning that my services would be -gratuitous. That, again, need not enter into our discussion. I have -pointed out what is the only probability,” said Lydgate, impatiently. -Then checking himself, he went on more quietly— - -“I think I see one resource which would free us from a good deal of the -present difficulty. I hear that young Ned Plymdale is going to be -married to Miss Sophy Toller. They are rich, and it is not often that a -good house is vacant in Middlemarch. I feel sure that they would be -glad to take this house from us with most of our furniture, and they -would be willing to pay handsomely for the lease. I can employ Trumbull -to speak to Plymdale about it.” - -Rosamond left her husband’s knee and walked slowly to the other end of -the room; when she turned round and walked towards him it was evident -that the tears had come, and that she was biting her under-lip and -clasping her hands to keep herself from crying. Lydgate was -wretched—shaken with anger and yet feeling that it would be unmanly to -vent the anger just now. - -“I am very sorry, Rosamond; I know this is painful.” - -“I thought, at least, when I had borne to send the plate back and have -that man taking an inventory of the furniture—I should have thought -_that_ would suffice.” - -“I explained it to you at the time, dear. That was only a security and -behind that security there is a debt. And that debt must be paid within -the next few months, else we shall have our furniture sold. If young -Plymdale will take our house and most of our furniture, we shall be -able to pay that debt, and some others too, and we shall be quit of a -place too expensive for us. We might take a smaller house: Trumbull, I -know, has a very decent one to let at thirty pounds a-year, and this is -ninety.” Lydgate uttered this speech in the curt hammering way with -which we usually try to nail down a vague mind to imperative facts. -Tears rolled silently down Rosamond’s cheeks; she just pressed her -handkerchief against them, and stood looking at the large vase on the -mantel-piece. It was a moment of more intense bitterness than she had -ever felt before. At last she said, without hurry and with careful -emphasis— - -“I never could have believed that you would like to act in that way.” - -“Like it?” burst out Lydgate, rising from his chair, thrusting his -hands in his pockets and stalking away from the hearth; “it’s not a -question of liking. Of course, I don’t like it; it’s the only thing I -can do.” He wheeled round there, and turned towards her. - -“I should have thought there were many other means than that,” said -Rosamond. “Let us have a sale and leave Middlemarch altogether.” - -“To do what? What is the use of my leaving my work in Middlemarch to go -where I have none? We should be just as penniless elsewhere as we are -here,” said Lydgate still more angrily. - -“If we are to be in that position it will be entirely your own doing, -Tertius,” said Rosamond, turning round to speak with the fullest -conviction. “You will not behave as you ought to do to your own family. -You offended Captain Lydgate. Sir Godwin was very kind to me when we -were at Quallingham, and I am sure if you showed proper regard to him -and told him your affairs, he would do anything for you. But rather -than that, you like giving up our house and furniture to Mr. Ned -Plymdale.” - -There was something like fierceness in Lydgate’s eyes, as he answered -with new violence, “Well, then, if you will have it so, I do like it. I -admit that I like it better than making a fool of myself by going to -beg where it’s of no use. Understand then, that it is what I _like to -do._” - -There was a tone in the last sentence which was equivalent to the -clutch of his strong hand on Rosamond’s delicate arm. But for all that, -his will was not a whit stronger than hers. She immediately walked out -of the room in silence, but with an intense determination to hinder -what Lydgate liked to do. - -He went out of the house, but as his blood cooled he felt that the -chief result of the discussion was a deposit of dread within him at the -idea of opening with his wife in future subjects which might again urge -him to violent speech. It was as if a fracture in delicate crystal had -begun, and he was afraid of any movement that might make it fatal. His -marriage would be a mere piece of bitter irony if they could not go on -loving each other. He had long ago made up his mind to what he thought -was her negative character—her want of sensibility, which showed itself -in disregard both of his specific wishes and of his general aims. The -first great disappointment had been borne: the tender devotedness and -docile adoration of the ideal wife must be renounced, and life must be -taken up on a lower stage of expectation, as it is by men who have lost -their limbs. But the real wife had not only her claims, she had still a -hold on his heart, and it was his intense desire that the hold should -remain strong. In marriage, the certainty, “She will never love me -much,” is easier to bear than the fear, “I shall love her no more.” -Hence, after that outburst, his inward effort was entirely to excuse -her, and to blame the hard circumstances which were partly his fault. -He tried that evening, by petting her, to heal the wound he had made in -the morning, and it was not in Rosamond’s nature to be repellent or -sulky; indeed, she welcomed the signs that her husband loved her and -was under control. But this was something quite distinct from loving -_him_. Lydgate would not have chosen soon to recur to the plan of -parting with the house; he was resolved to carry it out, and say as -little more about it as possible. But Rosamond herself touched on it at -breakfast by saying, mildly— - -“Have you spoken to Trumbull yet?” - -“No,” said Lydgate, “but I shall call on him as I go by this morning. -No time must be lost.” He took Rosamond’s question as a sign that she -withdrew her inward opposition, and kissed her head caressingly when he -got up to go away. - -As soon as it was late enough to make a call, Rosamond went to Mrs. -Plymdale, Mr. Ned’s mother, and entered with pretty congratulations -into the subject of the coming marriage. Mrs. Plymdale’s maternal view -was, that Rosamond might possibly now have retrospective glimpses of -her own folly; and feeling the advantages to be at present all on the -side of her son, was too kind a woman not to behave graciously. - -“Yes, Ned is most happy, I must say. And Sophy Toller is all I could -desire in a daughter-in-law. Of course her father is able to do -something handsome for her—that is only what would be expected with a -brewery like his. And the connection is everything we should desire. -But that is not what I look at. She is such a very nice girl—no airs, -no pretensions, though on a level with the first. I don’t mean with the -titled aristocracy. I see very little good in people aiming out of -their own sphere. I mean that Sophy is equal to the best in the town, -and she is contented with that.” - -“I have always thought her very agreeable,” said Rosamond. - -“I look upon it as a reward for Ned, who never held his head too high, -that he should have got into the very best connection,” continued Mrs. -Plymdale, her native sharpness softened by a fervid sense that she was -taking a correct view. “And such particular people as the Tollers are, -they might have objected because some of our friends are not theirs. It -is well known that your aunt Bulstrode and I have been intimate from -our youth, and Mr. Plymdale has been always on Mr. Bulstrode’s side. -And I myself prefer serious opinions. But the Tollers have welcomed Ned -all the same.” - -“I am sure he is a very deserving, well-principled young man,” said -Rosamond, with a neat air of patronage in return for Mrs. Plymdale’s -wholesome corrections. - -“Oh, he has not the style of a captain in the army, or that sort of -carriage as if everybody was beneath him, or that showy kind of -talking, and singing, and intellectual talent. But I am thankful he has -not. It is a poor preparation both for here and Hereafter.” - -“Oh dear, yes; appearances have very little to do with happiness,” said -Rosamond. “I think there is every prospect of their being a happy -couple. What house will they take?” - -“Oh, as for that, they must put up with what they can get. They have -been looking at the house in St. Peter’s Place, next to Mr. Hackbutt’s; -it belongs to him, and he is putting it nicely in repair. I suppose -they are not likely to hear of a better. Indeed, I think Ned will -decide the matter to-day.” - -“I should think it is a nice house; I like St. Peter’s Place.” - -“Well, it is near the Church, and a genteel situation. But the windows -are narrow, and it is all ups and downs. You don’t happen to know of -any other that would be at liberty?” said Mrs. Plymdale, fixing her -round black eyes on Rosamond with the animation of a sudden thought in -them. - -“Oh no; I hear so little of those things.” - -Rosamond had not foreseen that question and answer in setting out to -pay her visit; she had simply meant to gather any information which -would help her to avert the parting with her own house under -circumstances thoroughly disagreeable to her. As to the untruth in her -reply, she no more reflected on it than she did on the untruth there -was in her saying that appearances had very little to do with -happiness. Her object, she was convinced, was thoroughly justifiable: -it was Lydgate whose intention was inexcusable; and there was a plan in -her mind which, when she had carried it out fully, would prove how very -false a step it would have been for him to have descended from his -position. - -She returned home by Mr. Borthrop Trumbull’s office, meaning to call -there. It was the first time in her life that Rosamond had thought of -doing anything in the form of business, but she felt equal to the -occasion. That she should be obliged to do what she intensely disliked, -was an idea which turned her quiet tenacity into active invention. Here -was a case in which it could not be enough simply to disobey and be -serenely, placidly obstinate: she must act according to her judgment, -and she said to herself that her judgment was right—“indeed, if it had -not been, she would not have wished to act on it.” - -Mr. Trumbull was in the back-room of his office, and received Rosamond -with his finest manners, not only because he had much sensibility to -her charms, but because the good-natured fibre in him was stirred by -his certainty that Lydgate was in difficulties, and that this -uncommonly pretty woman—this young lady with the highest personal -attractions—was likely to feel the pinch of trouble—to find herself -involved in circumstances beyond her control. He begged her to do him -the honor to take a seat, and stood before her trimming and comporting -himself with an eager solicitude, which was chiefly benevolent. -Rosamond’s first question was, whether her husband had called on Mr. -Trumbull that morning, to speak about disposing of their house. - -“Yes, ma’am, yes, he did; he did so,” said the good auctioneer, trying -to throw something soothing into his iteration. “I was about to fulfil -his order, if possible, this afternoon. He wished me not to -procrastinate.” - -“I called to tell you not to go any further, Mr. Trumbull; and I beg of -you not to mention what has been said on the subject. Will you oblige -me?” - -“Certainly I will, Mrs. Lydgate, certainly. Confidence is sacred with -me on business or any other topic. I am then to consider the commission -withdrawn?” said Mr. Trumbull, adjusting the long ends of his blue -cravat with both hands, and looking at Rosamond deferentially. - -“Yes, if you please. I find that Mr. Ned Plymdale has taken a house—the -one in St. Peter’s Place next to Mr. Hackbutt’s. Mr. Lydgate would be -annoyed that his orders should be fulfilled uselessly. And besides -that, there are other circumstances which render the proposal -unnecessary.” - -“Very good, Mrs. Lydgate, very good. I am at your commands, whenever -you require any service of me,” said Mr. Trumbull, who felt pleasure in -conjecturing that some new resources had been opened. “Rely on me, I -beg. The affair shall go no further.” - -That evening Lydgate was a little comforted by observing that Rosamond -was more lively than she had usually been of late, and even seemed -interested in doing what would please him without being asked. He -thought, “If she will be happy and I can rub through, what does it all -signify? It is only a narrow swamp that we have to pass in a long -journey. If I can get my mind clear again, I shall do.” - -He was so much cheered that he began to search for an account of -experiments which he had long ago meant to look up, and had neglected -out of that creeping self-despair which comes in the train of petty -anxieties. He felt again some of the old delightful absorption in a -far-reaching inquiry, while Rosamond played the quiet music which was -as helpful to his meditation as the plash of an oar on the evening -lake. It was rather late; he had pushed away all the books, and was -looking at the fire with his hands clasped behind his head in -forgetfulness of everything except the construction of a new -controlling experiment, when Rosamond, who had left the piano and was -leaning back in her chair watching him, said— - -“Mr. Ned Plymdale has taken a house already.” - -Lydgate, startled and jarred, looked up in silence for a moment, like a -man who has been disturbed in his sleep. Then flushing with an -unpleasant consciousness, he asked— - -“How do you know?” - -“I called at Mrs. Plymdale’s this morning, and she told me that he had -taken the house in St. Peter’s Place, next to Mr. Hackbutt’s.” - -Lydgate was silent. He drew his hands from behind his head and pressed -them against the hair which was hanging, as it was apt to do, in a mass -on his forehead, while he rested his elbows on his knees. He was -feeling bitter disappointment, as if he had opened a door out of a -suffocating place and had found it walled up; but he also felt sure -that Rosamond was pleased with the cause of his disappointment. He -preferred not looking at her and not speaking, until he had got over -the first spasm of vexation. After all, he said in his bitterness, what -can a woman care about so much as house and furniture? a husband -without them is an absurdity. When he looked up and pushed his hair -aside, his dark eyes had a miserable blank non-expectance of sympathy -in them, but he only said, coolly— - -“Perhaps some one else may turn up. I told Trumbull to be on the -look-out if he failed with Plymdale.” - -Rosamond made no remark. She trusted to the chance that nothing more -would pass between her husband and the auctioneer until some issue -should have justified her interference; at any rate, she had hindered -the event which she immediately dreaded. After a pause, she said— - -“How much money is it that those disagreeable people want?” - -“What disagreeable people?” - -“Those who took the list—and the others. I mean, how much money would -satisfy them so that you need not be troubled any more?” - -Lydgate surveyed her for a moment, as if he were looking for symptoms, -and then said, “Oh, if I could have got six hundred from Plymdale for -furniture and as premium, I might have managed. I could have paid off -Dover, and given enough on account to the others to make them wait -patiently, if we contracted our expenses.” - -“But I mean how much should you want if we stayed in this house?” - -“More than I am likely to get anywhere,” said Lydgate, with rather a -grating sarcasm in his tone. It angered him to perceive that Rosamond’s -mind was wandering over impracticable wishes instead of facing possible -efforts. - -“Why should you not mention the sum?” said Rosamond, with a mild -indication that she did not like his manners. - -“Well,” said Lydgate in a guessing tone, “it would take at least a -thousand to set me at ease. But,” he added, incisively, “I have to -consider what I shall do without it, not with it.” - -Rosamond said no more. - -But the next day she carried out her plan of writing to Sir Godwin -Lydgate. Since the Captain’s visit, she had received a letter from him, -and also one from Mrs. Mengan, his married sister, condoling with her -on the loss of her baby, and expressing vaguely the hope that they -should see her again at Quallingham. Lydgate had told her that this -politeness meant nothing; but she was secretly convinced that any -backwardness in Lydgate’s family towards him was due to his cold and -contemptuous behavior, and she had answered the letters in her most -charming manner, feeling some confidence that a specific invitation -would follow. But there had been total silence. The Captain evidently -was not a great penman, and Rosamond reflected that the sisters might -have been abroad. However, the season was come for thinking of friends -at home, and at any rate Sir Godwin, who had chucked her under the -chin, and pronounced her to be like the celebrated beauty, Mrs. Croly, -who had made a conquest of him in 1790, would be touched by any appeal -from her, and would find it pleasant for her sake to behave as he ought -to do towards his nephew. Rosamond was naively convinced of what an old -gentleman ought to do to prevent her from suffering annoyance. And she -wrote what she considered the most judicious letter possible—one which -would strike Sir Godwin as a proof of her excellent sense—pointing out -how desirable it was that Tertius should quit such a place as -Middlemarch for one more fitted to his talents, how the unpleasant -character of the inhabitants had hindered his professional success, and -how in consequence he was in money difficulties, from which it would -require a thousand pounds thoroughly to extricate him. She did not say -that Tertius was unaware of her intention to write; for she had the -idea that his supposed sanction of her letter would be in accordance -with what she did say of his great regard for his uncle Godwin as the -relative who had always been his best friend. Such was the force of -Poor Rosamond’s tactics now she applied them to affairs. - -This had happened before the party on New Year’s Day, and no answer had -yet come from Sir Godwin. But on the morning of that day Lydgate had to -learn that Rosamond had revoked his order to Borthrop Trumbull. Feeling -it necessary that she should be gradually accustomed to the idea of -their quitting the house in Lowick Gate, he overcame his reluctance to -speak to her again on the subject, and when they were breakfasting -said— - -“I shall try to see Trumbull this morning, and tell him to advertise -the house in the ‘Pioneer’ and the ‘Trumpet.’ If the thing were -advertised, some one might be inclined to take it who would not -otherwise have thought of a change. In these country places many people -go on in their old houses when their families are too large for them, -for want of knowing where they can find another. And Trumbull seems to -have got no bite at all.” - -Rosamond knew that the inevitable moment was come. “I ordered Trumbull -not to inquire further,” she said, with a careful calmness which was -evidently defensive. - -Lydgate stared at her in mute amazement. Only half an hour before he -had been fastening up her plaits for her, and talking the “little -language” of affection, which Rosamond, though not returning it, -accepted as if she had been a serene and lovely image, now and then -miraculously dimpling towards her votary. With such fibres still astir -in him, the shock he received could not at once be distinctly anger; it -was confused pain. He laid down the knife and fork with which he was -carving, and throwing himself back in his chair, said at last, with a -cool irony in his tone— - -“May I ask when and why you did so?” - -“When I knew that the Plymdales had taken a house, I called to tell him -not to mention ours to them; and at the same time I told him not to let -the affair go on any further. I knew that it would be very injurious to -you if it were known that you wished to part with your house and -furniture, and I had a very strong objection to it. I think that was -reason enough.” - -“It was of no consequence then that I had told you imperative reasons -of another kind; of no consequence that I had come to a different -conclusion, and given an order accordingly?” said Lydgate, bitingly, -the thunder and lightning gathering about his brow and eyes. - -The effect of any one’s anger on Rosamond had always been to make her -shrink in cold dislike, and to become all the more calmly correct, in -the conviction that she was not the person to misbehave whatever others -might do. She replied— - -“I think I had a perfect right to speak on a subject which concerns me -at least as much as you.” - -“Clearly—you had a right to speak, but only to me. You had no right to -contradict my orders secretly, and treat me as if I were a fool,” said -Lydgate, in the same tone as before. Then with some added scorn, “Is it -possible to make you understand what the consequences will be? Is it of -any use for me to tell you again why we must try to part with the -house?” - -“It is not necessary for you to tell me again,” said Rosamond, in a -voice that fell and trickled like cold water-drops. “I remembered what -you said. You spoke just as violently as you do now. But that does not -alter my opinion that you ought to try every other means rather than -take a step which is so painful to me. And as to advertising the house, -I think it would be perfectly degrading to you.” - -“And suppose I disregard your opinion as you disregard mine?” - -“You can do so, of course. But I think you ought to have told me before -we were married that you would place me in the worst position, rather -than give up your own will.” - -Lydgate did not speak, but tossed his head on one side, and twitched -the corners of his mouth in despair. Rosamond, seeing that he was not -looking at her, rose and set his cup of coffee before him; but he took -no notice of it, and went on with an inward drama and argument, -occasionally moving in his seat, resting one arm on the table, and -rubbing his hand against his hair. There was a conflux of emotions and -thoughts in him that would not let him either give thorough way to his -anger or persevere with simple rigidity of resolve. Rosamond took -advantage of his silence. - -“When we were married everyone felt that your position was very high. I -could not have imagined then that you would want to sell our furniture, -and take a house in Bride Street, where the rooms are like cages. If we -are to live in that way let us at least leave Middlemarch.” - -“These would be very strong considerations,” said Lydgate, half -ironically—still there was a withered paleness about his lips as he -looked at his coffee, and did not drink—“these would be very strong -considerations if I did not happen to be in debt.” - -“Many persons must have been in debt in the same way, but if they are -respectable, people trust them. I am sure I have heard papa say that -the Torbits were in debt, and they went on very well. It cannot be good -to act rashly,” said Rosamond, with serene wisdom. - -Lydgate sat paralyzed by opposing impulses: since no reasoning he could -apply to Rosamond seemed likely to conquer her assent, he wanted to -smash and grind some object on which he could at least produce an -impression, or else to tell her brutally that he was master, and she -must obey. But he not only dreaded the effect of such extremities on -their mutual life—he had a growing dread of Rosamond’s quiet elusive -obstinacy, which would not allow any assertion of power to be final; -and again, she had touched him in a spot of keenest feeling by implying -that she had been deluded with a false vision of happiness in marrying -him. As to saying that he was master, it was not the fact. The very -resolution to which he had wrought himself by dint of logic and -honorable pride was beginning to relax under her torpedo contact. He -swallowed half his cup of coffee, and then rose to go. - -“I may at least request that you will not go to Trumbull at -present—until it has been seen that there are no other means,” said -Rosamond. Although she was not subject to much fear, she felt it safer -not to betray that she had written to Sir Godwin. “Promise me that you -will not go to him for a few weeks, or without telling me.” - -Lydgate gave a short laugh. “I think it is I who should exact a promise -that you will do nothing without telling me,” he said, turning his eyes -sharply upon her, and then moving to the door. - -“You remember that we are going to dine at papa’s,” said Rosamond, -wishing that he should turn and make a more thorough concession to her. -But he only said “Oh yes,” impatiently, and went away. She held it to -be very odious in him that he did not think the painful propositions he -had had to make to her were enough, without showing so unpleasant a -temper. And when she put the moderate request that he would defer going -to Trumbull again, it was cruel in him not to assure her of what he -meant to do. She was convinced of her having acted in every way for the -best; and each grating or angry speech of Lydgate’s served only as an -addition to the register of offences in her mind. Poor Rosamond for -months had begun to associate her husband with feelings of -disappointment, and the terribly inflexible relation of marriage had -lost its charm of encouraging delightful dreams. It had freed her from -the disagreeables of her father’s house, but it had not given her -everything that she had wished and hoped. The Lydgate with whom she had -been in love had been a group of airy conditions for her, most of which -had disappeared, while their place had been taken by every-day details -which must be lived through slowly from hour to hour, not floated -through with a rapid selection of favorable aspects. The habits of -Lydgate’s profession, his home preoccupation with scientific subjects, -which seemed to her almost like a morbid vampire’s taste, his peculiar -views of things which had never entered into the dialogue of -courtship—all these continually alienating influences, even without the -fact of his having placed himself at a disadvantage in the town, and -without that first shock of revelation about Dover’s debt, would have -made his presence dull to her. There was another presence which ever -since the early days of her marriage, until four months ago, had been -an agreeable excitement, but that was gone: Rosamond would not confess -to herself how much the consequent blank had to do with her utter -ennui; and it seemed to her (perhaps she was right) that an invitation -to Quallingham, and an opening for Lydgate to settle elsewhere than in -Middlemarch—in London, or somewhere likely to be free from -unpleasantness—would satisfy her quite well, and make her indifferent -to the absence of Will Ladislaw, towards whom she felt some resentment -for his exaltation of Mrs. Casaubon. - -That was the state of things with Lydgate and Rosamond on the New -Year’s Day when they dined at her father’s, she looking mildly neutral -towards him in remembrance of his ill-tempered behavior at breakfast, -and he carrying a much deeper effect from the inward conflict in which -that morning scene was only one of many epochs. His flushed effort -while talking to Mr. Farebrother—his effort after the cynical pretence -that all ways of getting money are essentially the same, and that -chance has an empire which reduces choice to a fool’s illusion—was but -the symptom of a wavering resolve, a benumbed response to the old -stimuli of enthusiasm. - -What was he to do? He saw even more keenly than Rosamond did the -dreariness of taking her into the small house in Bride Street, where -she would have scanty furniture around her and discontent within: a -life of privation and life with Rosamond were two images which had -become more and more irreconcilable ever since the threat of privation -had disclosed itself. But even if his resolves had forced the two -images into combination, the useful preliminaries to that hard change -were not visibly within reach. And though he had not given the promise -which his wife had asked for, he did not go again to Trumbull. He even -began to think of taking a rapid journey to the North and seeing Sir -Godwin. He had once believed that nothing would urge him into making an -application for money to his uncle, but he had not then known the full -pressure of alternatives yet more disagreeable. He could not depend on -the effect of a letter; it was only in an interview, however -disagreeable this might be to himself, that he could give a thorough -explanation and could test the effectiveness of kinship. No sooner had -Lydgate begun to represent this step to himself as the easiest than -there was a reaction of anger that he—he who had long ago determined to -live aloof from such abject calculations, such self-interested anxiety -about the inclinations and the pockets of men with whom he had been -proud to have no aims in common—should have fallen not simply to their -level, but to the level of soliciting them. - - - - -CHAPTER LXV. - -One of us two must bowen douteless, -And, sith a man is more reasonable -Than woman is, ye [men] moste be suffrable. -—CHAUCER: _Canterbury Tales_. - - -The bias of human nature to be slow in correspondence triumphs even -over the present quickening in the general pace of things: what wonder -then that in 1832 old Sir Godwin Lydgate was slow to write a letter -which was of consequence to others rather than to himself? Nearly three -weeks of the new year were gone, and Rosamond, awaiting an answer to -her winning appeal, was every day disappointed. Lydgate, in total -ignorance of her expectations, was seeing the bills come in, and -feeling that Dover’s use of his advantage over other creditors was -imminent. He had never mentioned to Rosamond his brooding purpose of -going to Quallingham: he did not want to admit what would appear to her -a concession to her wishes after indignant refusal, until the last -moment; but he was really expecting to set off soon. A slice of the -railway would enable him to manage the whole journey and back in four -days. - -But one morning after Lydgate had gone out, a letter came addressed to -him, which Rosamond saw clearly to be from Sir Godwin. She was full of -hope. Perhaps there might be a particular note to her enclosed; but -Lydgate was naturally addressed on the question of money or other aid, -and the fact that he was written to, nay, the very delay in writing at -all, seemed to certify that the answer was thoroughly compliant. She -was too much excited by these thoughts to do anything but light -stitching in a warm corner of the dining-room, with the outside of this -momentous letter lying on the table before her. About twelve she heard -her husband’s step in the passage, and tripping to open the door, she -said in her lightest tones, “Tertius, come in here—here is a letter for -you.” - -“Ah?” he said, not taking off his hat, but just turning her round -within his arm to walk towards the spot where the letter lay. “My uncle -Godwin!” he exclaimed, while Rosamond reseated herself, and watched him -as he opened the letter. She had expected him to be surprised. - -While Lydgate’s eyes glanced rapidly over the brief letter, she saw his -face, usually of a pale brown, taking on a dry whiteness; with nostrils -and lips quivering he tossed down the letter before her, and said -violently— - -“It will be impossible to endure life with you, if you will always be -acting secretly—acting in opposition to me and hiding your actions.” - -He checked his speech and turned his back on her—then wheeled round and -walked about, sat down, and got up again restlessly, grasping hard the -objects deep down in his pockets. He was afraid of saying something -irremediably cruel. - -Rosamond too had changed color as she read. The letter ran in this -way:— - -“DEAR TERTIUS,—Don’t set your wife to write to me when you have -anything to ask. It is a roundabout wheedling sort of thing which I -should not have credited you with. I never choose to write to a woman -on matters of business. As to my supplying you with a thousand pounds, -or only half that sum, I can do nothing of the sort. My own family -drains me to the last penny. With two younger sons and three daughters, -I am not likely to have cash to spare. You seem to have got through -your own money pretty quickly, and to have made a mess where you are; -the sooner you go somewhere else the better. But I have nothing to do -with men of your profession, and can’t help you there. I did the best I -could for you as guardian, and let you have your own way in taking to -medicine. You might have gone into the army or the Church. Your money -would have held out for that, and there would have been a surer ladder -before you. Your uncle Charles has had a grudge against you for not -going into his profession, but not I. I have always wished you well, -but you must consider yourself on your own legs entirely now. - - -Your affectionate uncle, -GODWIN LYDGATE.” - - -When Rosamond had finished reading the letter she sat quite still, with -her hands folded before her, restraining any show of her keen -disappointment, and intrenching herself in quiet passivity under her -husband’s wrath. Lydgate paused in his movements, looked at her again, -and said, with biting severity— - -“Will this be enough to convince you of the harm you may do by secret -meddling? Have you sense enough to recognize now your incompetence to -judge and act for me—to interfere with your ignorance in affairs which -it belongs to me to decide on?” - -The words were hard; but this was not the first time that Lydgate had -been frustrated by her. She did not look at him, and made no reply. - -“I had nearly resolved on going to Quallingham. It would have cost me -pain enough to do it, yet it might have been of some use. But it has -been of no use for me to think of anything. You have always been -counteracting me secretly. You delude me with a false assent, and then -I am at the mercy of your devices. If you mean to resist every wish I -express, say so and defy me. I shall at least know what I am doing -then.” - -It is a terrible moment in young lives when the closeness of love’s -bond has turned to this power of galling. In spite of Rosamond’s -self-control a tear fell silently and rolled over her lips. She still -said nothing; but under that quietude was hidden an intense effect: she -was in such entire disgust with her husband that she wished she had -never seen him. Sir Godwin’s rudeness towards her and utter want of -feeling ranged him with Dover and all other creditors—disagreeable -people who only thought of themselves, and did not mind how annoying -they were to her. Even her father was unkind, and might have done more -for them. In fact there was but one person in Rosamond’s world whom she -did not regard as blameworthy, and that was the graceful creature with -blond plaits and with little hands crossed before her, who had never -expressed herself unbecomingly, and had always acted for the best—the -best naturally being what she best liked. - -Lydgate pausing and looking at her began to feel that half-maddening -sense of helplessness which comes over passionate people when their -passion is met by an innocent-looking silence whose meek victimized air -seems to put them in the wrong, and at last infects even the justest -indignation with a doubt of its justice. He needed to recover the full -sense that he was in the right by moderating his words. - -“Can you not see, Rosamond,” he began again, trying to be simply grave -and not bitter, “that nothing can be so fatal as a want of openness and -confidence between us? It has happened again and again that I have -expressed a decided wish, and you have seemed to assent, yet after that -you have secretly disobeyed my wish. In that way I can never know what -I have to trust to. There would be some hope for us if you would admit -this. Am I such an unreasonable, furious brute? Why should you not be -open with me?” Still silence. - -“Will you only say that you have been mistaken, and that I may depend -on your not acting secretly in future?” said Lydgate, urgently, but -with something of request in his tone which Rosamond was quick to -perceive. She spoke with coolness. - -“I cannot possibly make admissions or promises in answer to such words -as you have used towards me. I have not been accustomed to language of -that kind. You have spoken of my ‘secret meddling,’ and my ‘interfering -ignorance,’ and my ‘false assent.’ I have never expressed myself in -that way to you, and I think that you ought to apologize. You spoke of -its being impossible to live with me. Certainly you have not made my -life pleasant to me of late. I think it was to be expected that I -should try to avert some of the hardships which our marriage has -brought on me.” Another tear fell as Rosamond ceased speaking, and she -pressed it away as quietly as the first. - -Lydgate flung himself into a chair, feeling checkmated. What place was -there in her mind for a remonstrance to lodge in? He laid down his hat, -flung an arm over the back of his chair, and looked down for some -moments without speaking. Rosamond had the double purchase over him of -insensibility to the point of justice in his reproach, and of -sensibility to the undeniable hardships now present in her married -life. Although her duplicity in the affair of the house had exceeded -what he knew, and had really hindered the Plymdales from knowing of it, -she had no consciousness that her action could rightly be called false. -We are not obliged to identify our own acts according to a strict -classification, any more than the materials of our grocery and clothes. -Rosamond felt that she was aggrieved, and that this was what Lydgate -had to recognize. - -As for him, the need of accommodating himself to her nature, which was -inflexible in proportion to its negations, held him as with pincers. He -had begun to have an alarmed foresight of her irrevocable loss of love -for him, and the consequent dreariness of their life. The ready fulness -of his emotions made this dread alternate quickly with the first -violent movements of his anger. It would assuredly have been a vain -boast in him to say that he was her master. - -“You have not made my life pleasant to me of late”—“the hardships which -our marriage has brought on me”—these words were stinging his -imagination as a pain makes an exaggerated dream. If he were not only -to sink from his highest resolve, but to sink into the hideous -fettering of domestic hate? - -“Rosamond,” he said, turning his eyes on her with a melancholy look, -“you should allow for a man’s words when he is disappointed and -provoked. You and I cannot have opposite interests. I cannot part my -happiness from yours. If I am angry with you, it is that you seem not -to see how any concealment divides us. How could I wish to make -anything hard to you either by my words or conduct? When I hurt you, I -hurt part of my own life. I should never be angry with you if you would -be quite open with me.” - -“I have only wished to prevent you from hurrying us into wretchedness -without any necessity,” said Rosamond, the tears coming again from a -softened feeling now that her husband had softened. “It is so very hard -to be disgraced here among all the people we know, and to live in such -a miserable way. I wish I had died with the baby.” - -She spoke and wept with that gentleness which makes such words and -tears omnipotent over a loving-hearted man. Lydgate drew his chair near -to hers and pressed her delicate head against his cheek with his -powerful tender hand. He only caressed her; he did not say anything; -for what was there to say? He could not promise to shield her from the -dreaded wretchedness, for he could see no sure means of doing so. When -he left her to go out again, he told himself that it was ten times -harder for her than for him: he had a life away from home, and constant -appeals to his activity on behalf of others. He wished to excuse -everything in her if he could—but it was inevitable that in that -excusing mood he should think of her as if she were an animal of -another and feebler species. Nevertheless she had mastered him. - - - - -CHAPTER LXVI. - -’Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus, -Another thing to fall. -—_Measure for Measure_. - - -Lydgate certainly had good reason to reflect on the service his -practice did him in counteracting his personal cares. He had no longer -free energy enough for spontaneous research and speculative thinking, -but by the bedside of patients, the direct external calls on his -judgment and sympathies brought the added impulse needed to draw him -out of himself. It was not simply that beneficent harness of routine -which enables silly men to live respectably and unhappy men to live -calmly—it was a perpetual claim on the immediate fresh application of -thought, and on the consideration of another’s need and trial. Many of -us looking back through life would say that the kindest man we have -ever known has been a medical man, or perhaps that surgeon whose fine -tact, directed by deeply informed perception, has come to us in our -need with a more sublime beneficence than that of miracle-workers. Some -of that twice-blessed mercy was always with Lydgate in his work at the -Hospital or in private houses, serving better than any opiate to quiet -and sustain him under his anxieties and his sense of mental degeneracy. - -Mr. Farebrother’s suspicion as to the opiate was true, however. Under -the first galling pressure of foreseen difficulties, and the first -perception that his marriage, if it were not to be a yoked loneliness, -must be a state of effort to go on loving without too much care about -being loved, he had once or twice tried a dose of opium. But he had no -hereditary constitutional craving after such transient escapes from the -hauntings of misery. He was strong, could drink a great deal of wine, -but did not care about it; and when the men round him were drinking -spirits, he took sugar and water, having a contemptuous pity even for -the earliest stages of excitement from drink. It was the same with -gambling. He had looked on at a great deal of gambling in Paris, -watching it as if it had been a disease. He was no more tempted by such -winning than he was by drink. He had said to himself that the only -winning he cared for must be attained by a conscious process of high, -difficult combination tending towards a beneficent result. The power he -longed for could not be represented by agitated fingers clutching a -heap of coin, or by the half-barbarous, half-idiotic triumph in the -eyes of a man who sweeps within his arms the ventures of twenty -chapfallen companions. - -But just as he had tried opium, so his thought now began to turn upon -gambling—not with appetite for its excitement, but with a sort of -wistful inward gaze after that easy way of getting money, which implied -no asking and brought no responsibility. If he had been in London or -Paris at that time, it is probable that such thoughts, seconded by -opportunity, would have taken him into a gambling-house, no longer to -watch the gamblers, but to watch with them in kindred eagerness. -Repugnance would have been surmounted by the immense need to win, if -chance would be kind enough to let him. An incident which happened not -very long after that airy notion of getting aid from his uncle had been -excluded, was a strong sign of the effect that might have followed any -extant opportunity of gambling. - -The billiard-room at the Green Dragon was the constant resort of a -certain set, most of whom, like our acquaintance Mr. Bambridge, were -regarded as men of pleasure. It was here that poor Fred Vincy had made -part of his memorable debt, having lost money in betting, and been -obliged to borrow of that gay companion. It was generally known in -Middlemarch that a good deal of money was lost and won in this way; and -the consequent repute of the Green Dragon as a place of dissipation -naturally heightened in some quarters the temptation to go there. -Probably its regular visitants, like the initiates of freemasonry, -wished that there were something a little more tremendous to keep to -themselves concerning it; but they were not a closed community, and -many decent seniors as well as juniors occasionally turned into the -billiard-room to see what was going on. Lydgate, who had the muscular -aptitude for billiards, and was fond of the game, had once or twice in -the early days after his arrival in Middlemarch taken his turn with the -cue at the Green Dragon; but afterwards he had no leisure for the game, -and no inclination for the socialities there. One evening, however, he -had occasion to seek Mr. Bambridge at that resort. The horsedealer had -engaged to get him a customer for his remaining good horse, for which -Lydgate had determined to substitute a cheap hack, hoping by this -reduction of style to get perhaps twenty pounds; and he cared now for -every small sum, as a help towards feeding the patience of his -tradesmen. To run up to the billiard-room, as he was passing, would -save time. - -Mr. Bambridge was not yet come, but would be sure to arrive by-and-by, -said his friend Mr. Horrock; and Lydgate stayed, playing a game for the -sake of passing the time. That evening he had the peculiar light in the -eyes and the unusual vivacity which had been once noticed in him by Mr. -Farebrother. The exceptional fact of his presence was much noticed in -the room, where there was a good deal of Middlemarch company; and -several lookers-on, as well as some of the players, were betting with -animation. Lydgate was playing well, and felt confident; the bets were -dropping round him, and with a swift glancing thought of the probable -gain which might double the sum he was saving from his horse, he began -to bet on his own play, and won again and again. Mr. Bambridge had come -in, but Lydgate did not notice him. He was not only excited with his -play, but visions were gleaming on him of going the next day to -Brassing, where there was gambling on a grander scale to be had, and -where, by one powerful snatch at the devil’s bait, he might carry it -off without the hook, and buy his rescue from his daily solicitings. - -He was still winning when two new visitors entered. One of them was a -young Hawley, just come from his law studies in town, and the other was -Fred Vincy, who had spent several evenings of late at this old haunt of -his. Young Hawley, an accomplished billiard-player, brought a cool -fresh hand to the cue. But Fred Vincy, startled at seeing Lydgate, and -astonished to see him betting with an excited air, stood aside, and -kept out of the circle round the table. - -Fred had been rewarding resolution by a little laxity of late. He had -been working heartily for six months at all outdoor occupations under -Mr. Garth, and by dint of severe practice had nearly mastered the -defects of his handwriting, this practice being, perhaps, a little the -less severe that it was often carried on in the evening at Mr. Garth’s -under the eyes of Mary. But the last fortnight Mary had been staying at -Lowick Parsonage with the ladies there, during Mr. Farebrother’s -residence in Middlemarch, where he was carrying out some parochial -plans; and Fred, not seeing anything more agreeable to do, had turned -into the Green Dragon, partly to play at billiards, partly to taste the -old flavor of discourse about horses, sport, and things in general, -considered from a point of view which was not strenuously correct. He -had not been out hunting once this season, had had no horse of his own -to ride, and had gone from place to place chiefly with Mr. Garth in his -gig, or on the sober cob which Mr. Garth could lend him. It was a -little too bad, Fred began to think, that he should be kept in the -traces with more severity than if he had been a clergyman. “I will tell -you what, Mistress Mary—it will be rather harder work to learn -surveying and drawing plans than it would have been to write sermons,” -he had said, wishing her to appreciate what he went through for her -sake; “and as to Hercules and Theseus, they were nothing to me. They -had sport, and never learned to write a bookkeeping hand.” And now, -Mary being out of the way for a little while, Fred, like any other -strong dog who cannot slip his collar, had pulled up the staple of his -chain and made a small escape, not of course meaning to go fast or far. -There could be no reason why he should not play at billiards, but he -was determined not to bet. As to money just now, Fred had in his mind -the heroic project of saving almost all of the eighty pounds that Mr. -Garth offered him, and returning it, which he could easily do by giving -up all futile money-spending, since he had a superfluous stock of -clothes, and no expense in his board. In that way he could, in one -year, go a good way towards repaying the ninety pounds of which he had -deprived Mrs. Garth, unhappily at a time when she needed that sum more -than she did now. Nevertheless, it must be acknowledged that on this -evening, which was the fifth of his recent visits to the billiard-room, -Fred had, not in his pocket, but in his mind, the ten pounds which he -meant to reserve for himself from his half-year’s salary (having before -him the pleasure of carrying thirty to Mrs. Garth when Mary was likely -to be come home again)—he had those ten pounds in his mind as a fund -from which he might risk something, if there were a chance of a good -bet. Why? Well, when sovereigns were flying about, why shouldn’t he -catch a few? He would never go far along that road again; but a man -likes to assure himself, and men of pleasure generally, what he could -do in the way of mischief if he chose, and that if he abstains from -making himself ill, or beggaring himself, or talking with the utmost -looseness which the narrow limits of human capacity will allow, it is -not because he is a spooney. Fred did not enter into formal reasons, -which are a very artificial, inexact way of representing the tingling -returns of old habit, and the caprices of young blood: but there was -lurking in him a prophetic sense that evening, that when he began to -play he should also begin to bet—that he should enjoy some -punch-drinking, and in general prepare himself for feeling “rather -seedy” in the morning. It is in such indefinable movements that action -often begins. - -But the last thing likely to have entered Fred’s expectation was that -he should see his brother-in-law Lydgate—of whom he had never quite -dropped the old opinion that he was a prig, and tremendously conscious -of his superiority—looking excited and betting, just as he himself -might have done. Fred felt a shock greater than he could quite account -for by the vague knowledge that Lydgate was in debt, and that his -father had refused to help him; and his own inclination to enter into -the play was suddenly checked. It was a strange reversal of attitudes: -Fred’s blond face and blue eyes, usually bright and careless, ready to -give attention to anything that held out a promise of amusement, -looking involuntarily grave and almost embarrassed as if by the sight -of something unfitting; while Lydgate, who had habitually an air of -self-possessed strength, and a certain meditativeness that seemed to -lie behind his most observant attention, was acting, watching, speaking -with that excited narrow consciousness which reminds one of an animal -with fierce eyes and retractile claws. - -Lydgate, by betting on his own strokes, had won sixteen pounds; but -young Hawley’s arrival had changed the poise of things. He made -first-rate strokes himself, and began to bet against Lydgate’s strokes, -the strain of whose nerves was thus changed from simple confidence in -his own movements to defying another person’s doubt in them. The -defiance was more exciting than the confidence, but it was less sure. -He continued to bet on his own play, but began often to fail. Still he -went on, for his mind was as utterly narrowed into that precipitous -crevice of play as if he had been the most ignorant lounger there. Fred -observed that Lydgate was losing fast, and found himself in the new -situation of puzzling his brains to think of some device by which, -without being offensive, he could withdraw Lydgate’s attention, and -perhaps suggest to him a reason for quitting the room. He saw that -others were observing Lydgate’s strange unlikeness to himself, and it -occurred to him that merely to touch his elbow and call him aside for a -moment might rouse him from his absorption. He could think of nothing -cleverer than the daring improbability of saying that he wanted to see -Rosy, and wished to know if she were at home this evening; and he was -going desperately to carry out this weak device, when a waiter came up -to him with a message, saying that Mr. Farebrother was below, and -begged to speak with him. - -Fred was surprised, not quite comfortably, but sending word that he -would be down immediately, he went with a new impulse up to Lydgate, -said, “Can I speak to you a moment?” and drew him aside. - -“Farebrother has just sent up a message to say that he wants to speak -to me. He is below. I thought you might like to know he was there, if -you had anything to say to him.” - -Fred had simply snatched up this pretext for speaking, because he could -not say, “You are losing confoundedly, and are making everybody stare -at you; you had better come away.” But inspiration could hardly have -served him better. Lydgate had not before seen that Fred was present, -and his sudden appearance with an announcement of Mr. Farebrother had -the effect of a sharp concussion. - -“No, no,” said Lydgate; “I have nothing particular to say to him. -But—the game is up—I must be going—I came in just to see Bambridge.” - -“Bambridge is over there, but he is making a row—I don’t think he’s -ready for business. Come down with me to Farebrother. I expect he is -going to blow me up, and you will shield me,” said Fred, with some -adroitness. - -Lydgate felt shame, but could not bear to act as if he felt it, by -refusing to see Mr. Farebrother; and he went down. They merely shook -hands, however, and spoke of the frost; and when all three had turned -into the street, the Vicar seemed quite willing to say good-by to -Lydgate. His present purpose was clearly to talk with Fred alone, and -he said, kindly, “I disturbed you, young gentleman, because I have some -pressing business with you. Walk with me to St. Botolph’s, will you?” - -It was a fine night, the sky thick with stars, and Mr. Farebrother -proposed that they should make a circuit to the old church by the -London road. The next thing he said was— - -“I thought Lydgate never went to the Green Dragon?” - -“So did I,” said Fred. “But he said that he went to see Bambridge.” - -“He was not playing, then?” - -Fred had not meant to tell this, but he was obliged now to say, “Yes, -he was. But I suppose it was an accidental thing. I have never seen him -there before.” - -“You have been going often yourself, then, lately?” - -“Oh, about five or six times.” - -“I think you had some good reason for giving up the habit of going -there?” - -“Yes. You know all about it,” said Fred, not liking to be catechised in -this way. “I made a clean breast to you.” - -“I suppose that gives me a warrant to speak about the matter now. It is -understood between us, is it not?—that we are on a footing of open -friendship: I have listened to you, and you will be willing to listen -to me. I may take my turn in talking a little about myself?” - -“I am under the deepest obligation to you, Mr. Farebrother,” said Fred, -in a state of uncomfortable surmise. - -“I will not affect to deny that you are under some obligation to me. -But I am going to confess to you, Fred, that I have been tempted to -reverse all that by keeping silence with you just now. When somebody -said to me, ‘Young Vincy has taken to being at the billiard-table every -night again—he won’t bear the curb long;’ I was tempted to do the -opposite of what I am doing—to hold my tongue and wait while you went -down the ladder again, betting first and then—” - -“I have not made any bets,” said Fred, hastily. - -“Glad to hear it. But I say, my prompting was to look on and see you -take the wrong turning, wear out Garth’s patience, and lose the best -opportunity of your life—the opportunity which you made some rather -difficult effort to secure. You can guess the feeling which raised that -temptation in me—I am sure you know it. I am sure you know that the -satisfaction of your affections stands in the way of mine.” - -There was a pause. Mr. Farebrother seemed to wait for a recognition of -the fact; and the emotion perceptible in the tones of his fine voice -gave solemnity to his words. But no feeling could quell Fred’s alarm. - -“I could not be expected to give her up,” he said, after a moment’s -hesitation: it was not a case for any pretence of generosity. - -“Clearly not, when her affection met yours. But relations of this sort, -even when they are of long standing, are always liable to change. I can -easily conceive that you might act in a way to loosen the tie she feels -towards you—it must be remembered that she is only conditionally bound -to you—and that in that case, another man, who may flatter himself that -he has a hold on her regard, might succeed in winning that firm place -in her love as well as respect which you had let slip. I can easily -conceive such a result,” repeated Mr. Farebrother, emphatically. “There -is a companionship of ready sympathy, which might get the advantage -even over the longest associations.” It seemed to Fred that if Mr. -Farebrother had had a beak and talons instead of his very capable -tongue, his mode of attack could hardly be more cruel. He had a -horrible conviction that behind all this hypothetic statement there was -a knowledge of some actual change in Mary’s feeling. - -“Of course I know it might easily be all up with me,” he said, in a -troubled voice. “If she is beginning to compare—” He broke off, not -liking to betray all he felt, and then said, by the help of a little -bitterness, “But I thought you were friendly to me.” - -“So I am; that is why we are here. But I have had a strong disposition -to be otherwise. I have said to myself, ‘If there is a likelihood of -that youngster doing himself harm, why should you interfere? Aren’t you -worth as much as he is, and don’t your sixteen years over and above -his, in which you have gone rather hungry, give you more right to -satisfaction than he has? If there’s a chance of his going to the dogs, -let him—perhaps you could nohow hinder it—and do you take the -benefit.’” - -There was a pause, in which Fred was seized by a most uncomfortable -chill. What was coming next? He dreaded to hear that something had been -said to Mary—he felt as if he were listening to a threat rather than a -warning. When the Vicar began again there was a change in his tone like -the encouraging transition to a major key. - -“But I had once meant better than that, and I am come back to my old -intention. I thought that I could hardly _secure myself_ in it better, -Fred, than by telling you just what had gone on in me. And now, do you -understand me? I want you to make the happiness of her life and your -own, and if there is any chance that a word of warning from me may turn -aside any risk to the contrary—well, I have uttered it.” - -There was a drop in the Vicar’s voice when he spoke the last words. He -paused—they were standing on a patch of green where the road diverged -towards St. Botolph’s, and he put out his hand, as if to imply that the -conversation was closed. Fred was moved quite newly. Some one highly -susceptible to the contemplation of a fine act has said, that it -produces a sort of regenerating shudder through the frame, and makes -one feel ready to begin a new life. A good degree of that effect was -just then present in Fred Vincy. - -“I will try to be worthy,” he said, breaking off before he could say -“of you as well as of her.” And meanwhile Mr. Farebrother had gathered -the impulse to say something more. - -“You must not imagine that I believe there is at present any decline in -her preference of you, Fred. Set your heart at rest, that if you keep -right, other things will keep right.” - -“I shall never forget what you have done,” Fred answered. “I can’t say -anything that seems worth saying—only I will try that your goodness -shall not be thrown away.” - -“That’s enough. Good-by, and God bless you.” - -In that way they parted. But both of them walked about a long while -before they went out of the starlight. Much of Fred’s rumination might -be summed up in the words, “It certainly would have been a fine thing -for her to marry Farebrother—but if she loves me best and I am a good -husband?” - -Perhaps Mr. Farebrother’s might be concentrated into a single shrug and -one little speech. “To think of the part one little woman can play in -the life of a man, so that to renounce her may be a very good imitation -of heroism, and to win her may be a discipline!” - - - - -CHAPTER LXVII. - -Now is there civil war within the soul: -Resolve is thrust from off the sacred throne -By clamorous Needs, and Pride the grand-vizier -Makes humble compact, plays the supple part -Of envoy and deft-tongued apologist -For hungry rebels. - - -Happily Lydgate had ended by losing in the billiard-room, and brought -away no encouragement to make a raid on luck. On the contrary, he felt -unmixed disgust with himself the next day when he had to pay four or -five pounds over and above his gains, and he carried about with him a -most unpleasant vision of the figure he had made, not only rubbing -elbows with the men at the Green Dragon but behaving just as they did. -A philosopher fallen to betting is hardly distinguishable from a -Philistine under the same circumstances: the difference will chiefly be -found in his subsequent reflections, and Lydgate chewed a very -disagreeable cud in that way. His reason told him how the affair might -have been magnified into ruin by a slight change of scenery—if it had -been a gambling-house that he had turned into, where chance could be -clutched with both hands instead of being picked up with thumb and -fore-finger. Nevertheless, though reason strangled the desire to -gamble, there remained the feeling that, with an assurance of luck to -the needful amount, he would have liked to gamble, rather than take the -alternative which was beginning to urge itself as inevitable. - -That alternative was to apply to Mr. Bulstrode. Lydgate had so many -times boasted both to himself and others that he was totally -independent of Bulstrode, to whose plans he had lent himself solely -because they enabled him to carry out his own ideas of professional -work and public benefit—he had so constantly in their personal -intercourse had his pride sustained by the sense that he was making a -good social use of this predominating banker, whose opinions he thought -contemptible and whose motives often seemed to him an absurd mixture of -contradictory impressions—that he had been creating for himself strong -ideal obstacles to the proffering of any considerable request to him on -his own account. - -Still, early in March his affairs were at that pass in which men begin -to say that their oaths were delivered in ignorance, and to perceive -that the act which they had called impossible to them is becoming -manifestly possible. With Dover’s ugly security soon to be put in -force, with the proceeds of his practice immediately absorbed in paying -back debts, and with the chance, if the worst were known, of daily -supplies being refused on credit, above all with the vision of -Rosamond’s hopeless discontent continually haunting him, Lydgate had -begun to see that he should inevitably bend himself to ask help from -somebody or other. At first he had considered whether he should write -to Mr. Vincy; but on questioning Rosamond he found that, as he had -suspected, she had already applied twice to her father, the last time -being since the disappointment from Sir Godwin; and papa had said that -Lydgate must look out for himself. “Papa said he had come, with one bad -year after another, to trade more and more on borrowed capital, and had -had to give up many indulgences; he could not spare a single hundred -from the charges of his family. He said, let Lydgate ask Bulstrode: -they have always been hand and glove.” - -Indeed, Lydgate himself had come to the conclusion that if he must end -by asking for a free loan, his relations with Bulstrode, more at least -than with any other man, might take the shape of a claim which was not -purely personal. Bulstrode had indirectly helped to cause the failure -of his practice, and had also been highly gratified by getting a -medical partner in his plans:—but who among us ever reduced himself to -the sort of dependence in which Lydgate now stood, without trying to -believe that he had claims which diminished the humiliation of asking? -It was true that of late there had seemed to be a new languor of -interest in Bulstrode about the Hospital; but his health had got worse, -and showed signs of a deep-seated nervous affection. In other respects -he did not appear to be changed: he had always been highly polite, but -Lydgate had observed in him from the first a marked coldness about his -marriage and other private circumstances, a coldness which he had -hitherto preferred to any warmth of familiarity between them. He -deferred the intention from day to day, his habit of acting on his -conclusions being made infirm by his repugnance to every possible -conclusion and its consequent act. He saw Mr. Bulstrode often, but he -did not try to use any occasion for his private purpose. At one moment -he thought, “I will write a letter: I prefer that to any circuitous -talk;” at another he thought, “No; if I were talking to him, I could -make a retreat before any signs of disinclination.” - -Still the days passed and no letter was written, no special interview -sought. In his shrinking from the humiliation of a dependent attitude -towards Bulstrode, he began to familiarize his imagination with another -step even more unlike his remembered self. He began spontaneously to -consider whether it would be possible to carry out that puerile notion -of Rosamond’s which had often made him angry, namely, that they should -quit Middlemarch without seeing anything beyond that preface. The -question came—“Would any man buy the practice of me even now, for as -little as it is worth? Then the sale might happen as a necessary -preparation for going away.” - -But against his taking this step, which he still felt to be a -contemptible relinquishment of present work, a guilty turning aside -from what was a real and might be a widening channel for worthy -activity, to start again without any justified destination, there was -this obstacle, that the purchaser, if procurable at all, might not be -quickly forthcoming. And afterwards? Rosamond in a poor lodging, though -in the largest city or most distant town, would not find the life that -could save her from gloom, and save him from the reproach of having -plunged her into it. For when a man is at the foot of the hill in his -fortunes, he may stay a long while there in spite of professional -accomplishment. In the British climate there is no incompatibility -between scientific insight and furnished lodgings: the incompatibility -is chiefly between scientific ambition and a wife who objects to that -kind of residence. - -But in the midst of his hesitation, opportunity came to decide him. A -note from Mr. Bulstrode requested Lydgate to call on him at the Bank. A -hypochondriacal tendency had shown itself in the banker’s constitution -of late; and a lack of sleep, which was really only a slight -exaggeration of an habitual dyspeptic symptom, had been dwelt on by him -as a sign of threatening insanity. He wanted to consult Lydgate without -delay on that particular morning, although he had nothing to tell -beyond what he had told before. He listened eagerly to what Lydgate had -to say in dissipation of his fears, though this too was only -repetition; and this moment in which Bulstrode was receiving a medical -opinion with a sense of comfort, seemed to make the communication of a -personal need to him easier than it had been in Lydgate’s contemplation -beforehand. He had been insisting that it would be well for Mr. -Bulstrode to relax his attention to business. - -“One sees how any mental strain, however slight, may affect a delicate -frame,” said Lydgate at that stage of the consultation when the remarks -tend to pass from the personal to the general, “by the deep stamp which -anxiety will make for a time even on the young and vigorous. I am -naturally very strong; yet I have been thoroughly shaken lately by an -accumulation of trouble.” - -“I presume that a constitution in the susceptible state in which mine -at present is, would be especially liable to fall a victim to cholera, -if it visited our district. And since its appearance near London, we -may well besiege the Mercy-seat for our protection,” said Mr. -Bulstrode, not intending to evade Lydgate’s allusion, but really -preoccupied with alarms about himself. - -“You have at all events taken your share in using good practical -precautions for the town, and that is the best mode of asking for -protection,” said Lydgate, with a strong distaste for the broken -metaphor and bad logic of the banker’s religion, somewhat increased by -the apparent deafness of his sympathy. But his mind had taken up its -long-prepared movement towards getting help, and was not yet arrested. -He added, “The town has done well in the way of cleansing, and finding -appliances; and I think that if the cholera should come, even our -enemies will admit that the arrangements in the Hospital are a public -good.” - -“Truly,” said Mr. Bulstrode, with some coldness. “With regard to what -you say, Mr. Lydgate, about the relaxation of my mental labor, I have -for some time been entertaining a purpose to that effect—a purpose of a -very decided character. I contemplate at least a temporary withdrawal -from the management of much business, whether benevolent or commercial. -Also I think of changing my residence for a time: probably I shall -close or let ‘The Shrubs,’ and take some place near the coast—under -advice of course as to salubrity. That would be a measure which you -would recommend?” - -“Oh yes,” said Lydgate, falling backward in his chair, with -ill-repressed impatience under the banker’s pale earnest eyes and -intense preoccupation with himself. - -“I have for some time felt that I should open this subject with you in -relation to our Hospital,” continued Bulstrode. “Under the -circumstances I have indicated, of course I must cease to have any -personal share in the management, and it is contrary to my views of -responsibility to continue a large application of means to an -institution which I cannot watch over and to some extent regulate. I -shall therefore, in case of my ultimate decision to leave Middlemarch, -consider that I withdraw other support to the New Hospital than that -which will subsist in the fact that I chiefly supplied the expenses of -building it, and have contributed further large sums to its successful -working.” - -Lydgate’s thought, when Bulstrode paused according to his wont, was, -“He has perhaps been losing a good deal of money.” This was the most -plausible explanation of a speech which had caused rather a startling -change in his expectations. He said in reply— - -“The loss to the Hospital can hardly be made up, I fear.” - -“Hardly,” returned Bulstrode, in the same deliberate, silvery tone; -“except by some changes of plan. The only person who may be certainly -counted on as willing to increase her contributions is Mrs. Casaubon. I -have had an interview with her on the subject, and I have pointed out -to her, as I am about to do to you, that it will be desirable to win a -more general support to the New Hospital by a change of system.” -Another pause, but Lydgate did not speak. - -“The change I mean is an amalgamation with the Infirmary, so that the -New Hospital shall be regarded as a special addition to the elder -institution, having the same directing board. It will be necessary, -also, that the medical management of the two shall be combined. In this -way any difficulty as to the adequate maintenance of our new -establishment will be removed; the benevolent interests of the town -will cease to be divided.” - -Mr. Bulstrode had lowered his eyes from Lydgate’s face to the buttons -of his coat as he again paused. - -“No doubt that is a good device as to ways and means,” said Lydgate, -with an edge of irony in his tone. “But I can’t be expected to rejoice -in it at once, since one of the first results will be that the other -medical men will upset or interrupt my methods, if it were only because -they are mine.” - -“I myself, as you know, Mr. Lydgate, highly valued the opportunity of -new and independent procedure which you have diligently employed: the -original plan, I confess, was one which I had much at heart, under -submission to the Divine Will. But since providential indications -demand a renunciation from me, I renounce.” - -Bulstrode showed a rather exasperating ability in this conversation. -The broken metaphor and bad logic of motive which had stirred his -hearer’s contempt were quite consistent with a mode of putting the -facts which made it difficult for Lydgate to vent his own indignation -and disappointment. After some rapid reflection, he only asked— - -“What did Mrs. Casaubon say?” - -“That was the further statement which I wished to make to you,” said -Bulstrode, who had thoroughly prepared his ministerial explanation. -“She is, you are aware, a woman of most munificent disposition, and -happily in possession—not I presume of great wealth, but of funds which -she can well spare. She has informed me that though she has destined -the chief part of those funds to another purpose, she is willing to -consider whether she cannot fully take my place in relation to the -Hospital. But she wishes for ample time to mature her thoughts on the -subject, and I have told her that there is no need for haste—that, in -fact, my own plans are not yet absolute.” - -Lydgate was ready to say, “If Mrs. Casaubon would take your place, -there would be gain, instead of loss.” But there was still a weight on -his mind which arrested this cheerful candor. He replied, “I suppose, -then, that I may enter into the subject with Mrs. Casaubon.” - -“Precisely; that is what she expressly desires. Her decision, she says, -will much depend on what you can tell her. But not at present: she is, -I believe, just setting out on a journey. I have her letter here,” said -Mr. Bulstrode, drawing it out, and reading from it. “‘I am immediately -otherwise engaged,’ she says. ‘I am going into Yorkshire with Sir James -and Lady Chettam; and the conclusions I come to about some land which I -am to see there may affect my power of contributing to the Hospital.’ -Thus, Mr. Lydgate, there is no haste necessary in this matter; but I -wished to apprise you beforehand of what may possibly occur.” - -Mr. Bulstrode returned the letter to his side-pocket, and changed his -attitude as if his business were closed. Lydgate, whose renewed hope -about the Hospital only made him more conscious of the facts which -poisoned his hope, felt that his effort after help, if made at all, -must be made now and vigorously. - -“I am much obliged to you for giving me full notice,” he said, with a -firm intention in his tone, yet with an interruptedness in his delivery -which showed that he spoke unwillingly. “The highest object to me is my -profession, and I had identified the Hospital with the best use I can -at present make of my profession. But the best use is not always the -same with monetary success. Everything which has made the Hospital -unpopular has helped with other causes—I think they are all connected -with my professional zeal—to make me unpopular as a practitioner. I get -chiefly patients who can’t pay me. I should like them best, if I had -nobody to pay on my own side.” Lydgate waited a little, but Bulstrode -only bowed, looking at him fixedly, and he went on with the same -interrupted enunciation—as if he were biting an objectional leek. - -“I have slipped into money difficulties which I can see no way out of, -unless some one who trusts me and my future will advance me a sum -without other security. I had very little fortune left when I came -here. I have no prospects of money from my own family. My expenses, in -consequence of my marriage, have been very much greater than I had -expected. The result at this moment is that it would take a thousand -pounds to clear me. I mean, to free me from the risk of having all my -goods sold in security of my largest debt—as well as to pay my other -debts—and leave anything to keep us a little beforehand with our small -income. I find that it is out of the question that my wife’s father -should make such an advance. That is why I mention my position to—to -the only other man who may be held to have some personal connection -with my prosperity or ruin.” - -Lydgate hated to hear himself. But he had spoken now, and had spoken -with unmistakable directness. Mr. Bulstrode replied without haste, but -also without hesitation. - -“I am grieved, though, I confess, not surprised by this information, -Mr. Lydgate. For my own part, I regretted your alliance with my -brother-in-law’s family, which has always been of prodigal habits, and -which has already been much indebted to me for sustainment in its -present position. My advice to you, Mr. Lydgate, would be, that instead -of involving yourself in further obligations, and continuing a doubtful -struggle, you should simply become a bankrupt.” - -“That would not improve my prospect,” said Lydgate, rising and speaking -bitterly, “even if it were a more agreeable thing in itself.” - -“It is always a trial,” said Mr. Bulstrode; “but trial, my dear sir, is -our portion here, and is a needed corrective. I recommend you to weigh -the advice I have given.” - -“Thank you,” said Lydgate, not quite knowing what he said. “I have -occupied you too long. Good-day.” - - - - -CHAPTER LXVIII. - -What suit of grace hath Virtue to put on -If Vice shall wear as good, and do as well? -If Wrong, if Craft, if Indiscretion -Act as fair parts with ends as laudable? -Which all this mighty volume of events -The world, the universal map of deeds, -Strongly controls, and proves from all descents, -That the directest course still best succeeds. -For should not grave and learn’d Experience -That looks with the eyes of all the world beside, -And with all ages holds intelligence, -Go safer than Deceit without a guide! -—DANIEL: _Musophilus_. - - -That change of plan and shifting of interest which Bulstrode stated or -betrayed in his conversation with Lydgate, had been determined in him -by some severe experience which he had gone through since the epoch of -Mr. Larcher’s sale, when Raffles had recognized Will Ladislaw, and when -the banker had in vain attempted an act of restitution which might move -Divine Providence to arrest painful consequences. - -His certainty that Raffles, unless he were dead, would return to -Middlemarch before long, had been justified. On Christmas Eve he had -reappeared at The Shrubs. Bulstrode was at home to receive him, and -hinder his communication with the rest of the family, but he could not -altogether hinder the circumstances of the visit from compromising -himself and alarming his wife. Raffles proved more unmanageable than he -had shown himself to be in his former appearances, his chronic state of -mental restlessness, the growing effect of habitual intemperance, -quickly shaking off every impression from what was said to him. He -insisted on staying in the house, and Bulstrode, weighing two sets of -evils, felt that this was at least not a worse alternative than his -going into the town. He kept him in his own room for the evening and -saw him to bed, Raffles all the while amusing himself with the -annoyance he was causing this decent and highly prosperous -fellow-sinner, an amusement which he facetiously expressed as sympathy -with his friend’s pleasure in entertaining a man who had been -serviceable to him, and who had not had all his earnings. There was a -cunning calculation under this noisy joking—a cool resolve to extract -something the handsomer from Bulstrode as payment for release from this -new application of torture. But his cunning had a little overcast its -mark. - -Bulstrode was indeed more tortured than the coarse fibre of Raffles -could enable him to imagine. He had told his wife that he was simply -taking care of this wretched creature, the victim of vice, who might -otherwise injure himself; he implied, without the direct form of -falsehood, that there was a family tie which bound him to this care, -and that there were signs of mental alienation in Raffles which urged -caution. He would himself drive the unfortunate being away the next -morning. In these hints he felt that he was supplying Mrs. Bulstrode -with precautionary information for his daughters and servants, and -accounting for his allowing no one but himself to enter the room even -with food and drink. But he sat in an agony of fear lest Raffles should -be overheard in his loud and plain references to past facts—lest Mrs. -Bulstrode should be even tempted to listen at the door. How could he -hinder her, how betray his terror by opening the door to detect her? -She was a woman of honest direct habits, and little likely to take so -low a course in order to arrive at painful knowledge; but fear was -stronger than the calculation of probabilities. - -In this way Raffles had pushed the torture too far, and produced an -effect which had not been in his plan. By showing himself hopelessly -unmanageable he had made Bulstrode feel that a strong defiance was the -only resource left. After taking Raffles to bed that night the banker -ordered his closed carriage to be ready at half-past seven the next -morning. At six o’clock he had already been long dressed, and had spent -some of his wretchedness in prayer, pleading his motives for averting -the worst evil if in anything he had used falsity and spoken what was -not true before God. For Bulstrode shrank from a direct lie with an -intensity disproportionate to the number of his more indirect misdeeds. -But many of these misdeeds were like the subtle muscular movements -which are not taken account of in the consciousness, though they bring -about the end that we fix our mind on and desire. And it is only what -we are vividly conscious of that we can vividly imagine to be seen by -Omniscience. - -Bulstrode carried his candle to the bedside of Raffles, who was -apparently in a painful dream. He stood silent, hoping that the -presence of the light would serve to waken the sleeper gradually and -gently, for he feared some noise as the consequence of a too sudden -awakening. He had watched for a couple of minutes or more the -shudderings and pantings which seemed likely to end in waking, when -Raffles, with a long half-stifled moan, started up and stared round him -in terror, trembling and gasping. But he made no further noise, and -Bulstrode, setting down the candle, awaited his recovery. - -It was a quarter of an hour later before Bulstrode, with a cold -peremptoriness of manner which he had not before shown, said, “I came -to call you thus early, Mr. Raffles, because I have ordered the -carriage to be ready at half-past seven, and intend myself to conduct -you as far as Ilsely, where you can either take the railway or await a -coach.” Raffles was about to speak, but Bulstrode anticipated him -imperiously with the words, “Be silent, sir, and hear what I have to -say. I shall supply you with money now, and I will furnish you with a -reasonable sum from time to time, on your application to me by letter; -but if you choose to present yourself here again, if you return to -Middlemarch, if you use your tongue in a manner injurious to me, you -will have to live on such fruits as your malice can bring you, without -help from me. Nobody will pay you well for blasting my name: I know the -worst you can do against me, and I shall brave it if you dare to thrust -yourself upon me again. Get up, sir, and do as I order you, without -noise, or I will send for a policeman to take you off my premises, and -you may carry your stories into every pothouse in the town, but you -shall have no sixpence from me to pay your expenses there.” - -Bulstrode had rarely in his life spoken with such nervous energy: he -had been deliberating on this speech and its probable effects through a -large part of the night; and though he did not trust to its ultimately -saving him from any return of Raffles, he had concluded that it was the -best throw he could make. It succeeded in enforcing submission from the -jaded man this morning: his empoisoned system at this moment quailed -before Bulstrode’s cold, resolute bearing, and he was taken off quietly -in the carriage before the family breakfast time. The servants imagined -him to be a poor relation, and were not surprised that a strict man -like their master, who held his head high in the world, should be -ashamed of such a cousin and want to get rid of him. The banker’s drive -of ten miles with his hated companion was a dreary beginning of the -Christmas day; but at the end of the drive, Raffles had recovered his -spirits, and parted in a contentment for which there was the good -reason that the banker had given him a hundred pounds. Various motives -urged Bulstrode to this open-handedness, but he did not himself inquire -closely into all of them. As he had stood watching Raffles in his -uneasy sleep, it had certainly entered his mind that the man had been -much shattered since the first gift of two hundred pounds. - -He had taken care to repeat the incisive statement of his resolve not -to be played on any more; and had tried to penetrate Raffles with the -fact that he had shown the risks of bribing him to be quite equal to -the risks of defying him. But when, freed from his repulsive presence, -Bulstrode returned to his quiet home, he brought with him no confidence -that he had secured more than a respite. It was as if he had had a -loathsome dream, and could not shake off its images with their hateful -kindred of sensations—as if on all the pleasant surroundings of his -life a dangerous reptile had left his slimy traces. - -Who can know how much of his most inward life is made up of the -thoughts he believes other men to have about him, until that fabric of -opinion is threatened with ruin? - -Bulstrode was only the more conscious that there was a deposit of -uneasy presentiment in his wife’s mind, because she carefully avoided -any allusion to it. He had been used every day to taste the flavor of -supremacy and the tribute of complete deference: and the certainty that -he was watched or measured with a hidden suspicion of his having some -discreditable secret, made his voice totter when he was speaking to -edification. Foreseeing, to men of Bulstrode’s anxious temperament, is -often worse than seeing; and his imagination continually heightened the -anguish of an imminent disgrace. Yes, imminent; for if his defiance of -Raffles did not keep the man away—and though he prayed for this result -he hardly hoped for it—the disgrace was certain. In vain he said to -himself that, if permitted, it would be a divine visitation, a -chastisement, a preparation; he recoiled from the imagined burning; and -he judged that it must be more for the Divine glory that he should -escape dishonor. That recoil had at last urged him to make preparations -for quitting Middlemarch. If evil truth must be reported of him, he -would then be at a less scorching distance from the contempt of his old -neighbors; and in a new scene, where his life would not have gathered -the same wide sensibility, the tormentor, if he pursued him, would be -less formidable. To leave the place finally would, he knew, be -extremely painful to his wife, and on other grounds he would have -preferred to stay where he had struck root. Hence he made his -preparations at first in a conditional way, wishing to leave on all -sides an opening for his return after brief absence, if any favorable -intervention of Providence should dissipate his fears. He was preparing -to transfer his management of the Bank, and to give up any active -control of other commercial affairs in the neighborhood, on the ground -of his failing health, but without excluding his future resumption of -such work. The measure would cause him some added expense and some -diminution of income beyond what he had already undergone from the -general depression of trade; and the Hospital presented itself as a -principal object of outlay on which he could fairly economize. - -This was the experience which had determined his conversation with -Lydgate. But at this time his arrangements had most of them gone no -farther than a stage at which he could recall them if they proved to be -unnecessary. He continually deferred the final steps; in the midst of -his fears, like many a man who is in danger of shipwreck or of being -dashed from his carriage by runaway horses, he had a clinging -impression that something would happen to hinder the worst, and that to -spoil his life by a late transplantation might be over-hasty—especially -since it was difficult to account satisfactorily to his wife for the -project of their indefinite exile from the only place where she would -like to live. - -Among the affairs Bulstrode had to care for, was the management of the -farm at Stone Court in case of his absence; and on this as well as on -all other matters connected with any houses and land he possessed in or -about Middlemarch, he had consulted Caleb Garth. Like every one else -who had business of that sort, he wanted to get the agent who was more -anxious for his employer’s interests than his own. With regard to Stone -Court, since Bulstrode wished to retain his hold on the stock, and to -have an arrangement by which he himself could, if he chose, resume his -favorite recreation of superintendence, Caleb had advised him not to -trust to a mere bailiff, but to let the land, stock, and implements -yearly, and take a proportionate share of the proceeds. - -“May I trust to you to find me a tenant on these terms, Mr. Garth?” -said Bulstrode. “And will you mention to me the yearly sum which would -repay you for managing these affairs which we have discussed together?” - -“I’ll think about it,” said Caleb, in his blunt way. “I’ll see how I -can make it out.” - -If it had not been that he had to consider Fred Vincy’s future, Mr. -Garth would not probably have been glad of any addition to his work, of -which his wife was always fearing an excess for him as he grew older. -But on quitting Bulstrode after that conversation, a very alluring idea -occurred to him about this said letting of Stone Court. What if -Bulstrode would agree to his placing Fred Vincy there on the -understanding that he, Caleb Garth, should be responsible for the -management? It would be an excellent schooling for Fred; he might make -a modest income there, and still have time left to get knowledge by -helping in other business. He mentioned his notion to Mrs. Garth with -such evident delight that she could not bear to chill his pleasure by -expressing her constant fear of his undertaking too much. - -“The lad would be as happy as two,” he said, throwing himself back in -his chair, and looking radiant, “if I could tell him it was all -settled. Think; Susan! His mind had been running on that place for -years before old Featherstone died. And it would be as pretty a turn of -things as could be that he should hold the place in a good industrious -way after all—by his taking to business. For it’s likely enough -Bulstrode might let him go on, and gradually buy the stock. He hasn’t -made up his mind, I can see, whether or not he shall settle somewhere -else as a lasting thing. I never was better pleased with a notion in my -life. And then the children might be married by-and-by, Susan.” - -“You will not give any hint of the plan to Fred, until you are sure -that Bulstrode would agree to the plan?” said Mrs. Garth, in a tone of -gentle caution. “And as to marriage, Caleb, we old people need not help -to hasten it.” - -“Oh, I don’t know,” said Caleb, swinging his head aside. “Marriage is a -taming thing. Fred would want less of my bit and bridle. However, I -shall say nothing till I know the ground I’m treading on. I shall speak -to Bulstrode again.” - -He took his earliest opportunity of doing so. Bulstrode had anything -but a warm interest in his nephew Fred Vincy, but he had a strong wish -to secure Mr. Garth’s services on many scattered points of business at -which he was sure to be a considerable loser, if they were under less -conscientious management. On that ground he made no objection to Mr. -Garth’s proposal; and there was also another reason why he was not -sorry to give a consent which was to benefit one of the Vincy family. -It was that Mrs. Bulstrode, having heard of Lydgate’s debts, had been -anxious to know whether her husband could not do something for poor -Rosamond, and had been much troubled on learning from him that -Lydgate’s affairs were not easily remediable, and that the wisest plan -was to let them “take their course.” Mrs. Bulstrode had then said for -the first time, “I think you are always a little hard towards my -family, Nicholas. And I am sure I have no reason to deny any of my -relatives. Too worldly they may be, but no one ever had to say that -they were not respectable.” - -“My dear Harriet,” said Mr. Bulstrode, wincing under his wife’s eyes, -which were filling with tears, “I have supplied your brother with a -great deal of capital. I cannot be expected to take care of his married -children.” - -That seemed to be true, and Mrs. Bulstrode’s remonstrance subsided into -pity for poor Rosamond, whose extravagant education she had always -foreseen the fruits of. - -But remembering that dialogue, Mr. Bulstrode felt that when he had to -talk to his wife fully about his plan of quitting Middlemarch, he -should be glad to tell her that he had made an arrangement which might -be for the good of her nephew Fred. At present he had merely mentioned -to her that he thought of shutting up The Shrubs for a few months, and -taking a house on the Southern Coast. - -Hence Mr. Garth got the assurance he desired, namely, that in case of -Bulstrode’s departure from Middlemarch for an indefinite time, Fred -Vincy should be allowed to have the tenancy of Stone Court on the terms -proposed. - -Caleb was so elated with his hope of this “neat turn” being given to -things, that if his self-control had not been braced by a little -affectionate wifely scolding, he would have betrayed everything to -Mary, wanting “to give the child comfort.” However, he restrained -himself, and kept in strict privacy from Fred certain visits which he -was making to Stone Court, in order to look more thoroughly into the -state of the land and stock, and take a preliminary estimate. He was -certainly more eager in these visits than the probable speed of events -required him to be; but he was stimulated by a fatherly delight in -occupying his mind with this bit of probable happiness which he held in -store like a hidden birthday gift for Fred and Mary. - -“But suppose the whole scheme should turn out to be a castle in the -air?” said Mrs. Garth. - -“Well, well,” replied Caleb; “the castle will tumble about nobody’s -head.” - - - - -CHAPTER LXIX. - -“If thou hast heard a word, let it die with thee.” -—_Ecclesiasticus_. - - -Mr. Bulstrode was still seated in his manager’s room at the Bank, about -three o’clock of the same day on which he had received Lydgate there, -when the clerk entered to say that his horse was waiting, and also that -Mr. Garth was outside and begged to speak with him. - -“By all means,” said Bulstrode; and Caleb entered. “Pray sit down, Mr. -Garth,” continued the banker, in his suavest tone. - -“I am glad that you arrived just in time to find me here. I know you -count your minutes.” - -“Oh,” said Caleb, gently, with a slow swing of his head on one side, as -he seated himself and laid his hat on the floor. - -He looked at the ground, leaning forward and letting his long fingers -droop between his legs, while each finger moved in succession, as if it -were sharing some thought which filled his large quiet brow. - -Mr. Bulstrode, like every one else who knew Caleb, was used to his -slowness in beginning to speak on any topic which he felt to be -important, and rather expected that he was about to recur to the buying -of some houses in Blindman’s Court, for the sake of pulling them down, -as a sacrifice of property which would be well repaid by the influx of -air and light on that spot. It was by propositions of this kind that -Caleb was sometimes troublesome to his employers; but he had usually -found Bulstrode ready to meet him in projects of improvement, and they -had got on well together. When he spoke again, however, it was to say, -in rather a subdued voice— - -“I have just come away from Stone Court, Mr. Bulstrode.” - -“You found nothing wrong there, I hope,” said the banker; “I was there -myself yesterday. Abel has done well with the lambs this year.” - -“Why, yes,” said Caleb, looking up gravely, “there is something wrong—a -stranger, who is very ill, I think. He wants a doctor, and I came to -tell you of that. His name is Raffles.” - -He saw the shock of his words passing through Bulstrode’s frame. On -this subject the banker had thought that his fears were too constantly -on the watch to be taken by surprise; but he had been mistaken. - -“Poor wretch!” he said in a compassionate tone, though his lips -trembled a little. “Do you know how he came there?” - -“I took him myself,” said Caleb, quietly—“took him up in my gig. He had -got down from the coach, and was walking a little beyond the turning -from the toll-house, and I overtook him. He remembered seeing me with -you once before, at Stone Court, and he asked me to take him on. I saw -he was ill: it seemed to me the right thing to do, to carry him under -shelter. And now I think you should lose no time in getting advice for -him.” Caleb took up his hat from the floor as he ended, and rose slowly -from his seat. - -“Certainly,” said Bulstrode, whose mind was very active at this moment. -“Perhaps you will yourself oblige me, Mr. Garth, by calling at Mr. -Lydgate’s as you pass—or stay! he may at this hour probably be at the -Hospital. I will first send my man on the horse there with a note this -instant, and then I will myself ride to Stone Court.” - -Bulstrode quickly wrote a note, and went out himself to give the -commission to his man. When he returned, Caleb was standing as before -with one hand on the back of the chair, holding his hat with the other. -In Bulstrode’s mind the dominant thought was, “Perhaps Raffles only -spoke to Garth of his illness. Garth may wonder, as he must have done -before, at this disreputable fellow’s claiming intimacy with me; but he -will know nothing. And he is friendly to me—I can be of use to him.” - -He longed for some confirmation of this hopeful conjecture, but to have -asked any question as to what Raffles had said or done would have been -to betray fear. - -“I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Garth,” he said, in his usual -tone of politeness. “My servant will be back in a few minutes, and I -shall then go myself to see what can be done for this unfortunate man. -Perhaps you had some other business with me? If so, pray be seated.” - -“Thank you,” said Caleb, making a slight gesture with his right hand to -waive the invitation. “I wish to say, Mr. Bulstrode, that I must -request you to put your business into some other hands than mine. I am -obliged to you for your handsome way of meeting me—about the letting of -Stone Court, and all other business. But I must give it up.” A sharp -certainty entered like a stab into Bulstrode’s soul. - -“This is sudden, Mr. Garth,” was all he could say at first. - -“It is,” said Caleb; “but it is quite fixed. I must give it up.” - -He spoke with a firmness which was very gentle, and yet he could see -that Bulstrode seemed to cower under that gentleness, his face looking -dried and his eyes swerving away from the glance which rested on him. -Caleb felt a deep pity for him, but he could have used no pretexts to -account for his resolve, even if they would have been of any use. - -“You have been led to this, I apprehend, by some slanders concerning me -uttered by that unhappy creature,” said Bulstrode, anxious now to know -the utmost. - -“That is true. I can’t deny that I act upon what I heard from him.” - -“You are a conscientious man, Mr. Garth—a man, I trust, who feels -himself accountable to God. You would not wish to injure me by being -too ready to believe a slander,” said Bulstrode, casting about for -pleas that might be adapted to his hearer’s mind. “That is a poor -reason for giving up a connection which I think I may say will be -mutually beneficial.” - -“I would injure no man if I could help it,” said Caleb; “even if I -thought God winked at it. I hope I should have a feeling for my -fellow-creature. But, sir—I am obliged to believe that this Raffles has -told me the truth. And I can’t be happy in working with you, or -profiting by you. It hurts my mind. I must beg you to seek another -agent.” - -“Very well, Mr. Garth. But I must at least claim to know the worst that -he has told you. I must know what is the foul speech that I am liable -to be the victim of,” said Bulstrode, a certain amount of anger -beginning to mingle with his humiliation before this quiet man who -renounced his benefits. - -“That’s needless,” said Caleb, waving his hand, bowing his head -slightly, and not swerving from the tone which had in it the merciful -intention to spare this pitiable man. “What he has said to me will -never pass from my lips, unless something now unknown forces it from -me. If you led a harmful life for gain, and kept others out of their -rights by deceit, to get the more for yourself, I dare say you -repent—you would like to go back, and can’t: that must be a bitter -thing”—Caleb paused a moment and shook his head—“it is not for me to -make your life harder to you.” - -“But you do—you do make it harder to me,” said Bulstrode constrained -into a genuine, pleading cry. “You make it harder to me by turning your -back on me.” - -“That I’m forced to do,” said Caleb, still more gently, lifting up his -hand. “I am sorry. I don’t judge you and say, he is wicked, and I am -righteous. God forbid. I don’t know everything. A man may do wrong, and -his will may rise clear out of it, though he can’t get his life clear. -That’s a bad punishment. If it is so with you,—well, I’m very sorry for -you. But I have that feeling inside me, that I can’t go on working with -you. That’s all, Mr. Bulstrode. Everything else is buried, so far as my -will goes. And I wish you good-day.” - -“One moment, Mr. Garth!” said Bulstrode, hurriedly. “I may trust then -to your solemn assurance that you will not repeat either to man or -woman what—even if it have any degree of truth in it—is yet a malicious -representation?” Caleb’s wrath was stirred, and he said, indignantly— - -“Why should I have said it if I didn’t mean it? I am in no fear of you. -Such tales as that will never tempt my tongue.” - -“Excuse me—I am agitated—I am the victim of this abandoned man.” - -“Stop a bit! you have got to consider whether you didn’t help to make -him worse, when you profited by his vices.” - -“You are wronging me by too readily believing him,” said Bulstrode, -oppressed, as by a nightmare, with the inability to deny flatly what -Raffles might have said; and yet feeling it an escape that Caleb had -not so stated it to him as to ask for that flat denial. - -“No,” said Caleb, lifting his hand deprecatingly; “I am ready to -believe better, when better is proved. I rob you of no good chance. As -to speaking, I hold it a crime to expose a man’s sin unless I’m clear -it must be done to save the innocent. That is my way of thinking, Mr. -Bulstrode, and what I say, I’ve no need to swear. I wish you good-day.” - -Some hours later, when he was at home, Caleb said to his wife, -incidentally, that he had had some little differences with Bulstrode, -and that in consequence, he had given up all notion of taking Stone -Court, and indeed had resigned doing further business for him. - -“He was disposed to interfere too much, was he?” said Mrs. Garth, -imagining that her husband had been touched on his sensitive point, and -not been allowed to do what he thought right as to materials and modes -of work. - -“Oh,” said Caleb, bowing his head and waving his hand gravely. And Mrs. -Garth knew that this was a sign of his not intending to speak further -on the subject. - -As for Bulstrode, he had almost immediately mounted his horse and set -off for Stone Court, being anxious to arrive there before Lydgate. - -His mind was crowded with images and conjectures, which were a language -to his hopes and fears, just as we hear tones from the vibrations which -shake our whole system. The deep humiliation with which he had winced -under Caleb Garth’s knowledge of his past and rejection of his -patronage, alternated with and almost gave way to the sense of safety -in the fact that Garth, and no other, had been the man to whom Raffles -had spoken. It seemed to him a sort of earnest that Providence intended -his rescue from worse consequences; the way being thus left open for -the hope of secrecy. That Raffles should be afflicted with illness, -that he should have been led to Stone Court rather than -elsewhere—Bulstrode’s heart fluttered at the vision of probabilities -which these events conjured up. If it should turn out that he was freed -from all danger of disgrace—if he could breathe in perfect liberty—his -life should be more consecrated than it had ever been before. He -mentally lifted up this vow as if it would urge the result he longed -for—he tried to believe in the potency of that prayerful resolution—its -potency to determine death. He knew that he ought to say, “Thy will be -done;” and he said it often. But the intense desire remained that the -will of God might be the death of that hated man. - -Yet when he arrived at Stone Court he could not see the change in -Raffles without a shock. But for his pallor and feebleness, Bulstrode -would have called the change in him entirely mental. Instead of his -loud tormenting mood, he showed an intense, vague terror, and seemed to -deprecate Bulstrode’s anger, because the money was all gone—he had been -robbed—it had half of it been taken from him. He had only come here -because he was ill and somebody was hunting him—somebody was after him, -he had told nobody anything, he had kept his mouth shut. Bulstrode, not -knowing the significance of these symptoms, interpreted this new -nervous susceptibility into a means of alarming Raffles into true -confessions, and taxed him with falsehood in saying that he had not -told anything, since he had just told the man who took him up in his -gig and brought him to Stone Court. Raffles denied this with solemn -adjurations; the fact being that the links of consciousness were -interrupted in him, and that his minute terror-stricken narrative to -Caleb Garth had been delivered under a set of visionary impulses which -had dropped back into darkness. - -Bulstrode’s heart sank again at this sign that he could get no grasp -over the wretched man’s mind, and that no word of Raffles could be -trusted as to the fact which he most wanted to know, namely, whether or -not he had really kept silence to every one in the neighborhood except -Caleb Garth. The housekeeper had told him without the least constraint -of manner that since Mr. Garth left, Raffles had asked her for beer, -and after that had not spoken, seeming very ill. On that side it might -be concluded that there had been no betrayal. Mrs. Abel thought, like -the servants at The Shrubs, that the strange man belonged to the -unpleasant “kin” who are among the troubles of the rich; she had at -first referred the kinship to Mr. Rigg, and where there was property -left, the buzzing presence of such large blue-bottles seemed natural -enough. How he could be “kin” to Bulstrode as well was not so clear, -but Mrs. Abel agreed with her husband that there was “no knowing,” a -proposition which had a great deal of mental food for her, so that she -shook her head over it without further speculation. - -In less than an hour Lydgate arrived. Bulstrode met him outside the -wainscoted parlor, where Raffles was, and said— - -“I have called you in, Mr. Lydgate, to an unfortunate man who was once -in my employment, many years ago. Afterwards he went to America, and -returned I fear to an idle dissolute life. Being destitute, he has a -claim on me. He was slightly connected with Rigg, the former owner of -this place, and in consequence found his way here. I believe he is -seriously ill: apparently his mind is affected. I feel bound to do the -utmost for him.” - -Lydgate, who had the remembrance of his last conversation with -Bulstrode strongly upon him, was not disposed to say an unnecessary -word to him, and bowed slightly in answer to this account; but just -before entering the room he turned automatically and said, “What is his -name?”—to know names being as much a part of the medical man’s -accomplishment as of the practical politician’s. - -“Raffles, John Raffles,” said Bulstrode, who hoped that whatever became -of Raffles, Lydgate would never know any more of him. - -When he had thoroughly examined and considered the patient, Lydgate -ordered that he should go to bed, and be kept there in as complete -quiet as possible, and then went with Bulstrode into another room. - -“It is a serious case, I apprehend,” said the banker, before Lydgate -began to speak. - -“No—and yes,” said Lydgate, half dubiously. “It is difficult to decide -as to the possible effect of long-standing complications; but the man -had a robust constitution to begin with. I should not expect this -attack to be fatal, though of course the system is in a ticklish state. -He should be well watched and attended to.” - -“I will remain here myself,” said Bulstrode. “Mrs. Abel and her husband -are inexperienced. I can easily remain here for the night, if you will -oblige me by taking a note for Mrs. Bulstrode.” - -“I should think that is hardly necessary,” said Lydgate. “He seems tame -and terrified enough. He might become more unmanageable. But there is a -man here—is there not?” - -“I have more than once stayed here a few nights for the sake of -seclusion,” said Bulstrode, indifferently; “I am quite disposed to do -so now. Mrs. Abel and her husband can relieve or aid me, if necessary.” - -“Very well. Then I need give my directions only to you,” said Lydgate, -not feeling surprised at a little peculiarity in Bulstrode. - -“You think, then, that the case is hopeful?” said Bulstrode, when -Lydgate had ended giving his orders. - -“Unless there turn out to be further complications, such as I have not -at present detected—yes,” said Lydgate. “He may pass on to a worse -stage; but I should not wonder if he got better in a few days, by -adhering to the treatment I have prescribed. There must be firmness. -Remember, if he calls for liquors of any sort, not to give them to him. -In my opinion, men in his condition are oftener killed by treatment -than by the disease. Still, new symptoms may arise. I shall come again -to-morrow morning.” - -After waiting for the note to be carried to Mrs. Bulstrode, Lydgate -rode away, forming no conjectures, in the first instance, about the -history of Raffles, but rehearsing the whole argument, which had lately -been much stirred by the publication of Dr. Ware’s abundant experience -in America, as to the right way of treating cases of alcoholic -poisoning such as this. Lydgate, when abroad, had already been -interested in this question: he was strongly convinced against the -prevalent practice of allowing alcohol and persistently administering -large doses of opium; and he had repeatedly acted on this conviction -with a favorable result. - -“The man is in a diseased state,” he thought, “but there’s a good deal -of wear in him still. I suppose he is an object of charity to -Bulstrode. It is curious what patches of hardness and tenderness lie -side by side in men’s dispositions. Bulstrode seems the most -unsympathetic fellow I ever saw about some people, and yet he has taken -no end of trouble, and spent a great deal of money, on benevolent -objects. I suppose he has some test by which he finds out whom Heaven -cares for—he has made up his mind that it doesn’t care for me.” - -This streak of bitterness came from a plenteous source, and kept -widening in the current of his thought as he neared Lowick Gate. He had -not been there since his first interview with Bulstrode in the morning, -having been found at the Hospital by the banker’s messenger; and for -the first time he was returning to his home without the vision of any -expedient in the background which left him a hope of raising money -enough to deliver him from the coming destitution of everything which -made his married life tolerable—everything which saved him and Rosamond -from that bare isolation in which they would be forced to recognize how -little of a comfort they could be to each other. It was more bearable -to do without tenderness for himself than to see that his own -tenderness could make no amends for the lack of other things to her. -The sufferings of his own pride from humiliations past and to come were -keen enough, yet they were hardly distinguishable to himself from that -more acute pain which dominated them—the pain of foreseeing that -Rosamond would come to regard him chiefly as the cause of -disappointment and unhappiness to her. He had never liked the -makeshifts of poverty, and they had never before entered into his -prospects for himself; but he was beginning now to imagine how two -creatures who loved each other, and had a stock of thoughts in common, -might laugh over their shabby furniture, and their calculations how far -they could afford butter and eggs. But the glimpse of that poetry -seemed as far off from him as the carelessness of the golden age; in -poor Rosamond’s mind there was not room enough for luxuries to look -small in. He got down from his horse in a very sad mood, and went into -the house, not expecting to be cheered except by his dinner, and -reflecting that before the evening closed it would be wise to tell -Rosamond of his application to Bulstrode and its failure. It would be -well not to lose time in preparing her for the worst. - -But his dinner waited long for him before he was able to eat it. For on -entering he found that Dover’s agent had already put a man in the -house, and when he asked where Mrs. Lydgate was, he was told that she -was in her bedroom. He went up and found her stretched on the bed pale -and silent, without an answer even in her face to any word or look of -his. He sat down by the bed and leaning over her said with almost a cry -of prayer— - -“Forgive me for this misery, my poor Rosamond! Let us only love one -another.” - -She looked at him silently, still with the blank despair on her face; -but then the tears began to fill her blue eyes, and her lip trembled. -The strong man had had too much to bear that day. He let his head fall -beside hers and sobbed. - -He did not hinder her from going to her father early in the morning—it -seemed now that he ought not to hinder her from doing as she pleased. -In half an hour she came back, and said that papa and mamma wished her -to go and stay with them while things were in this miserable state. -Papa said he could do nothing about the debt—if he paid this, there -would be half-a-dozen more. She had better come back home again till -Lydgate had got a comfortable home for her. “Do you object, Tertius?” - -“Do as you like,” said Lydgate. “But things are not coming to a crisis -immediately. There is no hurry.” - -“I should not go till to-morrow,” said Rosamond; “I shall want to pack -my clothes.” - -“Oh, I would wait a little longer than to-morrow—there is no knowing -what may happen,” said Lydgate, with bitter irony. “I may get my neck -broken, and that may make things easier to you.” - -It was Lydgate’s misfortune and Rosamond’s too, that his tenderness -towards her, which was both an emotional prompting and a -well-considered resolve, was inevitably interrupted by these outbursts -of indignation either ironical or remonstrant. She thought them totally -unwarranted, and the repulsion which this exceptional severity excited -in her was in danger of making the more persistent tenderness -unacceptable. - -“I see you do not wish me to go,” she said, with chill mildness; “why -can you not say so, without that kind of violence? I shall stay until -you request me to do otherwise.” - -Lydgate said no more, but went out on his rounds. He felt bruised and -shattered, and there was a dark line under his eyes which Rosamond had -not seen before. She could not bear to look at him. Tertius had a way -of taking things which made them a great deal worse for her. - - - - -CHAPTER LXX. - -“Our deeds still travel with us from afar, -And what we have been makes us what we are.” - - -Bulstrode’s first object after Lydgate had left Stone Court was to -examine Raffles’s pockets, which he imagined were sure to carry signs -in the shape of hotel-bills of the places he had stopped in, if he had -not told the truth in saying that he had come straight from Liverpool -because he was ill and had no money. There were various bills crammed -into his pocketbook, but none of a later date than Christmas at any -other place, except one, which bore date that morning. This was -crumpled up with a hand-bill about a horse-fair in one of his -tail-pockets, and represented the cost of three days’ stay at an inn at -Bilkley, where the fair was held—a town at least forty miles from -Middlemarch. The bill was heavy, and since Raffles had no luggage with -him, it seemed probable that he had left his portmanteau behind in -payment, in order to save money for his travelling fare; for his purse -was empty, and he had only a couple of sixpences and some loose pence -in his pockets. - -Bulstrode gathered a sense of safety from these indications that -Raffles had really kept at a distance from Middlemarch since his -memorable visit at Christmas. At a distance and among people who were -strangers to Bulstrode, what satisfaction could there be to Raffles’s -tormenting, self-magnifying vein in telling old scandalous stories -about a Middlemarch banker? And what harm if he did talk? The chief -point now was to keep watch over him as long as there was any danger of -that intelligible raving, that unaccountable impulse to tell, which -seemed to have acted towards Caleb Garth; and Bulstrode felt much -anxiety lest some such impulse should come over him at the sight of -Lydgate. He sat up alone with him through the night, only ordering the -housekeeper to lie down in her clothes, so as to be ready when he -called her, alleging his own indisposition to sleep, and his anxiety to -carry out the doctor’s orders. He did carry them out faithfully, -although Raffles was incessantly asking for brandy, and declaring that -he was sinking away—that the earth was sinking away from under him. He -was restless and sleepless, but still quailing and manageable. On the -offer of the food ordered by Lydgate, which he refused, and the denial -of other things which he demanded, he seemed to concentrate all his -terror on Bulstrode, imploringly deprecating his anger, his revenge on -him by starvation, and declaring with strong oaths that he had never -told any mortal a word against him. Even this Bulstrode felt that he -would not have liked Lydgate to hear; but a more alarming sign of -fitful alternation in his delirium was, that in-the morning twilight -Raffles suddenly seemed to imagine a doctor present, addressing him and -declaring that Bulstrode wanted to starve him to death out of revenge -for telling, when he never had told. - -Bulstrode’s native imperiousness and strength of determination served -him well. This delicate-looking man, himself nervously perturbed, found -the needed stimulus in his strenuous circumstances, and through that -difficult night and morning, while he had the air of an animated corpse -returned to movement without warmth, holding the mastery by its chill -impassibility, his mind was intensely at work thinking of what he had -to guard against and what would win him security. Whatever prayers he -might lift up, whatever statements he might inwardly make of this man’s -wretched spiritual condition, and the duty he himself was under to -submit to the punishment divinely appointed for him rather than to wish -for evil to another—through all this effort to condense words into a -solid mental state, there pierced and spread with irresistible -vividness the images of the events he desired. And in the train of -those images came their apology. He could not but see the death of -Raffles, and see in it his own deliverance. What was the removal of -this wretched creature? He was impenitent—but were not public criminals -impenitent?—yet the law decided on their fate. Should Providence in -this case award death, there was no sin in contemplating death as the -desirable issue—if he kept his hands from hastening it—if he -scrupulously did what was prescribed. Even here there might be a -mistake: human prescriptions were fallible things: Lydgate had said -that treatment had hastened death,—why not his own method of treatment? -But of course intention was everything in the question of right and -wrong. - -And Bulstrode set himself to keep his intention separate from his -desire. He inwardly declared that he intended to obey orders. Why -should he have got into any argument about the validity of these -orders? It was only the common trick of desire—which avails itself of -any irrelevant scepticism, finding larger room for itself in all -uncertainty about effects, in every obscurity that looks like the -absence of law. Still, he did obey the orders. - -His anxieties continually glanced towards Lydgate, and his remembrance -of what had taken place between them the morning before was accompanied -with sensibilities which had not been roused at all during the actual -scene. He had then cared but little about Lydgate’s painful impressions -with regard to the suggested change in the Hospital, or about the -disposition towards himself which what he held to be his justifiable -refusal of a rather exorbitant request might call forth. He recurred to -the scene now with a perception that he had probably made Lydgate his -enemy, and with an awakened desire to propitiate him, or rather to -create in him a strong sense of personal obligation. He regretted that -he had not at once made even an unreasonable money-sacrifice. For in -case of unpleasant suspicions, or even knowledge gathered from the -raving of Raffles, Bulstrode would have felt that he had a defence in -Lydgate’s mind by having conferred a momentous benefit on him. But the -regret had perhaps come too late. - -Strange, piteous conflict in the soul of this unhappy man, who had -longed for years to be better than he was—who had taken his selfish -passions into discipline and clad them in severe robes, so that he had -walked with them as a devout choir, till now that a terror had risen -among them, and they could chant no longer, but threw out their common -cries for safety. - -It was nearly the middle of the day before Lydgate arrived: he had -meant to come earlier, but had been detained, he said; and his -shattered looks were noticed by Balstrode. But he immediately threw -himself into the consideration of the patient, and inquired strictly -into all that had occurred. Raffles was worse, would take hardly any -food, was persistently wakeful and restlessly raving; but still not -violent. Contrary to Bulstrode’s alarmed expectation, he took little -notice of Lydgate’s presence, and continued to talk or murmur -incoherently. - -“What do you think of him?” said Bulstrode, in private. - -“The symptoms are worse.” - -“You are less hopeful?” - -“No; I still think he may come round. Are you going to stay here -yourself?” said Lydgate, looking at Bulstrode with an abrupt question, -which made him uneasy, though in reality it was not due to any -suspicious conjecture. - -“Yes, I think so,” said Bulstrode, governing himself and speaking with -deliberation. “Mrs. Bulstrode is advised of the reasons which detain -me. Mrs. Abel and her husband are not experienced enough to be left -quite alone, and this kind of responsibility is scarcely included in -their service of me. You have some fresh instructions, I presume.” - -The chief new instruction that Lydgate had to give was on the -administration of extremely moderate doses of opium, in case of the -sleeplessness continuing after several hours. He had taken the -precaution of bringing opium in his pocket, and he gave minute -directions to Bulstrode as to the doses, and the point at which they -should cease. He insisted on the risk of not ceasing; and repeated his -order that no alcohol should be given. - -“From what I see of the case,” he ended, “narcotism is the only thing I -should be much afraid of. He may wear through even without much food. -There’s a good deal of strength in him.” - -“You look ill yourself, Mr. Lydgate—a most unusual, I may say -unprecedented thing in my knowledge of you,” said Bulstrode, showing a -solicitude as unlike his indifference the day before, as his present -recklessness about his own fatigue was unlike his habitual -self-cherishing anxiety. “I fear you are harassed.” - -“Yes, I am,” said Lydgate, brusquely, holding his hat, and ready to go. - -“Something new, I fear,” said Bulstrode, inquiringly. “Pray be seated.” - -“No, thank you,” said Lydgate, with some hauteur. “I mentioned to you -yesterday what was the state of my affairs. There is nothing to add, -except that the execution has since then been actually put into my -house. One can tell a good deal of trouble in a short sentence. I will -say good morning.” - -“Stay, Mr. Lydgate, stay,” said Bulstrode; “I have been reconsidering -this subject. I was yesterday taken by surprise, and saw it -superficially. Mrs. Bulstrode is anxious for her niece, and I myself -should grieve at a calamitous change in your position. Claims on me are -numerous, but on reconsideration, I esteem it right that I should incur -a small sacrifice rather than leave you unaided. You said, I think, -that a thousand pounds would suffice entirely to free you from your -burthens, and enable you to recover a firm stand?” - -“Yes,” said Lydgate, a great leap of joy within him surmounting every -other feeling; “that would pay all my debts, and leave me a little on -hand. I could set about economizing in our way of living. And by-and-by -my practice might look up.” - -“If you will wait a moment, Mr. Lydgate, I will draw a check to that -amount. I am aware that help, to be effectual in these cases, should be -thorough.” - -While Bulstrode wrote, Lydgate turned to the window thinking of his -home—thinking of his life with its good start saved from frustration, -its good purposes still unbroken. - -“You can give me a note of hand for this, Mr. Lydgate,” said the -banker, advancing towards him with the check. “And by-and-by, I hope, -you may be in circumstances gradually to repay me. Meanwhile, I have -pleasure in thinking that you will be released from further -difficulty.” - -“I am deeply obliged to you,” said Lydgate. “You have restored to me -the prospect of working with some happiness and some chance of good.” - -It appeared to him a very natural movement in Bulstrode that he should -have reconsidered his refusal: it corresponded with the more munificent -side of his character. But as he put his hack into a canter, that he -might get the sooner home, and tell the good news to Rosamond, and get -cash at the bank to pay over to Dover’s agent, there crossed his mind, -with an unpleasant impression, as from a dark-winged flight of evil -augury across his vision, the thought of that contrast in himself which -a few months had brought—that he should be overjoyed at being under a -strong personal obligation—that he should be overjoyed at getting money -for himself from Bulstrode. - -The banker felt that he had done something to nullify one cause of -uneasiness, and yet he was scarcely the easier. He did not measure the -quantity of diseased motive which had made him wish for Lydgate’s -good-will, but the quantity was none the less actively there, like an -irritating agent in his blood. A man vows, and yet will not cast away -the means of breaking his vow. Is it that he distinctly means to break -it? Not at all; but the desires which tend to break it are at work in -him dimly, and make their way into his imagination, and relax his -muscles in the very moments when he is telling himself over again the -reasons for his vow. Raffles, recovering quickly, returning to the free -use of his odious powers—how could Bulstrode wish for that? Raffles -dead was the image that brought release, and indirectly he prayed for -that way of release, beseeching that, if it were possible, the rest of -his days here below might be freed from the threat of an ignominy which -would break him utterly as an instrument of God’s service. Lydgate’s -opinion was not on the side of promise that this prayer would be -fulfilled; and as the day advanced, Bulstrode felt himself getting -irritated at the persistent life in this man, whom he would fain have -seen sinking into the silence of death: imperious will stirred -murderous impulses towards this brute life, over which will, by itself, -had no power. He said inwardly that he was getting too much worn; he -would not sit up with the patient to-night, but leave him to Mrs. Abel, -who, if necessary, could call her husband. - -At six o’clock, Raffles, having had only fitful perturbed snatches of -sleep, from which he waked with fresh restlessness and perpetual cries -that he was sinking away, Bulstrode began to administer the opium -according to Lydgate’s directions. At the end of half an hour or more -he called Mrs. Abel and told her that he found himself unfit for -further watching. He must now consign the patient to her care; and he -proceeded to repeat to her Lydgate’s directions as to the quantity of -each dose. Mrs. Abel had not before known anything of Lydgate’s -prescriptions; she had simply prepared and brought whatever Bulstrode -ordered, and had done what he pointed out to her. She began now to ask -what else she should do besides administering the opium. - -“Nothing at present, except the offer of the soup or the soda-water: -you can come to me for further directions. Unless there is any -important change, I shall not come into the room again to-night. You -will ask your husband for help if necessary. I must go to bed early.” - -“You’ve much need, sir, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Abel, “and to take -something more strengthening than what you’ve done.” - -Bulstrode went away now without anxiety as to what Raffles might say in -his raving, which had taken on a muttering incoherence not likely to -create any dangerous belief. At any rate he must risk this. He went -down into the wainscoted parlor first, and began to consider whether he -would not have his horse saddled and go home by the moonlight, and give -up caring for earthly consequences. Then, he wished that he had begged -Lydgate to come again that evening. Perhaps he might deliver a -different opinion, and think that Raffles was getting into a less -hopeful state. Should he send for Lydgate? If Raffles were really -getting worse, and slowly dying, Bulstrode felt that he could go to bed -and sleep in gratitude to Providence. But was he worse? Lydgate might -come and simply say that he was going on as he expected, and predict -that he would by-and-by fall into a good sleep, and get well. What was -the use of sending for him? Bulstrode shrank from that result. No ideas -or opinions could hinder him from seeing the one probability to be, -that Raffles recovered would be just the same man as before, with his -strength as a tormentor renewed, obliging him to drag away his wife to -spend her years apart from her friends and native place, carrying an -alienating suspicion against him in her heart. - -He had sat an hour and a half in this conflict by the firelight only, -when a sudden thought made him rise and light the bed-candle, which he -had brought down with him. The thought was, that he had not told Mrs. -Abel when the doses of opium must cease. - -He took hold of the candlestick, but stood motionless for a long while. -She might already have given him more than Lydgate had prescribed. But -it was excusable in him, that he should forget part of an order, in his -present wearied condition. He walked up-stairs, candle in hand, not -knowing whether he should straightway enter his own room and go to bed, -or turn to the patient’s room and rectify his omission. He paused in -the passage, with his face turned towards Raffles’s room, and he could -hear him moaning and murmuring. He was not asleep, then. Who could know -that Lydgate’s prescription would not be better disobeyed than -followed, since there was still no sleep? - -He turned into his own room. Before he had quite undressed, Mrs. Abel -rapped at the door; he opened it an inch, so that he could hear her -speak low. - -“If you please, sir, should I have no brandy nor nothing to give the -poor creetur? He feels sinking away, and nothing else will he -swaller—and but little strength in it, if he did—only the opium. And he -says more and more he’s sinking down through the earth.” - -To her surprise, Mr. Bulstrode did not answer. A struggle was going on -within him. - -“I think he must die for want o’ support, if he goes on in that way. -When I nursed my poor master, Mr. Robisson, I had to give him port-wine -and brandy constant, and a big glass at a time,” added Mrs. Abel, with -a touch of remonstrance in her tone. - -But again Mr. Bulstrode did not answer immediately, and she continued, -“It’s not a time to spare when people are at death’s door, nor would -you wish it, sir, I’m sure. Else I should give him our own bottle o’ -rum as we keep by us. But a sitter-up so as you’ve been, and doing -everything as laid in your power—” - -Here a key was thrust through the inch of doorway, and Mr. Bulstrode -said huskily, “That is the key of the wine-cooler. You will find plenty -of brandy there.” - -Early in the morning—about six—Mr. Bulstrode rose and spent some time -in prayer. Does any one suppose that private prayer is necessarily -candid—necessarily goes to the roots of action? Private prayer is -inaudible speech, and speech is representative: who can represent -himself just as he is, even in his own reflections? Bulstrode had not -yet unravelled in his thought the confused promptings of the last -four-and-twenty hours. - -He listened in the passage, and could hear hard stertorous breathing. -Then he walked out in the garden, and looked at the early rime on the -grass and fresh spring leaves. When he re-entered the house, he felt -startled at the sight of Mrs. Abel. - -“How is your patient—asleep, I think?” he said, with an attempt at -cheerfulness in his tone. - -“He’s gone very deep, sir,” said Mrs. Abel. “He went off gradual -between three and four o’clock. Would you please to go and look at him? -I thought it no harm to leave him. My man’s gone afield, and the little -girl’s seeing to the kettles.” - -Bulstrode went up. At a glance he knew that Raffles was not in the -sleep which brings revival, but in the sleep which streams deeper and -deeper into the gulf of death. - -He looked round the room and saw a bottle with some brandy in it, and -the almost empty opium phial. He put the phial out of sight, and -carried the brandy-bottle down-stairs with him, locking it again in the -wine-cooler. - -While breakfasting he considered whether he should ride to Middlemarch -at once, or wait for Lydgate’s arrival. He decided to wait, and told -Mrs. Abel that she might go about her work—he could watch in the -bed-chamber. - -As he sat there and beheld the enemy of his peace going irrevocably -into silence, he felt more at rest than he had done for many months. -His conscience was soothed by the enfolding wing of secrecy, which -seemed just then like an angel sent down for his relief. He drew out -his pocket-book to review various memoranda there as to the -arrangements he had projected and partly carried out in the prospect of -quitting Middlemarch, and considered how far he would let them stand or -recall them, now that his absence would be brief. Some economies which -he felt desirable might still find a suitable occasion in his temporary -withdrawal from management, and he hoped still that Mrs. Casaubon would -take a large share in the expenses of the Hospital. In that way the -moments passed, until a change in the stertorous breathing was marked -enough to draw his attention wholly to the bed, and forced him to think -of the departing life, which had once been subservient to his own—which -he had once been glad to find base enough for him to act on as he -would. It was his gladness then which impelled him now to be glad that -the life was at an end. - -And who could say that the death of Raffles had been hastened? Who knew -what would have saved him? - -Lydgate arrived at half-past ten, in time to witness the final pause of -the breath. When he entered the room Bulstrode observed a sudden -expression in his face, which was not so much surprise as a recognition -that he had not judged correctly. He stood by the bed in silence for -some time, with his eyes turned on the dying man, but with that subdued -activity of expression which showed that he was carrying on an inward -debate. - -“When did this change begin?” said he, looking at Bulstrode. - -“I did not watch by him last night,” said Bulstrode. “I was over-worn, -and left him under Mrs. Abel’s care. She said that he sank into sleep -between three and four o’clock. When I came in before eight he was -nearly in this condition.” - -Lydgate did not ask another question, but watched in silence until he -said, “It’s all over.” - -This morning Lydgate was in a state of recovered hope and freedom. He -had set out on his work with all his old animation, and felt himself -strong enough to bear all the deficiencies of his married life. And he -was conscious that Bulstrode had been a benefactor to him. But he was -uneasy about this case. He had not expected it to terminate as it had -done. Yet he hardly knew how to put a question on the subject to -Bulstrode without appearing to insult him; and if he examined the -housekeeper—why, the man was dead. There seemed to be no use in -implying that somebody’s ignorance or imprudence had killed him. And -after all, he himself might be wrong. - -He and Bulstrode rode back to Middlemarch together, talking of many -things—chiefly cholera and the chances of the Reform Bill in the House -of Lords, and the firm resolve of the political Unions. Nothing was -said about Raffles, except that Bulstrode mentioned the necessity of -having a grave for him in Lowick churchyard, and observed that, so far -as he knew, the poor man had no connections, except Rigg, whom he had -stated to be unfriendly towards him. - -On returning home Lydgate had a visit from Mr. Farebrother. The Vicar -had not been in the town the day before, but the news that there was an -execution in Lydgate’s house had got to Lowick by the evening, having -been carried by Mr. Spicer, shoemaker and parish-clerk, who had it from -his brother, the respectable bell-hanger in Lowick Gate. Since that -evening when Lydgate had come down from the billiard room with Fred -Vincy, Mr. Farebrother’s thoughts about him had been rather gloomy. -Playing at the Green Dragon once or oftener might have been a trifle in -another man; but in Lydgate it was one of several signs that he was -getting unlike his former self. He was beginning to do things for which -he had formerly even an excessive scorn. Whatever certain -dissatisfactions in marriage, which some silly tinklings of gossip had -given him hints of, might have to do with this change, Mr. Farebrother -felt sure that it was chiefly connected with the debts which were being -more and more distinctly reported, and he began to fear that any notion -of Lydgate’s having resources or friends in the background must be -quite illusory. The rebuff he had met with in his first attempt to win -Lydgate’s confidence, disinclined him to a second; but this news of the -execution being actually in the house, determined the Vicar to overcome -his reluctance. - -Lydgate had just dismissed a poor patient, in whom he was much -interested, and he came forward to put out his hand—with an open -cheerfulness which surprised Mr. Farebrother. Could this too be a proud -rejection of sympathy and help? Never mind; the sympathy and help -should be offered. - -“How are you, Lydgate? I came to see you because I had heard something -which made me anxious about you,” said the Vicar, in the tone of a good -brother, only that there was no reproach in it. They were both seated -by this time, and Lydgate answered immediately— - -“I think I know what you mean. You had heard that there was an -execution in the house?” - -“Yes; is it true?” - -“It was true,” said Lydgate, with an air of freedom, as if he did not -mind talking about the affair now. “But the danger is over; the debt is -paid. I am out of my difficulties now: I shall be freed from debts, and -able, I hope, to start afresh on a better plan.” - -“I am very thankful to hear it,” said the Vicar, falling back in his -chair, and speaking with that low-toned quickness which often follows -the removal of a load. “I like that better than all the news in the -‘Times.’ I confess I came to you with a heavy heart.” - -“Thank you for coming,” said Lydgate, cordially. “I can enjoy the -kindness all the more because I am happier. I have certainly been a -good deal crushed. I’m afraid I shall find the bruises still painful -by-and by,” he added, smiling rather sadly; “but just now I can only -feel that the torture-screw is off.” - -Mr. Farebrother was silent for a moment, and then said earnestly, “My -dear fellow, let me ask you one question. Forgive me if I take a -liberty.” - -“I don’t believe you will ask anything that ought to offend me.” - -“Then—this is necessary to set my heart quite at rest—you have not—have -you?—in order to pay your debts, incurred another debt which may harass -you worse hereafter?” - -“No,” said Lydgate, coloring slightly. “There is no reason why I should -not tell you—since the fact is so—that the person to whom I am indebted -is Bulstrode. He has made me a very handsome advance—a thousand -pounds—and he can afford to wait for repayment.” - -“Well, that is generous,” said Mr. Farebrother, compelling himself to -approve of the man whom he disliked. His delicate feeling shrank from -dwelling even in his thought on the fact that he had always urged -Lydgate to avoid any personal entanglement with Bulstrode. He added -immediately, “And Bulstrode must naturally feel an interest in your -welfare, after you have worked with him in a way which has probably -reduced your income instead of adding to it. I am glad to think that he -has acted accordingly.” - -Lydgate felt uncomfortable under these kindly suppositions. They made -more distinct within him the uneasy consciousness which had shown its -first dim stirrings only a few hours before, that Bulstrode’s motives -for his sudden beneficence following close upon the chillest -indifference might be merely selfish. He let the kindly suppositions -pass. He could not tell the history of the loan, but it was more -vividly present with him than ever, as well as the fact which the Vicar -delicately ignored—that this relation of personal indebtedness to -Bulstrode was what he had once been most resolved to avoid. - -He began, instead of answering, to speak of his projected economies, -and of his having come to look at his life from a different point of -view. - -“I shall set up a surgery,” he said. “I really think I made a mistaken -effort in that respect. And if Rosamond will not mind, I shall take an -apprentice. I don’t like these things, but if one carries them out -faithfully they are not really lowering. I have had a severe galling to -begin with: that will make the small rubs seem easy.” - -Poor Lydgate! the “if Rosamond will not mind,” which had fallen from -him involuntarily as part of his thought, was a significant mark of the -yoke he bore. But Mr. Farebrother, whose hopes entered strongly into -the same current with Lydgate’s, and who knew nothing about him that -could now raise a melancholy presentiment, left him with affectionate -congratulation. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXI. - -_Clown_. . . . ’Twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where, indeed, -you have a delight to sit, have you not? -_Froth_. I have so: because it is an open room, and good for winter. -_Clo_. Why, very well then: I hope here be truths. -—_Measure for Measure_. - - -Five days after the death of Raffles, Mr. Bambridge was standing at his -leisure under the large archway leading into the yard of the Green -Dragon. He was not fond of solitary contemplation, but he had only just -come out of the house, and any human figure standing at ease under the -archway in the early afternoon was as certain to attract companionship -as a pigeon which has found something worth pecking at. In this case -there was no material object to feed upon, but the eye of reason saw a -probability of mental sustenance in the shape of gossip. Mr. Hopkins, -the meek-mannered draper opposite, was the first to act on this inward -vision, being the more ambitious of a little masculine talk because his -customers were chiefly women. Mr. Bambridge was rather curt to the -draper, feeling that Hopkins was of course glad to talk to _him_, but -that he was not going to waste much of his talk on Hopkins. Soon, -however, there was a small cluster of more important listeners, who -were either deposited from the passers-by, or had sauntered to the spot -expressly to see if there were anything going on at the Green Dragon; -and Mr. Bambridge was finding it worth his while to say many impressive -things about the fine studs he had been seeing and the purchases he had -made on a journey in the north from which he had just returned. -Gentlemen present were assured that when they could show him anything -to cut out a blood mare, a bay, rising four, which was to be seen at -Doncaster if they chose to go and look at it, Mr. Bambridge would -gratify them by being shot “from here to Hereford.” Also, a pair of -blacks which he was going to put into the break recalled vividly to his -mind a pair which he had sold to Faulkner in ’19, for a hundred -guineas, and which Faulkner had sold for a hundred and sixty two months -later—any gent who could disprove this statement being offered the -privilege of calling Mr. Bambridge by a very ugly name until the -exercise made his throat dry. - -When the discourse was at this point of animation, came up Mr. Frank -Hawley. He was not a man to compromise his dignity by lounging at the -Green Dragon, but happening to pass along the High Street and seeing -Bambridge on the other side, he took some of his long strides across to -ask the horsedealer whether he had found the first-rate gig-horse which -he had engaged to look for. Mr. Hawley was requested to wait until he -had seen a gray selected at Bilkley: if that did not meet his wishes to -a hair, Bambridge did not know a horse when he saw it, which seemed to -be the highest conceivable unlikelihood. Mr. Hawley, standing with his -back to the street, was fixing a time for looking at the gray and -seeing it tried, when a horseman passed slowly by. - -“Bulstrode!” said two or three voices at once in a low tone, one of -them, which was the draper’s, respectfully prefixing the “Mr.;” but -nobody having more intention in this interjectural naming than if they -had said “the Riverston coach” when that vehicle appeared in the -distance. Mr. Hawley gave a careless glance round at Bulstrode’s back, -but as Bambridge’s eyes followed it he made a sarcastic grimace. - -“By jingo! that reminds me,” he began, lowering his voice a little, “I -picked up something else at Bilkley besides your gig-horse, Mr. Hawley. -I picked up a fine story about Bulstrode. Do you know how he came by -his fortune? Any gentleman wanting a bit of curious information, I can -give it him free of expense. If everybody got their deserts, Bulstrode -might have had to say his prayers at Botany Bay.” - -“What do you mean?” said Mr. Hawley, thrusting his hands into his -pockets, and pushing a little forward under the archway. If Bulstrode -should turn out to be a rascal, Frank Hawley had a prophetic soul. - -“I had it from a party who was an old chum of Bulstrode’s. I’ll tell -you where I first picked him up,” said Bambridge, with a sudden gesture -of his fore-finger. “He was at Larcher’s sale, but I knew nothing of -him then—he slipped through my fingers—was after Bulstrode, no doubt. -He tells me he can tap Bulstrode to any amount, knows all his secrets. -However, he blabbed to me at Bilkley: he takes a stiff glass. Damme if -I think he meant to turn king’s evidence; but he’s that sort of -bragging fellow, the bragging runs over hedge and ditch with him, till -he’d brag of a spavin as if it ’ud fetch money. A man should know when -to pull up.” Mr. Bambridge made this remark with an air of disgust, -satisfied that his own bragging showed a fine sense of the marketable. - -“What’s the man’s name? Where can he be found?” said Mr. Hawley. - -“As to where he is to be found, I left him to it at the Saracen’s Head; -but his name is Raffles.” - -“Raffles!” exclaimed Mr. Hopkins. “I furnished his funeral yesterday. -He was buried at Lowick. Mr. Bulstrode followed him. A very decent -funeral.” There was a strong sensation among the listeners. Mr. -Bambridge gave an ejaculation in which “brimstone” was the mildest -word, and Mr. Hawley, knitting his brows and bending his head forward, -exclaimed, “What?—where did the man die?” - -“At Stone Court,” said the draper. “The housekeeper said he was a -relation of the master’s. He came there ill on Friday.” - -“Why, it was on Wednesday I took a glass with him,” interposed -Bambridge. - -“Did any doctor attend him?” said Mr. Hawley - -“Yes. Mr. Lydgate. Mr. Bulstrode sat up with him one night. He died the -third morning.” - -“Go on, Bambridge,” said Mr. Hawley, insistently. “What did this fellow -say about Bulstrode?” - -The group had already become larger, the town-clerk’s presence being a -guarantee that something worth listening to was going on there; and Mr. -Bambridge delivered his narrative in the hearing of seven. It was -mainly what we know, including the fact about Will Ladislaw, with some -local color and circumstance added: it was what Bulstrode had dreaded -the betrayal of—and hoped to have buried forever with the corpse of -Raffles—it was that haunting ghost of his earlier life which as he rode -past the archway of the Green Dragon he was trusting that Providence -had delivered him from. Yes, Providence. He had not confessed to -himself yet that he had done anything in the way of contrivance to this -end; he had accepted what seemed to have been offered. It was -impossible to prove that he had done anything which hastened the -departure of that man’s soul. - -But this gossip about Bulstrode spread through Middlemarch like the -smell of fire. Mr. Frank Hawley followed up his information by sending -a clerk whom he could trust to Stone Court on a pretext of inquiring -about hay, but really to gather all that could be learned about Raffles -and his illness from Mrs. Abel. In this way it came to his knowledge -that Mr. Garth had carried the man to Stone Court in his gig; and Mr. -Hawley in consequence took an opportunity of seeing Caleb, calling at -his office to ask whether he had time to undertake an arbitration if it -were required, and then asking him incidentally about Raffles. Caleb -was betrayed into no word injurious to Bulstrode beyond the fact which -he was forced to admit, that he had given up acting for him within the -last week. Mr Hawley drew his inferences, and feeling convinced that -Raffles had told his story to Garth, and that Garth had given up -Bulstrode’s affairs in consequence, said so a few hours later to Mr. -Toller. The statement was passed on until it had quite lost the stamp -of an inference, and was taken as information coming straight from -Garth, so that even a diligent historian might have concluded Caleb to -be the chief publisher of Bulstrode’s misdemeanors. - -Mr. Hawley was not slow to perceive that there was no handle for the -law either in the revelations made by Raffles or in the circumstances -of his death. He had himself ridden to Lowick village that he might -look at the register and talk over the whole matter with Mr. -Farebrother, who was not more surprised than the lawyer that an ugly -secret should have come to light about Bulstrode, though he had always -had justice enough in him to hinder his antipathy from turning into -conclusions. But while they were talking another combination was -silently going forward in Mr. Farebrother’s mind, which foreshadowed -what was soon to be loudly spoken of in Middlemarch as a necessary -“putting of two and two together.” With the reasons which kept -Bulstrode in dread of Raffles there flashed the thought that the dread -might have something to do with his munificence towards his medical -man; and though he resisted the suggestion that it had been consciously -accepted in any way as a bribe, he had a foreboding that this -complication of things might be of malignant effect on Lydgate’s -reputation. He perceived that Mr. Hawley knew nothing at present of the -sudden relief from debt, and he himself was careful to glide away from -all approaches towards the subject. - -“Well,” he said, with a deep breath, wanting to wind up the illimitable -discussion of what might have been, though nothing could be legally -proven, “it is a strange story. So our mercurial Ladislaw has a queer -genealogy! A high-spirited young lady and a musical Polish patriot made -a likely enough stock for him to spring from, but I should never have -suspected a grafting of the Jew pawnbroker. However, there’s no knowing -what a mixture will turn out beforehand. Some sorts of dirt serve to -clarify.” - -“It’s just what I should have expected,” said Mr. Hawley, mounting his -horse. “Any cursed alien blood, Jew, Corsican, or Gypsy.” - -“I know he’s one of your black sheep, Hawley. But he is really a -disinterested, unworldly fellow,” said Mr. Farebrother, smiling. - -“Ay, ay, that is your Whiggish twist,” said Mr. Hawley, who had been in -the habit of saying apologetically that Farebrother was such a damned -pleasant good-hearted fellow you would mistake him for a Tory. - -Mr. Hawley rode home without thinking of Lydgate’s attendance on -Raffles in any other light than as a piece of evidence on the side of -Bulstrode. But the news that Lydgate had all at once become able not -only to get rid of the execution in his house but to pay all his debts -in Middlemarch was spreading fast, gathering round it conjectures and -comments which gave it new body and impetus, and soon filling the ears -of other persons besides Mr. Hawley, who were not slow to see a -significant relation between this sudden command of money and -Bulstrode’s desire to stifle the scandal of Raffles. That the money -came from Bulstrode would infallibly have been guessed even if there -had been no direct evidence of it; for it had beforehand entered into -the gossip about Lydgate’s affairs, that neither his father-in-law nor -his own family would do anything for him, and direct evidence was -furnished not only by a clerk at the Bank, but by innocent Mrs. -Bulstrode herself, who mentioned the loan to Mrs. Plymdale, who -mentioned it to her daughter-in-law of the house of Toller, who -mentioned it generally. The business was felt to be so public and -important that it required dinners to feed it, and many invitations -were just then issued and accepted on the strength of this scandal -concerning Bulstrode and Lydgate; wives, widows, and single ladies took -their work and went out to tea oftener than usual; and all public -conviviality, from the Green Dragon to Dollop’s, gathered a zest which -could not be won from the question whether the Lords would throw out -the Reform Bill. - -For hardly anybody doubted that some scandalous reason or other was at -the bottom of Bulstrode’s liberality to Lydgate. Mr. Hawley indeed, in -the first instance, invited a select party, including the two -physicians, with Mr Toller and Mr. Wrench, expressly to hold a close -discussion as to the probabilities of Raffles’s illness, reciting to -them all the particulars which had been gathered from Mrs. Abel in -connection with Lydgate’s certificate, that the death was due to -delirium tremens; and the medical gentlemen, who all stood -undisturbedly on the old paths in relation to this disease, declared -that they could see nothing in these particulars which could be -transformed into a positive ground of suspicion. But the moral grounds -of suspicion remained: the strong motives Bulstrode clearly had for -wishing to be rid of Raffles, and the fact that at this critical moment -he had given Lydgate the help which he must for some time have known -the need for; the disposition, moreover, to believe that Bulstrode -would be unscrupulous, and the absence of any indisposition to believe -that Lydgate might be as easily bribed as other haughty-minded men when -they have found themselves in want of money. Even if the money had been -given merely to make him hold his tongue about the scandal of -Bulstrode’s earlier life, the fact threw an odious light on Lydgate, -who had long been sneered at as making himself subservient to the -banker for the sake of working himself into predominance, and -discrediting the elder members of his profession. Hence, in spite of -the negative as to any direct sign of guilt in relation to the death at -Stone Court, Mr. Hawley’s select party broke up with the sense that the -affair had “an ugly look.” - -But this vague conviction of indeterminable guilt, which was enough to -keep up much head-shaking and biting innuendo even among substantial -professional seniors, had for the general mind all the superior power -of mystery over fact. Everybody liked better to conjecture how the -thing was, than simply to know it; for conjecture soon became more -confident than knowledge, and had a more liberal allowance for the -incompatible. Even the more definite scandal concerning Bulstrode’s -earlier life was, for some minds, melted into the mass of mystery, as -so much lively metal to be poured out in dialogue, and to take such -fantastic shapes as heaven pleased. - -This was the tone of thought chiefly sanctioned by Mrs. Dollop, the -spirited landlady of the Tankard in Slaughter Lane, who had often to -resist the shallow pragmatism of customers disposed to think that their -reports from the outer world were of equal force with what had “come -up” in her mind. How it had been brought to her she didn’t know, but it -was there before her as if it had been “scored with the chalk on the -chimney-board—” as Bulstrode should say, “his inside was _that black_ -as if the hairs of his head knowed the thoughts of his heart, he’d tear -’em up by the roots.” - -“That’s odd,” said Mr. Limp, a meditative shoemaker, with weak eyes and -a piping voice. “Why, I read in the ‘Trumpet’ that was what the Duke of -Wellington said when he turned his coat and went over to the Romans.” - -“Very like,” said Mrs. Dollop. “If one raskill said it, it’s more -reason why another should. But hypo_crite_ as he’s been, and holding -things with that high hand, as there was no parson i’ the country good -enough for him, he was forced to take Old Harry into his counsel, and -Old Harry’s been too many for him.” - -“Ay, ay, he’s a ’complice you can’t send out o’ the country,” said Mr. -Crabbe, the glazier, who gathered much news and groped among it dimly. -“But by what I can make out, there’s them says Bulstrode was for -running away, for fear o’ being found out, before now.” - -“He’ll be drove away, whether or no,” said Mr. Dill, the barber, who -had just dropped in. “I shaved Fletcher, Hawley’s clerk, this -morning—he’s got a bad finger—and he says they’re all of one mind to -get rid of Bulstrode. Mr. Thesiger is turned against him, and wants him -out o’ the parish. And there’s gentlemen in this town says they’d as -soon dine with a fellow from the hulks. ‘And a deal sooner I would,’ -says Fletcher; ‘for what’s more against one’s stomach than a man coming -and making himself bad company with his religion, and giving out as the -Ten Commandments are not enough for him, and all the while he’s worse -than half the men at the tread-mill?’ Fletcher said so himself.” - -“It’ll be a bad thing for the town though, if Bulstrode’s money goes -out of it,” said Mr. Limp, quaveringly. - -“Ah, there’s better folks spend their money worse,” said a firm-voiced -dyer, whose crimson hands looked out of keeping with his good-natured -face. - -“But he won’t keep his money, by what I can make out,” said the -glazier. “Don’t they say as there’s somebody can strip it off him? By -what I can understan’, they could take every penny off him, if they -went to lawing.” - -“No such thing!” said the barber, who felt himself a little above his -company at Dollop’s, but liked it none the worse. “Fletcher says it’s -no such thing. He says they might prove over and over again whose child -this young Ladislaw was, and they’d do no more than if they proved I -came out of the Fens—he couldn’t touch a penny.” - -“Look you there now!” said Mrs. Dollop, indignantly. “I thank the Lord -he took my children to Himself, if that’s all the law can do for the -motherless. Then by that, it’s o’ no use who your father and mother is. -But as to listening to what one lawyer says without asking another—I -wonder at a man o’ your cleverness, Mr. Dill. It’s well known there’s -always two sides, if no more; else who’d go to law, I should like to -know? It’s a poor tale, with all the law as there is up and down, if -it’s no use proving whose child you are. Fletcher may say that if he -likes, but I say, don’t Fletcher _me_!” - -Mr. Dill affected to laugh in a complimentary way at Mrs. Dollop, as a -woman who was more than a match for the lawyers; being disposed to -submit to much twitting from a landlady who had a long score against -him. - -“If they come to lawing, and it’s all true as folks say, there’s more -to be looked to nor money,” said the glazier. “There’s this poor -creetur as is dead and gone; by what I can make out, he’d seen the day -when he was a deal finer gentleman nor Bulstrode.” - -“Finer gentleman! I’ll warrant him,” said Mrs. Dollop; “and a far -personabler man, by what I can hear. As I said when Mr. Baldwin, the -tax-gatherer, comes in, a-standing where you sit, and says, ‘Bulstrode -got all his money as he brought into this town by thieving and -swindling,’—I said, ‘You don’t make me no wiser, Mr. Baldwin: it’s set -my blood a-creeping to look at him ever sin’ here he came into -Slaughter Lane a-wanting to buy the house over my head: folks don’t -look the color o’ the dough-tub and stare at you as if they wanted to -see into your backbone for nothingk.’ That was what I said, and Mr. -Baldwin can bear me witness.” - -“And in the rights of it too,” said Mr. Crabbe. “For by what I can make -out, this Raffles, as they call him, was a lusty, fresh-colored man as -you’d wish to see, and the best o’ company—though dead he lies in -Lowick churchyard sure enough; and by what I can understan’, there’s -them knows more than they _should_ know about how he got there.” - -“I’ll believe you!” said Mrs. Dollop, with a touch of scorn at Mr. -Crabbe’s apparent dimness. “When a man’s been ’ticed to a lone house, -and there’s them can pay for hospitals and nurses for half the -country-side choose to be sitters-up night and day, and nobody to come -near but a doctor as is known to stick at nothingk, and as poor as he -can hang together, and after that so flush o’ money as he can pay off -Mr. Byles the butcher as his bill has been running on for the best o’ -joints since last Michaelmas was a twelvemonth—I don’t want anybody to -come and tell me as there’s been more going on nor the Prayer-book’s -got a service for—I don’t want to stand winking and blinking and -thinking.” - -Mrs. Dollop looked round with the air of a landlady accustomed to -dominate her company. There was a chorus of adhesion from the more -courageous; but Mr. Limp, after taking a draught, placed his flat hands -together and pressed them hard between his knees, looking down at them -with blear-eyed contemplation, as if the scorching power of Mrs. -Dollop’s speech had quite dried up and nullified his wits until they -could be brought round again by further moisture. - -“Why shouldn’t they dig the man up and have the Crowner?” said the -dyer. “It’s been done many and many’s the time. If there’s been foul -play they might find it out.” - -“Not they, Mr. Jonas!” said Mrs Dollop, emphatically. “I know what -doctors are. They’re a deal too cunning to be found out. And this -Doctor Lydgate that’s been for cutting up everybody before the breath -was well out o’ their body—it’s plain enough what use he wanted to make -o’ looking into respectable people’s insides. He knows drugs, you may -be sure, as you can neither smell nor see, neither before they’re -swallowed nor after. Why, I’ve seen drops myself ordered by Doctor -Gambit, as is our club doctor and a good charikter, and has brought -more live children into the world nor ever another i’ Middlemarch—I say -I’ve seen drops myself as made no difference whether they was in the -glass or out, and yet have griped you the next day. So I’ll leave your -own sense to judge. Don’t tell me! All I say is, it’s a mercy they -didn’t take this Doctor Lydgate on to our club. There’s many a mother’s -child might ha’ rued it.” - -The heads of this discussion at “Dollop’s” had been the common theme -among all classes in the town, had been carried to Lowick Parsonage on -one side and to Tipton Grange on the other, had come fully to the ears -of the Vincy family, and had been discussed with sad reference to “poor -Harriet” by all Mrs. Bulstrode’s friends, before Lydgate knew -distinctly why people were looking strangely at him, and before -Bulstrode himself suspected the betrayal of his secrets. He had not -been accustomed to very cordial relations with his neighbors, and hence -he could not miss the signs of cordiality; moreover, he had been taking -journeys on business of various kinds, having now made up his mind that -he need not quit Middlemarch, and feeling able consequently to -determine on matters which he had before left in suspense. - -“We will make a journey to Cheltenham in the course of a month or two,” -he had said to his wife. “There are great spiritual advantages to be -had in that town along with the air and the waters, and six weeks there -will be eminently refreshing to us.” - -He really believed in the spiritual advantages, and meant that his life -henceforth should be the more devoted because of those later sins which -he represented to himself as hypothetic, praying hypothetically for -their pardon:—“if I have herein transgressed.” - -As to the Hospital, he avoided saying anything further to Lydgate, -fearing to manifest a too sudden change of plans immediately on the -death of Raffles. In his secret soul he believed that Lydgate suspected -his orders to have been intentionally disobeyed, and suspecting this he -must also suspect a motive. But nothing had been betrayed to him as to -the history of Raffles, and Bulstrode was anxious not to do anything -which would give emphasis to his undefined suspicions. As to any -certainty that a particular method of treatment would either save or -kill, Lydgate himself was constantly arguing against such dogmatism; he -had no right to speak, and he had every motive for being silent. Hence -Bulstrode felt himself providentially secured. The only incident he had -strongly winced under had been an occasional encounter with Caleb -Garth, who, however, had raised his hat with mild gravity. - -Meanwhile, on the part of the principal townsmen a strong determination -was growing against him. - -A meeting was to be held in the Town-Hall on a sanitary question which -had risen into pressing importance by the occurrence of a cholera case -in the town. Since the Act of Parliament, which had been hurriedly -passed, authorizing assessments for sanitary measures, there had been a -Board for the superintendence of such measures appointed in -Middlemarch, and much cleansing and preparation had been concurred in -by Whigs and Tories. The question now was, whether a piece of ground -outside the town should be secured as a burial-ground by means of -assessment or by private subscription. The meeting was to be open, and -almost everybody of importance in the town was expected to be there. - -Mr. Bulstrode was a member of the Board, and just before twelve o’clock -he started from the Bank with the intention of urging the plan of -private subscription. Under the hesitation of his projects, he had for -some time kept himself in the background, and he felt that he should -this morning resume his old position as a man of action and influence -in the public affairs of the town where he expected to end his days. -Among the various persons going in the same direction, he saw Lydgate; -they joined, talked over the object of the meeting, and entered it -together. - -It seemed that everybody of mark had been earlier than they. But there -were still spaces left near the head of the large central table, and -they made their way thither. Mr. Farebrother sat opposite, not far from -Mr. Hawley; all the medical men were there; Mr. Thesiger was in the -chair, and Mr. Brooke of Tipton was on his right hand. - -Lydgate noticed a peculiar interchange of glances when he and Bulstrode -took their seats. - -After the business had been fully opened by the chairman, who pointed -out the advantages of purchasing by subscription a piece of ground -large enough to be ultimately used as a general cemetery, Mr. -Bulstrode, whose rather high-pitched but subdued and fluent voice the -town was used to at meetings of this sort, rose and asked leave to -deliver his opinion. Lydgate could see again the peculiar interchange -of glances before Mr. Hawley started up, and said in his firm resonant -voice, “Mr. Chairman, I request that before any one delivers his -opinion on this point I may be permitted to speak on a question of -public feeling, which not only by myself, but by many gentlemen -present, is regarded as preliminary.” - -Mr. Hawley’s mode of speech, even when public decorum repressed his -“awful language,” was formidable in its curtness and self-possession. -Mr. Thesiger sanctioned the request, Mr. Bulstrode sat down, and Mr. -Hawley continued. - -“In what I have to say, Mr. Chairman, I am not speaking simply on my -own behalf: I am speaking with the concurrence and at the express -request of no fewer than eight of my fellow-townsmen, who are -immediately around us. It is our united sentiment that Mr. Bulstrode -should be called upon—and I do now call upon him—to resign public -positions which he holds not simply as a tax-payer, but as a gentleman -among gentlemen. There are practices and there are acts which, owing to -circumstances, the law cannot visit, though they may be worse than many -things which are legally punishable. Honest men and gentlemen, if they -don’t want the company of people who perpetrate such acts, have got to -defend themselves as they best can, and that is what I and the friends -whom I may call my clients in this affair are determined to do. I don’t -say that Mr. Bulstrode has been guilty of shameful acts, but I call -upon him either publicly to deny and confute the scandalous statements -made against him by a man now dead, and who died in his house—the -statement that he was for many years engaged in nefarious practices, -and that he won his fortune by dishonest procedures—or else to withdraw -from positions which could only have been allowed him as a gentleman -among gentlemen.” - -All eyes in the room were turned on Mr. Bulstrode, who, since the first -mention of his name, had been going through a crisis of feeling almost -too violent for his delicate frame to support. Lydgate, who himself was -undergoing a shock as from the terrible practical interpretation of -some faint augury, felt, nevertheless, that his own movement of -resentful hatred was checked by that instinct of the Healer which -thinks first of bringing rescue or relief to the sufferer, when he -looked at the shrunken misery of Bulstrode’s livid face. - -The quick vision that his life was after all a failure, that he was a -dishonored man, and must quail before the glance of those towards whom -he had habitually assumed the attitude of a reprover—that God had -disowned him before men and left him unscreened to the triumphant scorn -of those who were glad to have their hatred justified—the sense of -utter futility in that equivocation with his conscience in dealing with -the life of his accomplice, an equivocation which now turned venomously -upon him with the full-grown fang of a discovered lie:—all this rushed -through him like the agony of terror which fails to kill, and leaves -the ears still open to the returning wave of execration. The sudden -sense of exposure after the re-established sense of safety came—not to -the coarse organization of a criminal, but to the susceptible nerve of -a man whose intensest being lay in such mastery and predominance as the -conditions of his life had shaped for him. - -But in that intense being lay the strength of reaction. Through all his -bodily infirmity there ran a tenacious nerve of ambitious -self-preserving will, which had continually leaped out like a flame, -scattering all doctrinal fears, and which, even while he sat an object -of compassion for the merciful, was beginning to stir and glow under -his ashy paleness. Before the last words were out of Mr. Hawley’s -mouth, Bulstrode felt that he should answer, and that his answer would -be a retort. He dared not get up and say, “I am not guilty, the whole -story is false”—even if he had dared this, it would have seemed to him, -under his present keen sense of betrayal, as vain as to pull, for -covering to his nakedness, a frail rag which would rend at every little -strain. - -For a few moments there was total silence, while every man in the room -was looking at Bulstrode. He sat perfectly still, leaning hard against -the back of his chair; he could not venture to rise, and when he began -to speak he pressed his hands upon the seat on each side of him. But -his voice was perfectly audible, though hoarser than usual, and his -words were distinctly pronounced, though he paused between sentence as -if short of breath. He said, turning first toward Mr. Thesiger, and -then looking at Mr. Hawley— - -“I protest before you, sir, as a Christian minister, against the -sanction of proceedings towards me which are dictated by virulent -hatred. Those who are hostile to me are glad to believe any libel -uttered by a loose tongue against me. And their consciences become -strict against me. Say that the evil-speaking of which I am to be made -the victim accuses me of malpractices—” here Bulstrode’s voice rose and -took on a more biting accent, till it seemed a low cry—“who shall be my -accuser? Not men whose own lives are unchristian, nay, scandalous—not -men who themselves use low instruments to carry out their ends—whose -profession is a tissue of chicanery—who have been spending their income -on their own sensual enjoyments, while I have been devoting mine to -advance the best objects with regard to this life and the next.” - -After the word chicanery there was a growing noise, half of murmurs and -half of hisses, while four persons started up at once—Mr. Hawley, Mr. -Toller, Mr. Chichely, and Mr. Hackbutt; but Mr. Hawley’s outburst was -instantaneous, and left the others behind in silence. - -“If you mean me, sir, I call you and every one else to the inspection -of my professional life. As to Christian or unchristian, I repudiate -your canting palavering Christianity; and as to the way in which I -spend my income, it is not my principle to maintain thieves and cheat -offspring of their due inheritance in order to support religion and set -myself up as a saintly Killjoy. I affect no niceness of conscience—I -have not found any nice standards necessary yet to measure your actions -by, sir. And I again call upon you to enter into satisfactory -explanations concerning the scandals against you, or else to withdraw -from posts in which we at any rate decline you as a colleague. I say, -sir, we decline to co-operate with a man whose character is not cleared -from infamous lights cast upon it, not only by reports but by recent -actions.” - -“Allow me, Mr. Hawley,” said the chairman; and Mr. Hawley, still -fuming, bowed half impatiently, and sat down with his hands thrust deep -in his pockets. - -“Mr. Bulstrode, it is not desirable, I think, to prolong the present -discussion,” said Mr. Thesiger, turning to the pallid trembling man; “I -must so far concur with what has fallen from Mr. Hawley in expression -of a general feeling, as to think it due to your Christian profession -that you should clear yourself, if possible, from unhappy aspersions. I -for my part should be willing to give you full opportunity and hearing. -But I must say that your present attitude is painfully inconsistent -with those principles which you have sought to identify yourself with, -and for the honor of which I am bound to care. I recommend you at -present, as your clergyman, and one who hopes for your reinstatement in -respect, to quit the room, and avoid further hindrance to business.” - -Bulstrode, after a moment’s hesitation, took his hat from the floor and -slowly rose, but he grasped the corner of the chair so totteringly that -Lydgate felt sure there was not strength enough in him to walk away -without support. What could he do? He could not see a man sink close to -him for want of help. He rose and gave his arm to Bulstrode, and in -that way led him out of the room; yet this act, which might have been -one of gentle duty and pure compassion, was at this moment unspeakably -bitter to him. It seemed as if he were putting his sign-manual to that -association of himself with Bulstrode, of which he now saw the full -meaning as it must have presented itself to other minds. He now felt -the conviction that this man who was leaning tremblingly on his arm, -had given him the thousand pounds as a bribe, and that somehow the -treatment of Raffles had been tampered with from an evil motive. The -inferences were closely linked enough; the town knew of the loan, -believed it to be a bribe, and believed that he took it as a bribe. - -Poor Lydgate, his mind struggling under the terrible clutch of this -revelation, was all the while morally forced to take Mr. Bulstrode to -the Bank, send a man off for his carriage, and wait to accompany him -home. - -Meanwhile the business of the meeting was despatched, and fringed off -into eager discussion among various groups concerning this affair of -Bulstrode—and Lydgate. - -Mr. Brooke, who had before heard only imperfect hints of it, and was -very uneasy that he had “gone a little too far” in countenancing -Bulstrode, now got himself fully informed, and felt some benevolent -sadness in talking to Mr. Farebrother about the ugly light in which -Lydgate had come to be regarded. Mr. Farebrother was going to walk back -to Lowick. - -“Step into my carriage,” said Mr. Brooke. “I am going round to see Mrs. -Casaubon. She was to come back from Yorkshire last night. She will like -to see me, you know.” - -So they drove along, Mr. Brooke chatting with good-natured hope that -there had not really been anything black in Lydgate’s behavior—a young -fellow whom he had seen to be quite above the common mark, when he -brought a letter from his uncle Sir Godwin. Mr. Farebrother said -little: he was deeply mournful: with a keen perception of human -weakness, he could not be confident that under the pressure of -humiliating needs Lydgate had not fallen below himself. - -When the carriage drove up to the gate of the Manor, Dorothea was out -on the gravel, and came to greet them. - -“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, “we have just come from a meeting—a -sanitary meeting, you know.” - -“Was Mr. Lydgate there?” said Dorothea, who looked full of health and -animation, and stood with her head bare under the gleaming April -lights. “I want to see him and have a great consultation with him about -the Hospital. I have engaged with Mr. Bulstrode to do so.” - -“Oh, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, “we have been hearing bad news—bad -news, you know.” - -They walked through the garden towards the churchyard gate, Mr. -Farebrother wanting to go on to the parsonage; and Dorothea heard the -whole sad story. - -She listened with deep interest, and begged to hear twice over the -facts and impressions concerning Lydgate. After a short silence, -pausing at the churchyard gate, and addressing Mr. Farebrother, she -said energetically— - -“You don’t believe that Mr. Lydgate is guilty of anything base? I will -not believe it. Let us find out the truth and clear him!” - - - - -BOOK VIII. -SUNSET AND SUNRISE. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXII. - -Full souls are double mirrors, making still -An endless vista of fair things before, -Repeating things behind. - - -Dorothea’s impetuous generosity, which would have leaped at once to the -vindication of Lydgate from the suspicion of having accepted money as a -bribe, underwent a melancholy check when she came to consider all the -circumstances of the case by the light of Mr. Farebrother’s experience. - -“It is a delicate matter to touch,” he said. “How can we begin to -inquire into it? It must be either publicly by setting the magistrate -and coroner to work, or privately by questioning Lydgate. As to the -first proceeding there is no solid ground to go upon, else Hawley would -have adopted it; and as to opening the subject with Lydgate, I confess -I should shrink from it. He would probably take it as a deadly insult. -I have more than once experienced the difficulty of speaking to him on -personal matters. And—one should know the truth about his conduct -beforehand, to feel very confident of a good result.” - -“I feel convinced that his conduct has not been guilty: I believe that -people are almost always better than their neighbors think they are,” -said Dorothea. Some of her intensest experience in the last two years -had set her mind strongly in opposition to any unfavorable construction -of others; and for the first time she felt rather discontented with Mr. -Farebrother. She disliked this cautious weighing of consequences, -instead of an ardent faith in efforts of justice and mercy, which would -conquer by their emotional force. Two days afterwards, he was dining at -the Manor with her uncle and the Chettams, and when the dessert was -standing uneaten, the servants were out of the room, and Mr. Brooke was -nodding in a nap, she returned to the subject with renewed vivacity. - -“Mr. Lydgate would understand that if his friends hear a calumny about -him their first wish must be to justify him. What do we live for, if it -is not to make life less difficult to each other? I cannot be -indifferent to the troubles of a man who advised me in _my_ trouble, -and attended me in my illness.” - -Dorothea’s tone and manner were not more energetic than they had been -when she was at the head of her uncle’s table nearly three years -before, and her experience since had given her more right to express a -decided opinion. But Sir James Chettam was no longer the diffident and -acquiescent suitor: he was the anxious brother-in-law, with a devout -admiration for his sister, but with a constant alarm lest she should -fall under some new illusion almost as bad as marrying Casaubon. He -smiled much less; when he said “Exactly” it was more often an -introduction to a dissentient opinion than in those submissive bachelor -days; and Dorothea found to her surprise that she had to resolve not to -be afraid of him—all the more because he was really her best friend. He -disagreed with her now. - -“But, Dorothea,” he said, remonstrantly, “you can’t undertake to manage -a man’s life for him in that way. Lydgate must know—at least he will -soon come to know how he stands. If he can clear himself, he will. He -must act for himself.” - -“I think his friends must wait till they find an opportunity,” added -Mr. Farebrother. “It is possible—I have often felt so much weakness in -myself that I can conceive even a man of honorable disposition, such as -I have always believed Lydgate to be, succumbing to such a temptation -as that of accepting money which was offered more or less indirectly as -a bribe to insure his silence about scandalous facts long gone by. I -say, I can conceive this, if he were under the pressure of hard -circumstances—if he had been harassed as I feel sure Lydgate has been. -I would not believe anything worse of him except under stringent proof. -But there is the terrible Nemesis following on some errors, that it is -always possible for those who like it to interpret them into a crime: -there is no proof in favor of the man outside his own consciousness and -assertion.” - -“Oh, how cruel!” said Dorothea, clasping her hands. “And would you not -like to be the one person who believed in that man’s innocence, if the -rest of the world belied him? Besides, there is a man’s character -beforehand to speak for him.” - -“But, my dear Mrs. Casaubon,” said Mr. Farebrother, smiling gently at -her ardor, “character is not cut in marble—it is not something solid -and unalterable. It is something living and changing, and may become -diseased as our bodies do.” - -“Then it may be rescued and healed,” said Dorothea “I should not be -afraid of asking Mr. Lydgate to tell me the truth, that I might help -him. Why should I be afraid? Now that I am not to have the land, James, -I might do as Mr. Bulstrode proposed, and take his place in providing -for the Hospital; and I have to consult Mr. Lydgate, to know thoroughly -what are the prospects of doing good by keeping up the present plans. -There is the best opportunity in the world for me to ask for his -confidence; and he would be able to tell me things which might make all -the circumstances clear. Then we would all stand by him and bring him -out of his trouble. People glorify all sorts of bravery except the -bravery they might show on behalf of their nearest neighbors.” -Dorothea’s eyes had a moist brightness in them, and the changed tones -of her voice roused her uncle, who began to listen. - -“It is true that a woman may venture on some efforts of sympathy which -would hardly succeed if we men undertook them,” said Mr. Farebrother, -almost converted by Dorothea’s ardor. - -“Surely, a woman is bound to be cautious and listen to those who know -the world better than she does.” said Sir James, with his little frown. -“Whatever you do in the end, Dorothea, you should really keep back at -present, and not volunteer any meddling with this Bulstrode business. -We don’t know yet what may turn up. You must agree with me?” he ended, -looking at Mr. Farebrother. - -“I do think it would be better to wait,” said the latter. - -“Yes, yes, my dear,” said Mr. Brooke, not quite knowing at what point -the discussion had arrived, but coming up to it with a contribution -which was generally appropriate. “It is easy to go too far, you know. -You must not let your ideas run away with you. And as to being in a -hurry to put money into schemes—it won’t do, you know. Garth has drawn -me in uncommonly with repairs, draining, that sort of thing: I’m -uncommonly out of pocket with one thing or another. I must pull up. As -for you, Chettam, you are spending a fortune on those oak fences round -your demesne.” - -Dorothea, submitting uneasily to this discouragement, went with Celia -into the library, which was her usual drawing-room. - -“Now, Dodo, do listen to what James says,” said Celia, “else you will -be getting into a scrape. You always did, and you always will, when you -set about doing as you please. And I think it is a mercy now after all -that you have got James to think for you. He lets you have your plans, -only he hinders you from being taken in. And that is the good of having -a brother instead of a husband. A husband would not let you have your -plans.” - -“As if I wanted a husband!” said Dorothea. “I only want not to have my -feelings checked at every turn.” Mrs. Casaubon was still undisciplined -enough to burst into angry tears. - -“Now, really, Dodo,” said Celia, with rather a deeper guttural than -usual, “you _are_ contradictory: first one thing and then another. You -used to submit to Mr. Casaubon quite shamefully: I think you would have -given up ever coming to see me if he had asked you.” - -“Of course I submitted to him, because it was my duty; it was my -feeling for him,” said Dorothea, looking through the prism of her -tears. - -“Then why can’t you think it your duty to submit a little to what James -wishes?” said Celia, with a sense of stringency in her argument. -“Because he only wishes what is for your own good. And, of course, men -know best about everything, except what women know better.” Dorothea -laughed and forgot her tears. - -“Well, I mean about babies and those things,” explained Celia. “I -should not give up to James when I knew he was wrong, as you used to do -to Mr. Casaubon.” - - - - -CHAPTER LXXIII. - -Pity the laden one; this wandering woe -May visit you and me. - - -When Lydgate had allayed Mrs. Bulstrode’s anxiety by telling her that -her husband had been seized with faintness at the meeting, but that he -trusted soon to see him better and would call again the next day, -unless she sent for him earlier, he went directly home, got on his -horse, and rode three miles out of the town for the sake of being out -of reach. - -He felt himself becoming violent and unreasonable as if raging under -the pain of stings: he was ready to curse the day on which he had come -to Middlemarch. Everything that had happened to him there seemed a mere -preparation for this hateful fatality, which had come as a blight on -his honorable ambition, and must make even people who had only vulgar -standards regard his reputation as irrevocably damaged. In such moments -a man can hardly escape being unloving. Lydgate thought of himself as -the sufferer, and of others as the agents who had injured his lot. He -had meant everything to turn out differently; and others had thrust -themselves into his life and thwarted his purposes. His marriage seemed -an unmitigated calamity; and he was afraid of going to Rosamond before -he had vented himself in this solitary rage, lest the mere sight of her -should exasperate him and make him behave unwarrantably. There are -episodes in most men’s lives in which their highest qualities can only -cast a deterring shadow over the objects that fill their inward vision: -Lydgate’s tenderheartedness was present just then only as a dread lest -he should offend against it, not as an emotion that swayed him to -tenderness. For he was very miserable. Only those who know the -supremacy of the intellectual life—the life which has a seed of -ennobling thought and purpose within it—can understand the grief of one -who falls from that serene activity into the absorbing soul-wasting -struggle with worldly annoyances. - -How was he to live on without vindicating himself among people who -suspected him of baseness? How could he go silently away from -Middlemarch as if he were retreating before a just condemnation? And -yet how was he to set about vindicating himself? - -For that scene at the meeting, which he had just witnessed, although it -had told him no particulars, had been enough to make his own situation -thoroughly clear to him. Bulstrode had been in dread of scandalous -disclosures on the part of Raffles. Lydgate could now construct all the -probabilities of the case. “He was afraid of some betrayal in my -hearing: all he wanted was to bind me to him by a strong obligation: -that was why he passed on a sudden from hardness to liberality. And he -may have tampered with the patient—he may have disobeyed my orders. I -fear he did. But whether he did or not, the world believes that he -somehow or other poisoned the man and that I winked at the crime, if I -didn’t help in it. And yet—and yet he may not be guilty of the last -offence; and it is just possible that the change towards me may have -been a genuine relenting—the effect of second thoughts such as he -alleged. What we call the ‘just possible’ is sometimes true and the -thing we find it easier to believe is grossly false. In his last -dealings with this man Bulstrode may have kept his hands pure, in spite -of my suspicion to the contrary.” - -There was a benumbing cruelty in his position. Even if he renounced -every other consideration than that of justifying himself—if he met -shrugs, cold glances, and avoidance as an accusation, and made a public -statement of all the facts as he knew them, who would be convinced? It -would be playing the part of a fool to offer his own testimony on -behalf of himself, and say, “I did not take the money as a bribe.” The -circumstances would always be stronger than his assertion. And besides, -to come forward and tell everything about himself must include -declarations about Bulstrode which would darken the suspicions of -others against him. He must tell that he had not known of Raffles’s -existence when he first mentioned his pressing need of money to -Bulstrode, and that he took the money innocently as a result of that -communication, not knowing that a new motive for the loan might have -arisen on his being called in to this man. And after all, the suspicion -of Bulstrode’s motives might be unjust. - -But then came the question whether he should have acted in precisely -the same way if he had not taken the money? Certainly, if Raffles had -continued alive and susceptible of further treatment when he arrived, -and he had then imagined any disobedience to his orders on the part of -Bulstrode, he would have made a strict inquiry, and if his conjecture -had been verified he would have thrown up the case, in spite of his -recent heavy obligation. But if he had not received any money—if -Bulstrode had never revoked his cold recommendation of bankruptcy—would -he, Lydgate, have abstained from all inquiry even on finding the man -dead?—would the shrinking from an insult to Bulstrode—would the -dubiousness of all medical treatment and the argument that his own -treatment would pass for the wrong with most members of his -profession—have had just the same force or significance with him? - -That was the uneasy corner of Lydgate’s consciousness while he was -reviewing the facts and resisting all reproach. If he had been -independent, this matter of a patient’s treatment and the distinct rule -that he must do or see done that which he believed best for the life -committed to him, would have been the point on which he would have been -the sturdiest. As it was, he had rested in the consideration that -disobedience to his orders, however it might have arisen, could not be -considered a crime, that in the dominant opinion obedience to his -orders was just as likely to be fatal, and that the affair was simply -one of etiquette. Whereas, again and again, in his time of freedom, he -had denounced the perversion of pathological doubt into moral doubt and -had said—“the purest experiment in treatment may still be -conscientious: my business is to take care of life, and to do the best -I can think of for it. Science is properly more scrupulous than dogma. -Dogma gives a charter to mistake, but the very breath of science is a -contest with mistake, and must keep the conscience alive.” Alas! the -scientific conscience had got into the debasing company of money -obligation and selfish respects. - -“Is there a medical man of them all in Middlemarch who would question -himself as I do?” said poor Lydgate, with a renewed outburst of -rebellion against the oppression of his lot. “And yet they will all -feel warranted in making a wide space between me and them, as if I were -a leper! My practice and my reputation are utterly damned—I can see -that. Even if I could be cleared by valid evidence, it would make -little difference to the blessed world here. I have been set down as -tainted and should be cheapened to them all the same.” - -Already there had been abundant signs which had hitherto puzzled him, -that just when he had been paying off his debts and getting cheerfully -on his feet, the townsmen were avoiding him or looking strangely at -him, and in two instances it came to his knowledge that patients of his -had called in another practitioner. The reasons were too plain now. The -general black-balling had begun. - -No wonder that in Lydgate’s energetic nature the sense of a hopeless -misconstruction easily turned into a dogged resistance. The scowl which -occasionally showed itself on his square brow was not a meaningless -accident. Already when he was re-entering the town after that ride -taken in the first hours of stinging pain, he was setting his mind on -remaining in Middlemarch in spite of the worst that could be done -against him. He would not retreat before calumny, as if he submitted to -it. He would face it to the utmost, and no act of his should show that -he was afraid. It belonged to the generosity as well as defiant force -of his nature that he resolved not to shrink from showing to the full -his sense of obligation to Bulstrode. It was true that the association -with this man had been fatal to him—true that if he had had the -thousand pounds still in his hands with all his debts unpaid he would -have returned the money to Bulstrode, and taken beggary rather than the -rescue which had been sullied with the suspicion of a bribe (for, -remember, he was one of the proudest among the sons of -men)—nevertheless, he would not turn away from this crushed -fellow-mortal whose aid he had used, and make a pitiful effort to get -acquittal for himself by howling against another. “I shall do as I -think right, and explain to nobody. They will try to starve me out, -but—” he was going on with an obstinate resolve, but he was getting -near home, and the thought of Rosamond urged itself again into that -chief place from which it had been thrust by the agonized struggles of -wounded honor and pride. - -How would Rosamond take it all? Here was another weight of chain to -drag, and poor Lydgate was in a bad mood for bearing her dumb mastery. -He had no impulse to tell her the trouble which must soon be common to -them both. He preferred waiting for the incidental disclosure which -events must soon bring about. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXIV. - -“Mercifully grant that we may grow aged together.” -—BOOK OF TOBIT: _Marriage Prayer_. - - -In Middlemarch a wife could not long remain ignorant that the town held -a bad opinion of her husband. No feminine intimate might carry her -friendship so far as to make a plain statement to the wife of the -unpleasant fact known or believed about her husband; but when a woman -with her thoughts much at leisure got them suddenly employed on -something grievously disadvantageous to her neighbors, various moral -impulses were called into play which tended to stimulate utterance. -Candor was one. To be candid, in Middlemarch phraseology, meant, to use -an early opportunity of letting your friends know that you did not take -a cheerful view of their capacity, their conduct, or their position; -and a robust candor never waited to be asked for its opinion. Then, -again, there was the love of truth—a wide phrase, but meaning in this -relation, a lively objection to seeing a wife look happier than her -husband’s character warranted, or manifest too much satisfaction in her -lot—the poor thing should have some hint given her that if she knew the -truth she would have less complacency in her bonnet, and in light -dishes for a supper-party. Stronger than all, there was the regard for -a friend’s moral improvement, sometimes called her soul, which was -likely to be benefited by remarks tending to gloom, uttered with the -accompaniment of pensive staring at the furniture and a manner implying -that the speaker would not tell what was on her mind, from regard to -the feelings of her hearer. On the whole, one might say that an ardent -charity was at work setting the virtuous mind to make a neighbor -unhappy for her good. - -There were hardly any wives in Middlemarch whose matrimonial -misfortunes would in different ways be likely to call forth more of -this moral activity than Rosamond and her aunt Bulstrode. Mrs. -Bulstrode was not an object of dislike, and had never consciously -injured any human being. Men had always thought her a handsome -comfortable woman, and had reckoned it among the signs of Bulstrode’s -hypocrisy that he had chosen a red-blooded Vincy, instead of a ghastly -and melancholy person suited to his low esteem for earthly pleasure. -When the scandal about her husband was disclosed they remarked of -her—“Ah, poor woman! She’s as honest as the day—_she_ never suspected -anything wrong in him, you may depend on it.” Women, who were intimate -with her, talked together much of “poor Harriet,” imagined what her -feelings must be when she came to know everything, and conjectured how -much she had already come to know. There was no spiteful disposition -towards her; rather, there was a busy benevolence anxious to ascertain -what it would be well for her to feel and do under the circumstances, -which of course kept the imagination occupied with her character and -history from the times when she was Harriet Vincy till now. With the -review of Mrs. Bulstrode and her position it was inevitable to -associate Rosamond, whose prospects were under the same blight with her -aunt’s. Rosamond was more severely criticised and less pitied, though -she too, as one of the good old Vincy family who had always been known -in Middlemarch, was regarded as a victim to marriage with an -interloper. The Vincys had their weaknesses, but then they lay on the -surface: there was never anything bad to be “found out” concerning -them. Mrs. Bulstrode was vindicated from any resemblance to her -husband. Harriet’s faults were her own. - -“She has always been showy,” said Mrs. Hackbutt, making tea for a small -party, “though she has got into the way of putting her religion -forward, to conform to her husband; she has tried to hold her head up -above Middlemarch by making it known that she invites clergymen and -heaven-knows-who from Riverston and those places.” - -“We can hardly blame her for that,” said Mrs. Sprague; “because few of -the best people in the town cared to associate with Bulstrode, and she -must have somebody to sit down at her table.” - -“Mr. Thesiger has always countenanced him,” said Mrs. Hackbutt. “I -think he must be sorry now.” - -“But he was never fond of him in his heart—that every one knows,” said -Mrs. Tom Toller. “Mr. Thesiger never goes into extremes. He keeps to -the truth in what is evangelical. It is only clergymen like Mr. Tyke, -who want to use Dissenting hymn-books and that low kind of religion, -who ever found Bulstrode to their taste.” - -“I understand, Mr. Tyke is in great distress about him,” said Mrs. -Hackbutt. “And well he may be: they say the Bulstrodes have half kept -the Tyke family.” - -“And of course it is a discredit to his doctrines,” said Mrs. Sprague, -who was elderly, and old-fashioned in her opinions. - -“People will not make a boast of being methodistical in Middlemarch for -a good while to come.” - -“I think we must not set down people’s bad actions to their religion,” -said falcon-faced Mrs. Plymdale, who had been listening hitherto. - -“Oh, my dear, we are forgetting,” said Mrs. Sprague. “We ought not to -be talking of this before you.” - -“I am sure I have no reason to be partial,” said Mrs. Plymdale, -coloring. “It’s true Mr. Plymdale has always been on good terms with -Mr. Bulstrode, and Harriet Vincy was my friend long before she married -him. But I have always kept my own opinions and told her where she was -wrong, poor thing. Still, in point of religion, I must say, Mr. -Bulstrode might have done what he has, and worse, and yet have been a -man of no religion. I don’t say that there has not been a little too -much of that—I like moderation myself. But truth is truth. The men -tried at the assizes are not all over-religious, I suppose.” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Hackbutt, wheeling adroitly, “all I can say is, that -I think she ought to separate from him.” - -“I can’t say that,” said Mrs. Sprague. “She took him for better or -worse, you know.” - -“But ‘worse’ can never mean finding out that your husband is fit for -Newgate,” said Mrs. Hackbutt. “Fancy living with such a man! I should -expect to be poisoned.” - -“Yes, I think myself it is an encouragement to crime if such men are to -be taken care of and waited on by good wives,” said Mrs. Tom Toller. - -“And a good wife poor Harriet has been,” said Mrs. Plymdale. “She -thinks her husband the first of men. It’s true he has never denied her -anything.” - -“Well, we shall see what she will do,” said Mrs. Hackbutt. “I suppose -she knows nothing yet, poor creature. I do hope and trust I shall not -see her, for I should be frightened to death lest I should say anything -about her husband. Do you think any hint has reached her?” - -“I should hardly think so,” said Mrs. Tom Toller. “We hear that _he_ is -ill, and has never stirred out of the house since the meeting on -Thursday; but she was with her girls at church yesterday, and they had -new Tuscan bonnets. Her own had a feather in it. I have never seen that -her religion made any difference in her dress.” - -“She wears very neat patterns always,” said Mrs. Plymdale, a little -stung. “And that feather I know she got dyed a pale lavender on purpose -to be consistent. I must say it of Harriet that she wishes to do -right.” - -“As to her knowing what has happened, it can’t be kept from her long,” -said Mrs. Hackbutt. “The Vincys know, for Mr. Vincy was at the meeting. -It will be a great blow to him. There is his daughter as well as his -sister.” - -“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Sprague. “Nobody supposes that Mr. Lydgate can -go on holding up his head in Middlemarch, things look so black about -the thousand pounds he took just at that man’s death. It really makes -one shudder.” - -“Pride must have a fall,” said Mrs. Hackbutt. - -“I am not so sorry for Rosamond Vincy that was as I am for her aunt,” -said Mrs. Plymdale. “She needed a lesson.” - -“I suppose the Bulstrodes will go and live abroad somewhere,” said Mrs. -Sprague. “That is what is generally done when there is anything -disgraceful in a family.” - -“And a most deadly blow it will be to Harriet,” said Mrs. Plymdale. “If -ever a woman was crushed, she will be. I pity her from my heart. And -with all her faults, few women are better. From a girl she had the -neatest ways, and was always good-hearted, and as open as the day. You -might look into her drawers when you would—always the same. And so she -has brought up Kate and Ellen. You may think how hard it will be for -her to go among foreigners.” - -“The doctor says that is what he should recommend the Lydgates to do,” -said Mrs. Sprague. “He says Lydgate ought to have kept among the -French.” - -“That would suit _her_ well enough, I dare say,” said Mrs. Plymdale; -“there is that kind of lightness about her. But she got that from her -mother; she never got it from her aunt Bulstrode, who always gave her -good advice, and to my knowledge would rather have had her marry -elsewhere.” - -Mrs. Plymdale was in a situation which caused her some complication of -feeling. There had been not only her intimacy with Mrs. Bulstrode, but -also a profitable business relation of the great Plymdale dyeing house -with Mr. Bulstrode, which on the one hand would have inclined her to -desire that the mildest view of his character should be the true one, -but on the other, made her the more afraid of seeming to palliate his -culpability. Again, the late alliance of her family with the Tollers -had brought her in connection with the best circle, which gratified her -in every direction except in the inclination to those serious views -which she believed to be the best in another sense. The sharp little -woman’s conscience was somewhat troubled in the adjustment of these -opposing “bests,” and of her griefs and satisfactions under late -events, which were likely to humble those who needed humbling, but also -to fall heavily on her old friend whose faults she would have preferred -seeing on a background of prosperity. - -Poor Mrs. Bulstrode, meanwhile, had been no further shaken by the -oncoming tread of calamity than in the busier stirring of that secret -uneasiness which had always been present in her since the last visit of -Raffles to The Shrubs. That the hateful man had come ill to Stone -Court, and that her husband had chosen to remain there and watch over -him, she allowed to be explained by the fact that Raffles had been -employed and aided in earlier-days, and that this made a tie of -benevolence towards him in his degraded helplessness; and she had been -since then innocently cheered by her husband’s more hopeful speech -about his own health and ability to continue his attention to business. -The calm was disturbed when Lydgate had brought him home ill from the -meeting, and in spite of comforting assurances during the next few -days, she cried in private from the conviction that her husband was not -suffering from bodily illness merely, but from something that afflicted -his mind. He would not allow her to read to him, and scarcely to sit -with him, alleging nervous susceptibility to sounds and movements; yet -she suspected that in shutting himself up in his private room he wanted -to be busy with his papers. Something, she felt sure, had happened. -Perhaps it was some great loss of money; and she was kept in the dark. -Not daring to question her husband, she said to Lydgate, on the fifth -day after the meeting, when she had not left home except to go to -church— - -“Mr. Lydgate, pray be open with me: I like to know the truth. Has -anything happened to Mr. Bulstrode?” - -“Some little nervous shock,” said Lydgate, evasively. He felt that it -was not for him to make the painful revelation. - -“But what brought it on?” said Mrs. Bulstrode, looking directly at him -with her large dark eyes. - -“There is often something poisonous in the air of public rooms,” said -Lydgate. “Strong men can stand it, but it tells on people in proportion -to the delicacy of their systems. It is often impossible to account for -the precise moment of an attack—or rather, to say why the strength -gives way at a particular moment.” - -Mrs. Bulstrode was not satisfied with this answer. There remained in -her the belief that some calamity had befallen her husband, of which -she was to be kept in ignorance; and it was in her nature strongly to -object to such concealment. She begged leave for her daughters to sit -with their father, and drove into the town to pay some visits, -conjecturing that if anything were known to have gone wrong in Mr. -Bulstrode’s affairs, she should see or hear some sign of it. - -She called on Mrs. Thesiger, who was not at home, and then drove to -Mrs. Hackbutt’s on the other side of the churchyard. Mrs. Hackbutt saw -her coming from an up-stairs window, and remembering her former alarm -lest she should meet Mrs. Bulstrode, felt almost bound in consistency -to send word that she was not at home; but against that, there was a -sudden strong desire within her for the excitement of an interview in -which she was quite determined not to make the slightest allusion to -what was in her mind. - -Hence Mrs. Bulstrode was shown into the drawing-room, and Mrs. Hackbutt -went to her, with more tightness of lip and rubbing of her hands than -was usually observable in her, these being precautions adopted against -freedom of speech. She was resolved not to ask how Mr. Bulstrode was. - -“I have not been anywhere except to church for nearly a week,” said -Mrs. Bulstrode, after a few introductory remarks. “But Mr. Bulstrode -was taken so ill at the meeting on Thursday that I have not liked to -leave the house.” - -Mrs. Hackbutt rubbed the back of one hand with the palm of the other -held against her chest, and let her eyes ramble over the pattern on the -rug. - -“Was Mr. Hackbutt at the meeting?” persevered Mrs. Bulstrode. - -“Yes, he was,” said Mrs. Hackbutt, with the same attitude. “The land is -to be bought by subscription, I believe.” - -“Let us hope that there will be no more cases of cholera to be buried -in it,” said Mrs. Bulstrode. “It is an awful visitation. But I always -think Middlemarch a very healthy spot. I suppose it is being used to it -from a child; but I never saw the town I should like to live at better, -and especially our end.” - -“I am sure I should be glad that you always should live at Middlemarch, -Mrs. Bulstrode,” said Mrs. Hackbutt, with a slight sigh. “Still, we -must learn to resign ourselves, wherever our lot may be cast. Though I -am sure there will always be people in this town who will wish you -well.” - -Mrs. Hackbutt longed to say, “if you take my advice you will part from -your husband,” but it seemed clear to her that the poor woman knew -nothing of the thunder ready to bolt on her head, and she herself could -do no more than prepare her a little. Mrs. Bulstrode felt suddenly -rather chill and trembling: there was evidently something unusual -behind this speech of Mrs. Hackbutt’s; but though she had set out with -the desire to be fully informed, she found herself unable now to pursue -her brave purpose, and turning the conversation by an inquiry about the -young Hackbutts, she soon took her leave saying that she was going to -see Mrs. Plymdale. On her way thither she tried to imagine that there -might have been some unusually warm sparring at the meeting between Mr. -Bulstrode and some of his frequent opponents—perhaps Mr. Hackbutt might -have been one of them. That would account for everything. - -But when she was in conversation with Mrs. Plymdale that comforting -explanation seemed no longer tenable. “Selina” received her with a -pathetic affectionateness and a disposition to give edifying answers on -the commonest topics, which could hardly have reference to an ordinary -quarrel of which the most important consequence was a perturbation of -Mr. Bulstrode’s health. Beforehand Mrs. Bulstrode had thought that she -would sooner question Mrs. Plymdale than any one else; but she found to -her surprise that an old friend is not always the person whom it is -easiest to make a confidant of: there was the barrier of remembered -communication under other circumstances—there was the dislike of being -pitied and informed by one who had been long wont to allow her the -superiority. For certain words of mysterious appropriateness that Mrs. -Plymdale let fall about her resolution never to turn her back on her -friends, convinced Mrs. Bulstrode that what had happened must be some -kind of misfortune, and instead of being able to say with her native -directness, “What is it that you have in your mind?” she found herself -anxious to get away before she had heard anything more explicit. She -began to have an agitating certainty that the misfortune was something -more than the mere loss of money, being keenly sensitive to the fact -that Selina now, just as Mrs. Hackbutt had done before, avoided -noticing what she said about her husband, as they would have avoided -noticing a personal blemish. - -She said good-by with nervous haste, and told the coachman to drive to -Mr. Vincy’s warehouse. In that short drive her dread gathered so much -force from the sense of darkness, that when she entered the private -counting-house where her brother sat at his desk, her knees trembled -and her usually florid face was deathly pale. Something of the same -effect was produced in him by the sight of her: he rose from his seat -to meet her, took her by the hand, and said, with his impulsive -rashness— - -“God help you, Harriet! you know all.” - -That moment was perhaps worse than any which came after. It contained -that concentrated experience which in great crises of emotion reveals -the bias of a nature, and is prophetic of the ultimate act which will -end an intermediate struggle. Without that memory of Raffles she might -still have thought only of monetary ruin, but now along with her -brother’s look and words there darted into her mind the idea of some -guilt in her husband—then, under the working of terror came the image -of her husband exposed to disgrace—and then, after an instant of -scorching shame in which she felt only the eyes of the world, with one -leap of her heart she was at his side in mournful but unreproaching -fellowship with shame and isolation. All this went on within her in a -mere flash of time—while she sank into the chair, and raised her eyes -to her brother, who stood over her. “I know nothing, Walter. What is -it?” she said, faintly. - -He told her everything, very inartificially, in slow fragments, making -her aware that the scandal went much beyond proof, especially as to the -end of Raffles. - -“People will talk,” he said. “Even if a man has been acquitted by a -jury, they’ll talk, and nod and wink—and as far as the world goes, a -man might often as well be guilty as not. It’s a breakdown blow, and it -damages Lydgate as much as Bulstrode. I don’t pretend to say what is -the truth. I only wish we had never heard the name of either Bulstrode -or Lydgate. You’d better have been a Vincy all your life, and so had -Rosamond.” Mrs. Bulstrode made no reply. - -“But you must bear up as well as you can, Harriet. People don’t blame -_you_. And I’ll stand by you whatever you make up your mind to do,” -said the brother, with rough but well-meaning affectionateness. - -“Give me your arm to the carriage, Walter,” said Mrs. Bulstrode. “I -feel very weak.” - -And when she got home she was obliged to say to her daughter, “I am not -well, my dear; I must go and lie down. Attend to your papa. Leave me in -quiet. I shall take no dinner.” - -She locked herself in her room. She needed time to get used to her -maimed consciousness, her poor lopped life, before she could walk -steadily to the place allotted her. A new searching light had fallen on -her husband’s character, and she could not judge him leniently: the -twenty years in which she had believed in him and venerated him by -virtue of his concealments came back with particulars that made them -seem an odious deceit. He had married her with that bad past life -hidden behind him, and she had no faith left to protest his innocence -of the worst that was imputed to him. Her honest ostentatious nature -made the sharing of a merited dishonor as bitter as it could be to any -mortal. - -But this imperfectly taught woman, whose phrases and habits were an odd -patchwork, had a loyal spirit within her. The man whose prosperity she -had shared through nearly half a life, and who had unvaryingly -cherished her—now that punishment had befallen him it was not possible -to her in any sense to forsake him. There is a forsaking which still -sits at the same board and lies on the same couch with the forsaken -soul, withering it the more by unloving proximity. She knew, when she -locked her door, that she should unlock it ready to go down to her -unhappy husband and espouse his sorrow, and say of his guilt, I will -mourn and not reproach. But she needed time to gather up her strength; -she needed to sob out her farewell to all the gladness and pride of her -life. When she had resolved to go down, she prepared herself by some -little acts which might seem mere folly to a hard onlooker; they were -her way of expressing to all spectators visible or invisible that she -had begun a new life in which she embraced humiliation. She took off -all her ornaments and put on a plain black gown, and instead of wearing -her much-adorned cap and large bows of hair, she brushed her hair down -and put on a plain bonnet-cap, which made her look suddenly like an -early Methodist. - -Bulstrode, who knew that his wife had been out and had come in saying -that she was not well, had spent the time in an agitation equal to -hers. He had looked forward to her learning the truth from others, and -had acquiesced in that probability, as something easier to him than any -confession. But now that he imagined the moment of her knowledge come, -he awaited the result in anguish. His daughters had been obliged to -consent to leave him, and though he had allowed some food to be brought -to him, he had not touched it. He felt himself perishing slowly in -unpitied misery. Perhaps he should never see his wife’s face with -affection in it again. And if he turned to God there seemed to be no -answer but the pressure of retribution. - -It was eight o’clock in the evening before the door opened and his wife -entered. He dared not look up at her. He sat with his eyes bent down, -and as she went towards him she thought he looked smaller—he seemed so -withered and shrunken. A movement of new compassion and old tenderness -went through her like a great wave, and putting one hand on his which -rested on the arm of the chair, and the other on his shoulder, she -said, solemnly but kindly— - -“Look up, Nicholas.” - -He raised his eyes with a little start and looked at her half amazed -for a moment: her pale face, her changed, mourning dress, the trembling -about her mouth, all said, “I know;” and her hands and eyes rested -gently on him. He burst out crying and they cried together, she sitting -at his side. They could not yet speak to each other of the shame which -she was bearing with him, or of the acts which had brought it down on -them. His confession was silent, and her promise of faithfulness was -silent. Open-minded as she was, she nevertheless shrank from the words -which would have expressed their mutual consciousness, as she would -have shrunk from flakes of fire. She could not say, “How much is only -slander and false suspicion?” and he did not say, “I am innocent.” - - - - -CHAPTER LXXV. - -“Le sentiment de la fausseté des plaisirs présents, et l’ignorance de -la vanité des plaisirs absents causent l’inconstance.”—PASCAL. - - -Rosamond had a gleam of returning cheerfulness when the house was freed -from the threatening figure, and when all the disagreeable creditors -were paid. But she was not joyous: her married life had fulfilled none -of her hopes, and had been quite spoiled for her imagination. In this -brief interval of calm, Lydgate, remembering that he had often been -stormy in his hours of perturbation, and mindful of the pain Rosamond -had had to bear, was carefully gentle towards her; but he, too, had -lost some of his old spirit, and he still felt it necessary to refer to -an economical change in their way of living as a matter of course, -trying to reconcile her to it gradually, and repressing his anger when -she answered by wishing that he would go to live in London. When she -did not make this answer, she listened languidly, and wondered what she -had that was worth living for. The hard and contemptuous words which -had fallen from her husband in his anger had deeply offended that -vanity which he had at first called into active enjoyment; and what she -regarded as his perverse way of looking at things, kept up a secret -repulsion, which made her receive all his tenderness as a poor -substitute for the happiness he had failed to give her. They were at a -disadvantage with their neighbors, and there was no longer any outlook -towards Quallingham—there was no outlook anywhere except in an -occasional letter from Will Ladislaw. She had felt stung and -disappointed by Will’s resolution to quit Middlemarch, for in spite of -what she knew and guessed about his admiration for Dorothea, she -secretly cherished the belief that he had, or would necessarily come to -have, much more admiration for herself; Rosamond being one of those -women who live much in the idea that each man they meet would have -preferred them if the preference had not been hopeless. Mrs. Casaubon -was all very well; but Will’s interest in her dated before he knew Mrs. -Lydgate. Rosamond took his way of talking to herself, which was a -mixture of playful fault-finding and hyperbolical gallantry, as the -disguise of a deeper feeling; and in his presence she felt that -agreeable titillation of vanity and sense of romantic drama which -Lydgate’s presence had no longer the magic to create. She even -fancied—what will not men and women fancy in these matters?—that Will -exaggerated his admiration for Mrs. Casaubon in order to pique herself. -In this way poor Rosamond’s brain had been busy before Will’s -departure. He would have made, she thought, a much more suitable -husband for her than she had found in Lydgate. No notion could have -been falser than this, for Rosamond’s discontent in her marriage was -due to the conditions of marriage itself, to its demand for -self-suppression and tolerance, and not to the nature of her husband; -but the easy conception of an unreal Better had a sentimental charm -which diverted her ennui. She constructed a little romance which was to -vary the flatness of her life: Will Ladislaw was always to be a -bachelor and live near her, always to be at her command, and have an -understood though never fully expressed passion for her, which would be -sending out lambent flames every now and then in interesting scenes. -His departure had been a proportionate disappointment, and had sadly -increased her weariness of Middlemarch; but at first she had the -alternative dream of pleasures in store from her intercourse with the -family at Quallingham. Since then the troubles of her married life had -deepened, and the absence of other relief encouraged her regretful -rumination over that thin romance which she had once fed on. Men and -women make sad mistakes about their own symptoms, taking their vague -uneasy longings, sometimes for genius, sometimes for religion, and -oftener still for a mighty love. Will Ladislaw had written chatty -letters, half to her and half to Lydgate, and she had replied: their -separation, she felt, was not likely to be final, and the change she -now most longed for was that Lydgate should go to live in London; -everything would be agreeable in London; and she had set to work with -quiet determination to win this result, when there came a sudden, -delightful promise which inspirited her. - -It came shortly before the memorable meeting at the town-hall, and was -nothing less than a letter from Will Ladislaw to Lydgate, which turned -indeed chiefly on his new interest in plans of colonization, but -mentioned incidentally, that he might find it necessary to pay a visit -to Middlemarch within the next few weeks—a very pleasant necessity, he -said, almost as good as holidays to a schoolboy. He hoped there was his -old place on the rug, and a great deal of music in store for him. But -he was quite uncertain as to the time. While Lydgate was reading the -letter to Rosamond, her face looked like a reviving flower—it grew -prettier and more blooming. There was nothing unendurable now: the -debts were paid, Mr. Ladislaw was coming, and Lydgate would be -persuaded to leave Middlemarch and settle in London, which was “so -different from a provincial town.” - -That was a bright bit of morning. But soon the sky became black over -poor Rosamond. The presence of a new gloom in her husband, about which -he was entirely reserved towards her—for he dreaded to expose his -lacerated feeling to her neutrality and misconception—soon received a -painfully strange explanation, alien to all her previous notions of -what could affect her happiness. In the new gayety of her spirits, -thinking that Lydgate had merely a worse fit of moodiness than usual, -causing him to leave her remarks unanswered, and evidently to keep out -of her way as much as possible, she chose, a few days after the -meeting, and without speaking to him on the subject, to send out notes -of invitation for a small evening party, feeling convinced that this -was a judicious step, since people seemed to have been keeping aloof -from them, and wanted restoring to the old habit of intercourse. When -the invitations had been accepted, she would tell Lydgate, and give him -a wise admonition as to how a medical man should behave to his -neighbors; for Rosamond had the gravest little airs possible about -other people’s duties. But all the invitations were declined, and the -last answer came into Lydgate’s hands. - -“This is Chichely’s scratch. What is he writing to you about?” said -Lydgate, wonderingly, as he handed the note to her. She was obliged to -let him see it, and, looking at her severely, he said— - -“Why on earth have you been sending out invitations without telling me, -Rosamond? I beg, I insist that you will not invite any one to this -house. I suppose you have been inviting others, and they have refused -too.” She said nothing. - -“Do you hear me?” thundered Lydgate. - -“Yes, certainly I hear you,” said Rosamond, turning her head aside with -the movement of a graceful long-necked bird. - -Lydgate tossed his head without any grace and walked out of the room, -feeling himself dangerous. Rosamond’s thought was, that he was getting -more and more unbearable—not that there was any new special reason for -this peremptoriness. His indisposition to tell her anything in which he -was sure beforehand that she would not be interested was growing into -an unreflecting habit, and she was in ignorance of everything connected -with the thousand pounds except that the loan had come from her uncle -Bulstrode. Lydgate’s odious humors and their neighbors’ apparent -avoidance of them had an unaccountable date for her in their relief -from money difficulties. If the invitations had been accepted she would -have gone to invite her mamma and the rest, whom she had seen nothing -of for several days; and she now put on her bonnet to go and inquire -what had become of them all, suddenly feeling as if there were a -conspiracy to leave her in isolation with a husband disposed to offend -everybody. It was after the dinner hour, and she found her father and -mother seated together alone in the drawing-room. They greeted her with -sad looks, saying “Well, my dear!” and no more. She had never seen her -father look so downcast; and seating herself near him she said— - -“Is there anything the matter, papa?” - -He did not answer, but Mrs. Vincy said, “Oh, my dear, have you heard -nothing? It won’t be long before it reaches you.” - -“Is it anything about Tertius?” said Rosamond, turning pale. The idea -of trouble immediately connected itself with what had been -unaccountable to her in him. - -“Oh, my dear, yes. To think of your marrying into this trouble. Debt -was bad enough, but this will be worse.” - -“Stay, stay, Lucy,” said Mr. Vincy. “Have you heard nothing about your -uncle Bulstrode, Rosamond?” - -“No, papa,” said the poor thing, feeling as if trouble were not -anything she had before experienced, but some invisible power with an -iron grasp that made her soul faint within her. - -Her father told her everything, saying at the end, “It’s better for you -to know, my dear. I think Lydgate must leave the town. Things have gone -against him. I dare say he couldn’t help it. I don’t accuse him of any -harm,” said Mr. Vincy. He had always before been disposed to find the -utmost fault with Lydgate. - -The shock to Rosamond was terrible. It seemed to her that no lot could -be so cruelly hard as hers to have married a man who had become the -centre of infamous suspicions. In many cases it is inevitable that the -shame is felt to be the worst part of crime; and it would have required -a great deal of disentangling reflection, such as had never entered -into Rosamond’s life, for her in these moments to feel that her trouble -was less than if her husband had been certainly known to have done -something criminal. All the shame seemed to be there. And she had -innocently married this man with the belief that he and his family were -a glory to her! She showed her usual reticence to her parents, and only -said, that if Lydgate had done as she wished he would have left -Middlemarch long ago. - -“She bears it beyond anything,” said her mother when she was gone. - -“Ah, thank God!” said Mr. Vincy, who was much broken down. - -But Rosamond went home with a sense of justified repugnance towards her -husband. What had he really done—how had he really acted? She did not -know. Why had he not told her everything? He did not speak to her on -the subject, and of course she could not speak to him. It came into her -mind once that she would ask her father to let her go home again; but -dwelling on that prospect made it seem utter dreariness to her: a -married woman gone back to live with her parents—life seemed to have no -meaning for her in such a position: she could not contemplate herself -in it. - -The next two days Lydgate observed a change in her, and believed that -she had heard the bad news. Would she speak to him about it, or would -she go on forever in the silence which seemed to imply that she -believed him guilty? We must remember that he was in a morbid state of -mind, in which almost all contact was pain. Certainly Rosamond in this -case had equal reason to complain of reserve and want of confidence on -his part; but in the bitterness of his soul he excused himself;—was he -not justified in shrinking from the task of telling her, since now she -knew the truth she had no impulse to speak to him? But a deeper-lying -consciousness that he was in fault made him restless, and the silence -between them became intolerable to him; it was as if they were both -adrift on one piece of wreck and looked away from each other. - -He thought, “I am a fool. Haven’t I given up expecting anything? I have -married care, not help.” And that evening he said— - -“Rosamond, have you heard anything that distresses you?” - -“Yes,” she answered, laying down her work, which she had been carrying -on with a languid semi-consciousness, most unlike her usual self. - -“What have you heard?” - -“Everything, I suppose. Papa told me.” - -“That people think me disgraced?” - -“Yes,” said Rosamond, faintly, beginning to sew again automatically. - -There was silence. Lydgate thought, “If she has any trust in me—any -notion of what I am, she ought to speak now and say that she does not -believe I have deserved disgrace.” - -But Rosamond on her side went on moving her fingers languidly. Whatever -was to be said on the subject she expected to come from Tertius. What -did she know? And if he were innocent of any wrong, why did he not do -something to clear himself? - -This silence of hers brought a new rush of gall to that bitter mood in -which Lydgate had been saying to himself that nobody believed in -him—even Farebrother had not come forward. He had begun to question her -with the intent that their conversation should disperse the chill fog -which had gathered between them, but he felt his resolution checked by -despairing resentment. Even this trouble, like the rest, she seemed to -regard as if it were hers alone. He was always to her a being apart, -doing what she objected to. He started from his chair with an angry -impulse, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, walked up and down the -room. There was an underlying consciousness all the while that he -should have to master this anger, and tell her everything, and convince -her of the facts. For he had almost learned the lesson that he must -bend himself to her nature, and that because she came short in her -sympathy, he must give the more. Soon he recurred to his intention of -opening himself: the occasion must not be lost. If he could bring her -to feel with some solemnity that here was a slander which must be met -and not run away from, and that the whole trouble had come out of his -desperate want of money, it would be a moment for urging powerfully on -her that they should be one in the resolve to do with as little money -as possible, so that they might weather the bad time and keep -themselves independent. He would mention the definite measures which he -desired to take, and win her to a willing spirit. He was bound to try -this—and what else was there for him to do? - -He did not know how long he had been walking uneasily backwards and -forwards, but Rosamond felt that it was long, and wished that he would -sit down. She too had begun to think this an opportunity for urging on -Tertius what he ought to do. Whatever might be the truth about all this -misery, there was one dread which asserted itself. - -Lydgate at last seated himself, not in his usual chair, but in one -nearer to Rosamond, leaning aside in it towards her, and looking at her -gravely before he reopened the sad subject. He had conquered himself so -far, and was about to speak with a sense of solemnity, as on an -occasion which was not to be repeated. He had even opened his lips, -when Rosamond, letting her hands fall, looked at him and said— - -“Surely, Tertius—” - -“Well?” - -“Surely now at last you have given up the idea of staying in -Middlemarch. I cannot go on living here. Let us go to London. Papa, and -every one else, says you had better go. Whatever misery I have to put -up with, it will be easier away from here.” - -Lydgate felt miserably jarred. Instead of that critical outpouring for -which he had prepared himself with effort, here was the old round to be -gone through again. He could not bear it. With a quick change of -countenance he rose and went out of the room. - -Perhaps if he had been strong enough to persist in his determination to -be the more because she was less, that evening might have had a better -issue. If his energy could have borne down that check, he might still -have wrought on Rosamond’s vision and will. We cannot be sure that any -natures, however inflexible or peculiar, will resist this effect from a -more massive being than their own. They may be taken by storm and for -the moment converted, becoming part of the soul which enwraps them in -the ardor of its movement. But poor Lydgate had a throbbing pain within -him, and his energy had fallen short of its task. - -The beginning of mutual understanding and resolve seemed as far off as -ever; nay, it seemed blocked out by the sense of unsuccessful effort. -They lived on from day to day with their thoughts still apart, Lydgate -going about what work he had in a mood of despair, and Rosamond -feeling, with some justification, that he was behaving cruelly. It was -of no use to say anything to Tertius; but when Will Ladislaw came, she -was determined to tell him everything. In spite of her general -reticence, she needed some one who would recognize her wrongs. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXVI. - -To mercy, pity, peace, and love - All pray in their distress, -And to these virtues of delight, - Return their thankfulness. -. . . . . . -For Mercy has a human heart, - Pity a human face; -And Love, the human form divine; - And Peace, the human dress. -—WILLIAM BLAKE: _Songs of Innocence_. - - -Some days later, Lydgate was riding to Lowick Manor, in consequence of -a summons from Dorothea. The summons had not been unexpected, since it -had followed a letter from Mr. Bulstrode, in which he stated that he -had resumed his arrangements for quitting Middlemarch, and must remind -Lydgate of his previous communications about the Hospital, to the -purport of which he still adhered. It had been his duty, before taking -further steps, to reopen the subject with Mrs. Casaubon, who now -wished, as before, to discuss the question with Lydgate. “Your views -may possibly have undergone some change,” wrote Mr. Bulstrode; “but, in -that case also, it is desirable that you should lay them before her.” - -Dorothea awaited his arrival with eager interest. Though, in deference -to her masculine advisers, she had refrained from what Sir James had -called “interfering in this Bulstrode business,” the hardship of -Lydgate’s position was continually in her mind, and when Bulstrode -applied to her again about the hospital, she felt that the opportunity -was come to her which she had been hindered from hastening. In her -luxurious home, wandering under the boughs of her own great trees, her -thought was going out over the lot of others, and her emotions were -imprisoned. The idea of some active good within her reach, “haunted her -like a passion,” and another’s need having once come to her as a -distinct image, preoccupied her desire with the yearning to give -relief, and made her own ease tasteless. She was full of confident hope -about this interview with Lydgate, never heeding what was said of his -personal reserve; never heeding that she was a very young woman. -Nothing could have seemed more irrelevant to Dorothea than insistence -on her youth and sex when she was moved to show her human fellowship. - -As she sat waiting in the library, she could do nothing but live -through again all the past scenes which had brought Lydgate into her -memories. They all owed their significance to her marriage and its -troubles—but no; there were two occasions in which the image of Lydgate -had come painfully in connection with his wife and some one else. The -pain had been allayed for Dorothea, but it had left in her an awakened -conjecture as to what Lydgate’s marriage might be to him, a -susceptibility to the slightest hint about Mrs. Lydgate. These thoughts -were like a drama to her, and made her eyes bright, and gave an -attitude of suspense to her whole frame, though she was only looking -out from the brown library on to the turf and the bright green buds -which stood in relief against the dark evergreens. - -When Lydgate came in, she was almost shocked at the change in his face, -which was strikingly perceptible to her who had not seen him for two -months. It was not the change of emaciation, but that effect which even -young faces will very soon show from the persistent presence of -resentment and despondency. Her cordial look, when she put out her hand -to him, softened his expression, but only with melancholy. - -“I have wished very much to see you for a long while, Mr. Lydgate,” -said Dorothea when they were seated opposite each other; “but I put off -asking you to come until Mr. Bulstrode applied to me again about the -Hospital. I know that the advantage of keeping the management of it -separate from that of the Infirmary depends on you, or, at least, on -the good which you are encouraged to hope for from having it under your -control. And I am sure you will not refuse to tell me exactly what you -think.” - -“You want to decide whether you should give a generous support to the -Hospital,” said Lydgate. “I cannot conscientiously advise you to do it -in dependence on any activity of mine. I may be obliged to leave the -town.” - -He spoke curtly, feeling the ache of despair as to his being able to -carry out any purpose that Rosamond had set her mind against. - -“Not because there is no one to believe in you?” said Dorothea, pouring -out her words in clearness from a full heart. “I know the unhappy -mistakes about you. I knew them from the first moment to be mistakes. -You have never done anything vile. You would not do anything -dishonorable.” - -It was the first assurance of belief in him that had fallen on -Lydgate’s ears. He drew a deep breath, and said, “Thank you.” He could -say no more: it was something very new and strange in his life that -these few words of trust from a woman should be so much to him. - -“I beseech you to tell me how everything was,” said Dorothea, -fearlessly. “I am sure that the truth would clear you.” - -Lydgate started up from his chair and went towards the window, -forgetting where he was. He had so often gone over in his mind the -possibility of explaining everything without aggravating appearances -that would tell, perhaps unfairly, against Bulstrode, and had so often -decided against it—he had so often said to himself that his assertions -would not change people’s impressions—that Dorothea’s words sounded -like a temptation to do something which in his soberness he had -pronounced to be unreasonable. - -“Tell me, pray,” said Dorothea, with simple earnestness; “then we can -consult together. It is wicked to let people think evil of any one -falsely, when it can be hindered.” - -Lydgate turned, remembering where he was, and saw Dorothea’s face -looking up at him with a sweet trustful gravity. The presence of a -noble nature, generous in its wishes, ardent in its charity, changes -the lights for us: we begin to see things again in their larger, -quieter masses, and to believe that we too can be seen and judged in -the wholeness of our character. That influence was beginning to act on -Lydgate, who had for many days been seeing all life as one who is -dragged and struggling amid the throng. He sat down again, and felt -that he was recovering his old self in the consciousness that he was -with one who believed in it. - -“I don’t want,” he said, “to bear hard on Bulstrode, who has lent me -money of which I was in need—though I would rather have gone without it -now. He is hunted down and miserable, and has only a poor thread of -life in him. But I should like to tell you everything. It will be a -comfort to me to speak where belief has gone beforehand, and where I -shall not seem to be offering assertions of my own honesty. You will -feel what is fair to another, as you feel what is fair to me.” - -“Do trust me,” said Dorothea; “I will not repeat anything without your -leave. But at the very least, I could say that you have made all the -circumstances clear to me, and that I know you are not in any way -guilty. Mr. Farebrother would believe me, and my uncle, and Sir James -Chettam. Nay, there are persons in Middlemarch to whom I could go; -although they don’t know much of me, they would believe me. They would -know that I could have no other motive than truth and justice. I would -take any pains to clear you. I have very little to do. There is nothing -better that I can do in the world.” - -Dorothea’s voice, as she made this childlike picture of what she would -do, might have been almost taken as a proof that she could do it -effectively. The searching tenderness of her woman’s tones seemed made -for a defence against ready accusers. Lydgate did not stay to think -that she was Quixotic: he gave himself up, for the first time in his -life, to the exquisite sense of leaning entirely on a generous -sympathy, without any check of proud reserve. And he told her -everything, from the time when, under the pressure of his difficulties, -he unwillingly made his first application to Bulstrode; gradually, in -the relief of speaking, getting into a more thorough utterance of what -had gone on in his mind—entering fully into the fact that his treatment -of the patient was opposed to the dominant practice, into his doubts at -the last, his ideal of medical duty, and his uneasy consciousness that -the acceptance of the money had made some difference in his private -inclination and professional behavior, though not in his fulfilment of -any publicly recognized obligation. - -“It has come to my knowledge since,” he added, “that Hawley sent some -one to examine the housekeeper at Stone Court, and she said that she -gave the patient all the opium in the phial I left, as well as a good -deal of brandy. But that would not have been opposed to ordinary -prescriptions, even of first-rate men. The suspicions against me had no -hold there: they are grounded on the knowledge that I took money, that -Bulstrode had strong motives for wishing the man to die, and that he -gave me the money as a bribe to concur in some malpractices or other -against the patient—that in any case I accepted a bribe to hold my -tongue. They are just the suspicions that cling the most obstinately, -because they lie in people’s inclination and can never be disproved. -How my orders came to be disobeyed is a question to which I don’t know -the answer. It is still possible that Bulstrode was innocent of any -criminal intention—even possible that he had nothing to do with the -disobedience, and merely abstained from mentioning it. But all that has -nothing to do with the public belief. It is one of those cases on which -a man is condemned on the ground of his character—it is believed that -he has committed a crime in some undefined way, because he had the -motive for doing it; and Bulstrode’s character has enveloped me, -because I took his money. I am simply blighted—like a damaged ear of -corn—the business is done and can’t be undone.” - -“Oh, it is hard!” said Dorothea. “I understand the difficulty there is -in your vindicating yourself. And that all this should have come to you -who had meant to lead a higher life than the common, and to find out -better ways—I cannot bear to rest in this as unchangeable. I know you -meant that. I remember what you said to me when you first spoke to me -about the hospital. There is no sorrow I have thought more about than -that—to love what is great, and try to reach it, and yet to fail.” - -“Yes,” said Lydgate, feeling that here he had found room for the full -meaning of his grief. “I had some ambition. I meant everything to be -different with me. I thought I had more strength and mastery. But the -most terrible obstacles are such as nobody can see except oneself.” - -“Suppose,” said Dorothea, meditatively,—“suppose we kept on the -Hospital according to the present plan, and you stayed here though only -with the friendship and support of a few, the evil feeling towards you -would gradually die out; there would come opportunities in which people -would be forced to acknowledge that they had been unjust to you, -because they would see that your purposes were pure. You may still win -a great fame like the Louis and Laennec I have heard you speak of, and -we shall all be proud of you,” she ended, with a smile. - -“That might do if I had my old trust in myself,” said Lydgate, -mournfully. “Nothing galls me more than the notion of turning round and -running away before this slander, leaving it unchecked behind me. -Still, I can’t ask any one to put a great deal of money into a plan -which depends on me.” - -“It would be quite worth my while,” said Dorothea, simply. “Only think. -I am very uncomfortable with my money, because they tell me I have too -little for any great scheme of the sort I like best, and yet I have too -much. I don’t know what to do. I have seven hundred a-year of my own -fortune, and nineteen hundred a-year that Mr. Casaubon left me, and -between three and four thousand of ready money in the bank. I wished to -raise money and pay it off gradually out of my income which I don’t -want, to buy land with and found a village which should be a school of -industry; but Sir James and my uncle have convinced me that the risk -would be too great. So you see that what I should most rejoice at would -be to have something good to do with my money: I should like it to make -other people’s lives better to them. It makes me very uneasy—coming all -to me who don’t want it.” - -A smile broke through the gloom of Lydgate’s face. The childlike -grave-eyed earnestness with which Dorothea said all this was -irresistible—blent into an adorable whole with her ready understanding -of high experience. (Of lower experience such as plays a great part in -the world, poor Mrs. Casaubon had a very blurred shortsighted -knowledge, little helped by her imagination.) But she took the smile as -encouragement of her plan. - -“I think you see now that you spoke too scrupulously,” she said, in a -tone of persuasion. “The hospital would be one good; and making your -life quite whole and well again would be another.” - -Lydgate’s smile had died away. “You have the goodness as well as the -money to do all that; if it could be done,” he said. “But—” - -He hesitated a little while, looking vaguely towards the window; and -she sat in silent expectation. At last he turned towards her and said -impetuously— - -“Why should I not tell you?—you know what sort of bond marriage is. You -will understand everything.” - -Dorothea felt her heart beginning to beat faster. Had he that sorrow -too? But she feared to say any word, and he went on immediately. - -“It is impossible for me now to do anything—to take any step without -considering my wife’s happiness. The thing that I might like to do if I -were alone, is become impossible to me. I can’t see her miserable. She -married me without knowing what she was going into, and it might have -been better for her if she had not married me.” - -“I know, I know—you could not give her pain, if you were not obliged to -do it,” said Dorothea, with keen memory of her own life. - -“And she has set her mind against staying. She wishes to go. The -troubles she has had here have wearied her,” said Lydgate, breaking off -again, lest he should say too much. - -“But when she saw the good that might come of staying—” said Dorothea, -remonstrantly, looking at Lydgate as if he had forgotten the reasons -which had just been considered. He did not speak immediately. - -“She would not see it,” he said at last, curtly, feeling at first that -this statement must do without explanation. “And, indeed, I have lost -all spirit about carrying on my life here.” He paused a moment and -then, following the impulse to let Dorothea see deeper into the -difficulty of his life, he said, “The fact is, this trouble has come -upon her confusedly. We have not been able to speak to each other about -it. I am not sure what is in her mind about it: she may fear that I -have really done something base. It is my fault; I ought to be more -open. But I have been suffering cruelly.” - -“May I go and see her?” said Dorothea, eagerly. “Would she accept my -sympathy? I would tell her that you have not been blamable before any -one’s judgment but your own. I would tell her that you shall be cleared -in every fair mind. I would cheer her heart. Will you ask her if I may -go to see her? I did see her once.” - -“I am sure you may,” said Lydgate, seizing the proposition with some -hope. “She would feel honored—cheered, I think, by the proof that you -at least have some respect for me. I will not speak to her about your -coming—that she may not connect it with my wishes at all. I know very -well that I ought not to have left anything to be told her by others, -but—” - -He broke off, and there was a moment’s silence. Dorothea refrained from -saying what was in her mind—how well she knew that there might be -invisible barriers to speech between husband and wife. This was a point -on which even sympathy might make a wound. She returned to the more -outward aspect of Lydgate’s position, saying cheerfully— - -“And if Mrs. Lydgate knew that there were friends who would believe in -you and support you, she might then be glad that you should stay in -your place and recover your hopes—and do what you meant to do. Perhaps -then you would see that it was right to agree with what I proposed -about your continuing at the Hospital. Surely you would, if you still -have faith in it as a means of making your knowledge useful?” - -Lydgate did not answer, and she saw that he was debating with himself. - -“You need not decide immediately,” she said, gently. “A few days hence -it will be early enough for me to send my answer to Mr. Bulstrode.” - -Lydgate still waited, but at last turned to speak in his most decisive -tones. - -“No; I prefer that there should be no interval left for wavering. I am -no longer sure enough of myself—I mean of what it would be possible for -me to do under the changed circumstances of my life. It would be -dishonorable to let others engage themselves to anything serious in -dependence on me. I might be obliged to go away after all; I see little -chance of anything else. The whole thing is too problematic; I cannot -consent to be the cause of your goodness being wasted. No—let the new -Hospital be joined with the old Infirmary, and everything go on as it -might have done if I had never come. I have kept a valuable register -since I have been there; I shall send it to a man who will make use of -it,” he ended bitterly. “I can think of nothing for a long while but -getting an income.” - -“It hurts me very much to hear you speak so hopelessly,” said Dorothea. -“It would be a happiness to your friends, who believe in your future, -in your power to do great things, if you would let them save you from -that. Think how much money I have; it would be like taking a burthen -from me if you took some of it every year till you got free from this -fettering want of income. Why should not people do these things? It is -so difficult to make shares at all even. This is one way.” - -“God bless you, Mrs. Casaubon!” said Lydgate, rising as if with the -same impulse that made his words energetic, and resting his arm on the -back of the great leather chair he had been sitting in. “It is good -that you should have such feelings. But I am not the man who ought to -allow himself to benefit by them. I have not given guarantees enough. I -must not at least sink into the degradation of being pensioned for work -that I never achieved. It is very clear to me that I must not count on -anything else than getting away from Middlemarch as soon as I can -manage it. I should not be able for a long while, at the very best, to -get an income here, and—and it is easier to make necessary changes in a -new place. I must do as other men do, and think what will please the -world and bring in money; look for a little opening in the London -crowd, and push myself; set up in a watering-place, or go to some -southern town where there are plenty of idle English, and get myself -puffed,—that is the sort of shell I must creep into and try to keep my -soul alive in.” - -“Now that is not brave,” said Dorothea,—“to give up the fight.” - -“No, it is not brave,” said Lydgate, “but if a man is afraid of -creeping paralysis?” Then, in another tone, “Yet you have made a great -difference in my courage by believing in me. Everything seems more -bearable since I have talked to you; and if you can clear me in a few -other minds, especially in Farebrother’s, I shall be deeply grateful. -The point I wish you not to mention is the fact of disobedience to my -orders. That would soon get distorted. After all, there is no evidence -for me but people’s opinion of me beforehand. You can only repeat my -own report of myself.” - -“Mr. Farebrother will believe—others will believe,” said Dorothea. “I -can say of you what will make it stupidity to suppose that you would be -bribed to do a wickedness.” - -“I don’t know,” said Lydgate, with something like a groan in his voice. -“I have not taken a bribe yet. But there is a pale shade of bribery -which is sometimes called prosperity. You will do me another great -kindness, then, and come to see my wife?” - -“Yes, I will. I remember how pretty she is,” said Dorothea, into whose -mind every impression about Rosamond had cut deep. “I hope she will -like me.” - -As Lydgate rode away, he thought, “This young creature has a heart -large enough for the Virgin Mary. She evidently thinks nothing of her -own future, and would pledge away half her income at once, as if she -wanted nothing for herself but a chair to sit in from which she can -look down with those clear eyes at the poor mortals who pray to her. -She seems to have what I never saw in any woman before—a fountain of -friendship towards men—a man can make a friend of her. Casaubon must -have raised some heroic hallucination in her. I wonder if she could -have any other sort of passion for a man? Ladislaw?—there was certainly -an unusual feeling between them. And Casaubon must have had a notion of -it. Well—her love might help a man more than her money.” - -Dorothea on her side had immediately formed a plan of relieving Lydgate -from his obligation to Bulstrode, which she felt sure was a part, -though small, of the galling pressure he had to bear. She sat down at -once under the inspiration of their interview, and wrote a brief note, -in which she pleaded that she had more claim than Mr. Bulstrode had to -the satisfaction of providing the money which had been serviceable to -Lydgate—that it would be unkind in Lydgate not to grant her the -position of being his helper in this small matter, the favor being -entirely to her who had so little that was plainly marked out for her -to do with her superfluous money. He might call her a creditor or by -any other name if it did but imply that he granted her request. She -enclosed a check for a thousand pounds, and determined to take the -letter with her the next day when she went to see Rosamond. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXVII. - -“And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot, -To mark the full-fraught man and best indued -With some suspicion.” -—_Henry V_. - - -The next day Lydgate had to go to Brassing, and told Rosamond that he -should be away until the evening. Of late she had never gone beyond her -own house and garden, except to church, and once to see her papa, to -whom she said, “If Tertius goes away, you will help us to move, will -you not, papa? I suppose we shall have very little money. I am sure I -hope some one will help us.” And Mr. Vincy had said, “Yes, child, I -don’t mind a hundred or two. I can see the end of that.” With these -exceptions she had sat at home in languid melancholy and suspense, -fixing her mind on Will Ladislaw’s coming as the one point of hope and -interest, and associating this with some new urgency on Lydgate to make -immediate arrangements for leaving Middlemarch and going to London, -till she felt assured that the coming would be a potent cause of the -going, without at all seeing how. This way of establishing sequences is -too common to be fairly regarded as a peculiar folly in Rosamond. And -it is precisely this sort of sequence which causes the greatest shock -when it is sundered: for to see how an effect may be produced is often -to see possible missings and checks; but to see nothing except the -desirable cause, and close upon it the desirable effect, rids us of -doubt and makes our minds strongly intuitive. That was the process -going on in poor Rosamond, while she arranged all objects around her -with the same nicety as ever, only with more slowness—or sat down to -the piano, meaning to play, and then desisting, yet lingering on the -music stool with her white fingers suspended on the wooden front, and -looking before her in dreamy ennui. Her melancholy had become so marked -that Lydgate felt a strange timidity before it, as a perpetual silent -reproach, and the strong man, mastered by his keen sensibilities -towards this fair fragile creature whose life he seemed somehow to have -bruised, shrank from her look, and sometimes started at her approach, -fear of her and fear for her rushing in only the more forcibly after it -had been momentarily expelled by exasperation. - -But this morning Rosamond descended from her room upstairs—where she -sometimes sat the whole day when Lydgate was out—equipped for a walk in -the town. She had a letter to post—a letter addressed to Mr. Ladislaw -and written with charming discretion, but intended to hasten his -arrival by a hint of trouble. The servant-maid, their sole -house-servant now, noticed her coming down-stairs in her walking dress, -and thought “there never did anybody look so pretty in a bonnet poor -thing.” - -Meanwhile Dorothea’s mind was filled with her project of going to -Rosamond, and with the many thoughts, both of the past and the probable -future, which gathered round the idea of that visit. Until yesterday -when Lydgate had opened to her a glimpse of some trouble in his married -life, the image of Mrs. Lydgate had always been associated for her with -that of Will Ladislaw. Even in her most uneasy moments—even when she -had been agitated by Mrs. Cadwallader’s painfully graphic report of -gossip—her effort, nay, her strongest impulsive prompting, had been -towards the vindication of Will from any sullying surmises; and when, -in her meeting with him afterwards, she had at first interpreted his -words as a probable allusion to a feeling towards Mrs. Lydgate which he -was determined to cut himself off from indulging, she had had a quick, -sad, excusing vision of the charm there might be in his constant -opportunities of companionship with that fair creature, who most likely -shared his other tastes as she evidently did his delight in music. But -there had followed his parting words—the few passionate words in which -he had implied that she herself was the object of whom his love held -him in dread, that it was his love for her only which he was resolved -not to declare but to carry away into banishment. From the time of that -parting, Dorothea, believing in Will’s love for her, believing with a -proud delight in his delicate sense of honor and his determination that -no one should impeach him justly, felt her heart quite at rest as to -the regard he might have for Mrs. Lydgate. She was sure that the regard -was blameless. - -There are natures in which, if they love us, we are conscious of having -a sort of baptism and consecration: they bind us over to rectitude and -purity by their pure belief about us; and our sins become that worst -kind of sacrilege which tears down the invisible altar of trust. “If -you are not good, none is good”—those little words may give a terrific -meaning to responsibility, may hold a vitriolic intensity for remorse. - -Dorothea’s nature was of that kind: her own passionate faults lay along -the easily counted open channels of her ardent character; and while she -was full of pity for the visible mistakes of others, she had not yet -any material within her experience for subtle constructions and -suspicions of hidden wrong. But that simplicity of hers, holding up an -ideal for others in her believing conception of them, was one of the -great powers of her womanhood. And it had from the first acted strongly -on Will Ladislaw. He felt, when he parted from her, that the brief -words by which he had tried to convey to her his feeling about herself -and the division which her fortune made between them, would only profit -by their brevity when Dorothea had to interpret them: he felt that in -her mind he had found his highest estimate. - -And he was right there. In the months since their parting Dorothea had -felt a delicious though sad repose in their relation to each other, as -one which was inwardly whole and without blemish. She had an active -force of antagonism within her, when the antagonism turned on the -defence either of plans or persons that she believed in; and the wrongs -which she felt that Will had received from her husband, and the -external conditions which to others were grounds for slighting him, -only gave the more tenacity to her affection and admiring judgment. And -now with the disclosures about Bulstrode had come another fact -affecting Will’s social position, which roused afresh Dorothea’s inward -resistance to what was said about him in that part of her world which -lay within park palings. - -“Young Ladislaw the grandson of a thieving Jew pawnbroker” was a phrase -which had entered emphatically into the dialogues about the Bulstrode -business, at Lowick, Tipton, and Freshitt, and was a worse kind of -placard on poor Will’s back than the “Italian with white mice.” Upright -Sir James Chettam was convinced that his own satisfaction was righteous -when he thought with some complacency that here was an added league to -that mountainous distance between Ladislaw and Dorothea, which enabled -him to dismiss any anxiety in that direction as too absurd. And perhaps -there had been some pleasure in pointing Mr. Brooke’s attention to this -ugly bit of Ladislaw’s genealogy, as a fresh candle for him to see his -own folly by. Dorothea had observed the animus with which Will’s part -in the painful story had been recalled more than once; but she had -uttered no word, being checked now, as she had not been formerly in -speaking of Will, by the consciousness of a deeper relation between -them which must always remain in consecrated secrecy. But her silence -shrouded her resistant emotion into a more thorough glow; and this -misfortune in Will’s lot which, it seemed, others were wishing to fling -at his back as an opprobrium, only gave something more of enthusiasm to -her clinging thought. - -She entertained no visions of their ever coming into nearer union, and -yet she had taken no posture of renunciation. She had accepted her -whole relation to Will very simply as part of her marriage sorrows, and -would have thought it very sinful in her to keep up an inward wail -because she was not completely happy, being rather disposed to dwell on -the superfluities of her lot. She could bear that the chief pleasures -of her tenderness should lie in memory, and the idea of marriage came -to her solely as a repulsive proposition from some suitor of whom she -at present knew nothing, but whose merits, as seen by her friends, -would be a source of torment to her:—“somebody who will manage your -property for you, my dear,” was Mr. Brooke’s attractive suggestion of -suitable characteristics. “I should like to manage it myself, if I knew -what to do with it,” said Dorothea. No—she adhered to her declaration -that she would never be married again, and in the long valley of her -life which looked so flat and empty of waymarks, guidance would come as -she walked along the road, and saw her fellow-passengers by the way. - -This habitual state of feeling about Will Ladislaw had been strong in -all her waking hours since she had proposed to pay a visit to Mrs. -Lydgate, making a sort of background against which she saw Rosamond’s -figure presented to her without hindrances to her interest and -compassion. There was evidently some mental separation, some barrier to -complete confidence which had arisen between this wife and the husband -who had yet made her happiness a law to him. That was a trouble which -no third person must directly touch. But Dorothea thought with deep -pity of the loneliness which must have come upon Rosamond from the -suspicions cast on her husband; and there would surely be help in the -manifestation of respect for Lydgate and sympathy with her. - -“I shall talk to her about her husband,” thought Dorothea, as she was -being driven towards the town. The clear spring morning, the scent of -the moist earth, the fresh leaves just showing their creased-up wealth -of greenery from out their half-opened sheaths, seemed part of the -cheerfulness she was feeling from a long conversation with Mr. -Farebrother, who had joyfully accepted the justifying explanation of -Lydgate’s conduct. “I shall take Mrs. Lydgate good news, and perhaps -she will like to talk to me and make a friend of me.” - -Dorothea had another errand in Lowick Gate: it was about a new -fine-toned bell for the school-house, and as she had to get out of her -carriage very near to Lydgate’s, she walked thither across the street, -having told the coachman to wait for some packages. The street door was -open, and the servant was taking the opportunity of looking out at the -carriage which was pausing within sight when it became apparent to her -that the lady who “belonged to it” was coming towards her. - -“Is Mrs. Lydgate at home?” said Dorothea. - -“I’m not sure, my lady; I’ll see, if you’ll please to walk in,” said -Martha, a little confused on the score of her kitchen apron, but -collected enough to be sure that “mum” was not the right title for this -queenly young widow with a carriage and pair. “Will you please to walk -in, and I’ll go and see.” - -“Say that I am Mrs. Casaubon,” said Dorothea, as Martha moved forward -intending to show her into the drawing-room and then to go up-stairs to -see if Rosamond had returned from her walk. - -They crossed the broader part of the entrance-hall, and turned up the -passage which led to the garden. The drawing-room door was unlatched, -and Martha, pushing it without looking into the room, waited for Mrs. -Casaubon to enter and then turned away, the door having swung open and -swung back again without noise. - -Dorothea had less of outward vision than usual this morning, being -filled with images of things as they had been and were going to be. She -found herself on the other side of the door without seeing anything -remarkable, but immediately she heard a voice speaking in low tones -which startled her as with a sense of dreaming in daylight, and -advancing unconsciously a step or two beyond the projecting slab of a -bookcase, she saw, in the terrible illumination of a certainty which -filled up all outlines, something which made her pause, motionless, -without self-possession enough to speak. - -Seated with his back towards her on a sofa which stood against the wall -on a line with the door by which she had entered, she saw Will -Ladislaw: close by him and turned towards him with a flushed -tearfulness which gave a new brilliancy to her face sat Rosamond, her -bonnet hanging back, while Will leaning towards her clasped both her -upraised hands in his and spoke with low-toned fervor. - -Rosamond in her agitated absorption had not noticed the silently -advancing figure; but when Dorothea, after the first immeasurable -instant of this vision, moved confusedly backward and found herself -impeded by some piece of furniture, Rosamond was suddenly aware of her -presence, and with a spasmodic movement snatched away her hands and -rose, looking at Dorothea who was necessarily arrested. Will Ladislaw, -starting up, looked round also, and meeting Dorothea’s eyes with a new -lightning in them, seemed changing to marble. But she immediately -turned them away from him to Rosamond and said in a firm voice— - -“Excuse me, Mrs. Lydgate, the servant did not know that you were here. -I called to deliver an important letter for Mr. Lydgate, which I wished -to put into your own hands.” - -She laid down the letter on the small table which had checked her -retreat, and then including Rosamond and Will in one distant glance and -bow, she went quickly out of the room, meeting in the passage the -surprised Martha, who said she was sorry the mistress was not at home, -and then showed the strange lady out with an inward reflection that -grand people were probably more impatient than others. - -Dorothea walked across the street with her most elastic step and was -quickly in her carriage again. - -“Drive on to Freshitt Hall,” she said to the coachman, and any one -looking at her might have thought that though she was paler than usual -she was never animated by a more self-possessed energy. And that was -really her experience. It was as if she had drunk a great draught of -scorn that stimulated her beyond the susceptibility to other feelings. -She had seen something so far below her belief, that her emotions -rushed back from it and made an excited throng without an object. She -needed something active to turn her excitement out upon. She felt power -to walk and work for a day, without meat or drink. And she would carry -out the purpose with which she had started in the morning, of going to -Freshitt and Tipton to tell Sir James and her uncle all that she wished -them to know about Lydgate, whose married loneliness under his trial -now presented itself to her with new significance, and made her more -ardent in readiness to be his champion. She had never felt anything -like this triumphant power of indignation in the struggle of her -married life, in which there had always been a quickly subduing pang; -and she took it as a sign of new strength. - -“Dodo, how very bright your eyes are!” said Celia, when Sir James was -gone out of the room. “And you don’t see anything you look at, Arthur -or anything. You are going to do something uncomfortable, I know. Is it -all about Mr. Lydgate, or has something else happened?” Celia had been -used to watch her sister with expectation. - -“Yes, dear, a great many things have happened,” said Dodo, in her full -tones. - -“I wonder what,” said Celia, folding her arms cozily and leaning -forward upon them. - -“Oh, all the troubles of all people on the face of the earth,” said -Dorothea, lifting her arms to the back of her head. - -“Dear me, Dodo, are you going to have a scheme for them?” said Celia, a -little uneasy at this Hamlet-like raving. - -But Sir James came in again, ready to accompany Dorothea to the Grange, -and she finished her expedition well, not swerving in her resolution -until she descended at her own door. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXVIII. - -“Would it were yesterday and I i’ the grave, -With her sweet faith above for monument.” - - -Rosamond and Will stood motionless—they did not know how long—he -looking towards the spot where Dorothea had stood, and she looking -towards him with doubt. It seemed an endless time to Rosamond, in whose -inmost soul there was hardly so much annoyance as gratification from -what had just happened. Shallow natures dream of an easy sway over the -emotions of others, trusting implicitly in their own petty magic to -turn the deepest streams, and confident, by pretty gestures and -remarks, of making the thing that is not as though it were. She knew -that Will had received a severe blow, but she had been little used to -imagining other people’s states of mind except as a material cut into -shape by her own wishes; and she believed in her own power to soothe or -subdue. Even Tertius, that most perverse of men, was always subdued in -the long-run: events had been obstinate, but still Rosamond would have -said now, as she did before her marriage, that she never gave up what -she had set her mind on. - -She put out her arm and laid the tips of her fingers on Will’s -coat-sleeve. - -“Don’t touch me!” he said, with an utterance like the cut of a lash, -darting from her, and changing from pink to white and back again, as if -his whole frame were tingling with the pain of the sting. He wheeled -round to the other side of the room and stood opposite to her, with the -tips of his fingers in his pockets and his head thrown back, looking -fiercely not at Rosamond but at a point a few inches away from her. - -She was keenly offended, but the signs she made of this were such as -only Lydgate was used to interpret. She became suddenly quiet and -seated herself, untying her hanging bonnet and laying it down with her -shawl. Her little hands which she folded before her were very cold. - -It would have been safer for Will in the first instance to have taken -up his hat and gone away; but he had felt no impulse to do this; on the -contrary, he had a horrible inclination to stay and shatter Rosamond -with his anger. It seemed as impossible to bear the fatality she had -drawn down on him without venting his fury as it would be to a panther -to bear the javelin-wound without springing and biting. And yet—how -could he tell a woman that he was ready to curse her? He was fuming -under a repressive law which he was forced to acknowledge: he was -dangerously poised, and Rosamond’s voice now brought the decisive -vibration. In flute-like tones of sarcasm she said— - -“You can easily go after Mrs. Casaubon and explain your preference.” - -“Go after her!” he burst out, with a sharp edge in his voice. “Do you -think she would turn to look at me, or value any word I ever uttered to -her again at more than a dirty feather?—Explain! How can a man explain -at the expense of a woman?” - -“You can tell her what you please,” said Rosamond with more tremor. - -“Do you suppose she would like me better for sacrificing you? She is -not a woman to be flattered because I made myself despicable—to believe -that I must be true to her because I was a dastard to you.” - -He began to move about with the restlessness of a wild animal that sees -prey but cannot reach it. Presently he burst out again— - -“I had no hope before—not much—of anything better to come. But I had -one certainty—that she believed in me. Whatever people had said or done -about me, she believed in me.—That’s gone! She’ll never again think me -anything but a paltry pretence—too nice to take heaven except upon -flattering conditions, and yet selling myself for any devil’s change by -the sly. She’ll think of me as an incarnate insult to her, from the -first moment we—” - -Will stopped as if he had found himself grasping something that must -not be thrown and shattered. He found another vent for his rage by -snatching up Rosamond’s words again, as if they were reptiles to be -throttled and flung off. - -“Explain! Tell a man to explain how he dropped into hell! Explain my -preference! I never had a _preference_ for her, any more than I have a -preference for breathing. No other woman exists by the side of her. I -would rather touch her hand if it were dead, than I would touch any -other woman’s living.” - -Rosamond, while these poisoned weapons were being hurled at her, was -almost losing the sense of her identity, and seemed to be waking into -some new terrible existence. She had no sense of chill resolute -repulsion, of reticent self-justification such as she had known under -Lydgate’s most stormy displeasure: all her sensibility was turned into -a bewildering novelty of pain; she felt a new terrified recoil under a -lash never experienced before. What another nature felt in opposition -to her own was being burnt and bitten into her consciousness. When Will -had ceased to speak she had become an image of sickened misery: her -lips were pale, and her eyes had a tearless dismay in them. If it had -been Tertius who stood opposite to her, that look of misery would have -been a pang to him, and he would have sunk by her side to comfort her, -with that strong-armed comfort which she had often held very cheap. - -Let it be forgiven to Will that he had no such movement of pity. He had -felt no bond beforehand to this woman who had spoiled the ideal -treasure of his life, and he held himself blameless. He knew that he -was cruel, but he had no relenting in him yet. - -After he had done speaking, he still moved about, half in absence of -mind, and Rosamond sat perfectly still. At length Will, seeming to -bethink himself, took up his hat, yet stood some moments irresolute. He -had spoken to her in a way that made a phrase of common politeness -difficult to utter; and yet, now that he had come to the point of going -away from her without further speech, he shrank from it as a brutality; -he felt checked and stultified in his anger. He walked towards the -mantel-piece and leaned his arm on it, and waited in silence for—he -hardly knew what. The vindictive fire was still burning in him, and he -could utter no word of retractation; but it was nevertheless in his -mind that having come back to this hearth where he had enjoyed a -caressing friendship he had found calamity seated there—he had had -suddenly revealed to him a trouble that lay outside the home as well as -within it. And what seemed a foreboding was pressing upon him as with -slow pincers:—that his life might come to be enslaved by this helpless -woman who had thrown herself upon him in the dreary sadness of her -heart. But he was in gloomy rebellion against the fact that his quick -apprehensiveness foreshadowed to him, and when his eyes fell on -Rosamond’s blighted face it seemed to him that he was the more pitiable -of the two; for pain must enter into its glorified life of memory -before it can turn into compassion. - -And so they remained for many minutes, opposite each other, far apart, -in silence; Will’s face still possessed by a mute rage, and Rosamond’s -by a mute misery. The poor thing had no force to fling out any passion -in return; the terrible collapse of the illusion towards which all her -hope had been strained was a stroke which had too thoroughly shaken -her: her little world was in ruins, and she felt herself tottering in -the midst as a lonely bewildered consciousness. - -Will wished that she would speak and bring some mitigating shadow -across his own cruel speech, which seemed to stand staring at them both -in mockery of any attempt at revived fellowship. But she said nothing, -and at last with a desperate effort over himself, he asked, “Shall I -come in and see Lydgate this evening?” - -“If you like,” Rosamond answered, just audibly. - -And then Will went out of the house, Martha never knowing that he had -been in. - -After he was gone, Rosamond tried to get up from her seat, but fell -back fainting. When she came to herself again, she felt too ill to make -the exertion of rising to ring the bell, and she remained helpless -until the girl, surprised at her long absence, thought for the first -time of looking for her in all the down-stairs rooms. Rosamond said -that she had felt suddenly sick and faint, and wanted to be helped -up-stairs. When there she threw herself on the bed with her clothes on, -and lay in apparent torpor, as she had done once before on a memorable -day of grief. - -Lydgate came home earlier than he had expected, about half-past five, -and found her there. The perception that she was ill threw every other -thought into the background. When he felt her pulse, her eyes rested on -him with more persistence than they had done for a long while, as if -she felt some content that he was there. He perceived the difference in -a moment, and seating himself by her put his arm gently under her, and -bending over her said, “My poor Rosamond! has something agitated you?” -Clinging to him she fell into hysterical sobbings and cries, and for -the next hour he did nothing but soothe and tend her. He imagined that -Dorothea had been to see her, and that all this effect on her nervous -system, which evidently involved some new turning towards himself, was -due to the excitement of the new impressions which that visit had -raised. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXIX. - -“Now, I saw in my dream, that just as they had ended their talk, they -drew nigh to a very miry slough, that was in the midst of the plain; -and they, being heedless, did both fall suddenly into the bog. The name -of the slough was Despond.”—BUNYAN. - - -When Rosamond was quiet, and Lydgate had left her, hoping that she -might soon sleep under the effect of an anodyne, he went into the -drawing-room to fetch a book which he had left there, meaning to spend -the evening in his work-room, and he saw on the table Dorothea’s letter -addressed to him. He had not ventured to ask Rosamond if Mrs. Casaubon -had called, but the reading of this letter assured him of the fact, for -Dorothea mentioned that it was to be carried by herself. - -When Will Ladislaw came in a little later Lydgate met him with a -surprise which made it clear that he had not been told of the earlier -visit, and Will could not say, “Did not Mrs. Lydgate tell you that I -came this morning?” - -“Poor Rosamond is ill,” Lydgate added immediately on his greeting. - -“Not seriously, I hope,” said Will. - -“No—only a slight nervous shock—the effect of some agitation. She has -been overwrought lately. The truth is, Ladislaw, I am an unlucky devil. -We have gone through several rounds of purgatory since you left, and I -have lately got on to a worse ledge of it than ever. I suppose you are -only just come down—you look rather battered—you have not been long -enough in the town to hear anything?” - -“I travelled all night and got to the White Hart at eight o’clock this -morning. I have been shutting myself up and resting,” said Will, -feeling himself a sneak, but seeing no alternative to this evasion. - -And then he heard Lydgate’s account of the troubles which Rosamond had -already depicted to him in her way. She had not mentioned the fact of -Will’s name being connected with the public story—this detail not -immediately affecting her—and he now heard it for the first time. - -“I thought it better to tell you that your name is mixed up with the -disclosures,” said Lydgate, who could understand better than most men -how Ladislaw might be stung by the revelation. “You will be sure to -hear it as soon as you turn out into the town. I suppose it is true -that Raffles spoke to you.” - -“Yes,” said Will, sardonically. “I shall be fortunate if gossip does -not make me the most disreputable person in the whole affair. I should -think the latest version must be, that I plotted with Raffles to murder -Bulstrode, and ran away from Middlemarch for the purpose.” - -He was thinking “Here is a new ring in the sound of my name to -recommend it in her hearing; however—what does it signify now?” - -But he said nothing of Bulstrode’s offer to him. Will was very open and -careless about his personal affairs, but it was among the more -exquisite touches in nature’s modelling of him that he had a delicate -generosity which warned him into reticence here. He shrank from saying -that he had rejected Bulstrode’s money, in the moment when he was -learning that it was Lydgate’s misfortune to have accepted it. - -Lydgate too was reticent in the midst of his confidence. He made no -allusion to Rosamond’s feeling under their trouble, and of Dorothea he -only said, “Mrs. Casaubon has been the one person to come forward and -say that she had no belief in any of the suspicions against me.” -Observing a change in Will’s face, he avoided any further mention of -her, feeling himself too ignorant of their relation to each other not -to fear that his words might have some hidden painful bearing on it. -And it occurred to him that Dorothea was the real cause of the present -visit to Middlemarch. - -The two men were pitying each other, but it was only Will who guessed -the extent of his companion’s trouble. When Lydgate spoke with -desperate resignation of going to settle in London, and said with a -faint smile, “We shall have you again, old fellow,” Will felt -inexpressibly mournful, and said nothing. Rosamond had that morning -entreated him to urge this step on Lydgate; and it seemed to him as if -he were beholding in a magic panorama a future where he himself was -sliding into that pleasureless yielding to the small solicitations of -circumstance, which is a commoner history of perdition than any single -momentous bargain. - -We are on a perilous margin when we begin to look passively at our -future selves, and see our own figures led with dull consent into -insipid misdoing and shabby achievement. Poor Lydgate was inwardly -groaning on that margin, and Will was arriving at it. It seemed to him -this evening as if the cruelty of his outburst to Rosamond had made an -obligation for him, and he dreaded the obligation: he dreaded Lydgate’s -unsuspecting good-will: he dreaded his own distaste for his spoiled -life, which would leave him in motiveless levity. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXX. - -Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear -The Godhead’s most benignant grace; -Nor know we anything so fair -As is the smile upon thy face; -Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, -And fragrance in thy footing treads; -Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong; -And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. -—WORDSWORTH: _Ode to Duty_. - - -When Dorothea had seen Mr. Farebrother in the morning, she had promised -to go and dine at the parsonage on her return from Freshitt. There was -a frequent interchange of visits between her and the Farebrother -family, which enabled her to say that she was not at all lonely at the -Manor, and to resist for the present the severe prescription of a lady -companion. When she reached home and remembered her engagement, she was -glad of it; and finding that she had still an hour before she could -dress for dinner, she walked straight to the schoolhouse and entered -into a conversation with the master and mistress about the new bell, -giving eager attention to their small details and repetitions, and -getting up a dramatic sense that her life was very busy. She paused on -her way back to talk to old Master Bunney who was putting in some -garden-seeds, and discoursed wisely with that rural sage about the -crops that would make the most return on a perch of ground, and the -result of sixty years’ experience as to soils—namely, that if your soil -was pretty mellow it would do, but if there came wet, wet, wet to make -it all of a mummy, why then— - -Finding that the social spirit had beguiled her into being rather late, -she dressed hastily and went over to the parsonage rather earlier than -was necessary. That house was never dull, Mr. Farebrother, like another -White of Selborne, having continually something new to tell of his -inarticulate guests and _proteges_, whom he was teaching the boys not -to torment; and he had just set up a pair of beautiful goats to be pets -of the village in general, and to walk at large as sacred animals. The -evening went by cheerfully till after tea, Dorothea talking more than -usual and dilating with Mr. Farebrother on the possible histories of -creatures that converse compendiously with their antennae, and for -aught we know may hold reformed parliaments; when suddenly some -inarticulate little sounds were heard which called everybody’s -attention. - -“Henrietta Noble,” said Mrs. Farebrother, seeing her small sister -moving about the furniture-legs distressfully, “what is the matter?” - -“I have lost my tortoise-shell lozenge-box. I fear the kitten has -rolled it away,” said the tiny old lady, involuntarily continuing her -beaver-like notes. - -“Is it a great treasure, aunt?” said Mr. Farebrother, putting up his -glasses and looking at the carpet. - -“Mr. Ladislaw gave it me,” said Miss Noble. “A German box—very pretty, -but if it falls it always spins away as far as it can.” - -“Oh, if it is Ladislaw’s present,” said Mr. Farebrother, in a deep tone -of comprehension, getting up and hunting. The box was found at last -under a chiffonier, and Miss Noble grasped it with delight, saying, “it -was under a fender the last time.” - -“That is an affair of the heart with my aunt,” said Mr. Farebrother, -smiling at Dorothea, as he reseated himself. - -“If Henrietta Noble forms an attachment to any one, Mrs. Casaubon,” -said his mother, emphatically,—“she is like a dog—she would take their -shoes for a pillow and sleep the better.” - -“Mr. Ladislaw’s shoes, I would,” said Henrietta Noble. - -Dorothea made an attempt at smiling in return. She was surprised and -annoyed to find that her heart was palpitating violently, and that it -was quite useless to try after a recovery of her former animation. -Alarmed at herself—fearing some further betrayal of a change so marked -in its occasion, she rose and said in a low voice with undisguised -anxiety, “I must go; I have overtired myself.” - -Mr. Farebrother, quick in perception, rose and said, “It is true; you -must have half-exhausted yourself in talking about Lydgate. That sort -of work tells upon one after the excitement is over.” - -He gave her his arm back to the Manor, but Dorothea did not attempt to -speak, even when he said good-night. - -The limit of resistance was reached, and she had sunk back helpless -within the clutch of inescapable anguish. Dismissing Tantripp with a -few faint words, she locked her door, and turning away from it towards -the vacant room she pressed her hands hard on the top of her head, and -moaned out— - -“Oh, I did love him!” - -Then came the hour in which the waves of suffering shook her too -thoroughly to leave any power of thought. She could only cry in loud -whispers, between her sobs, after her lost belief which she had planted -and kept alive from a very little seed since the days in Rome—after her -lost joy of clinging with silent love and faith to one who, misprized -by others, was worthy in her thought—after her lost woman’s pride of -reigning in his memory—after her sweet dim perspective of hope, that -along some pathway they should meet with unchanged recognition and take -up the backward years as a yesterday. - -In that hour she repeated what the merciful eyes of solitude have -looked on for ages in the spiritual struggles of man—she besought -hardness and coldness and aching weariness to bring her relief from the -mysterious incorporeal might of her anguish: she lay on the bare floor -and let the night grow cold around her; while her grand woman’s frame -was shaken by sobs as if she had been a despairing child. - -There were two images—two living forms that tore her heart in two, as -if it had been the heart of a mother who seems to see her child divided -by the sword, and presses one bleeding half to her breast while her -gaze goes forth in agony towards the half which is carried away by the -lying woman that has never known the mother’s pang. - -Here, with the nearness of an answering smile, here within the -vibrating bond of mutual speech, was the bright creature whom she had -trusted—who had come to her like the spirit of morning visiting the dim -vault where she sat as the bride of a worn-out life; and now, with a -full consciousness which had never awakened before, she stretched out -her arms towards him and cried with bitter cries that their nearness -was a parting vision: she discovered her passion to herself in the -unshrinking utterance of despair. - -And there, aloof, yet persistently with her, moving wherever she moved, -was the Will Ladislaw who was a changed belief exhausted of hope, a -detected illusion—no, a living man towards whom there could not yet -struggle any wail of regretful pity, from the midst of scorn and -indignation and jealous offended pride. The fire of Dorothea’s anger -was not easily spent, and it flamed out in fitful returns of spurning -reproach. Why had he come obtruding his life into hers, hers that might -have been whole enough without him? Why had he brought his cheap regard -and his lip-born words to her who had nothing paltry to give in -exchange? He knew that he was deluding her—wished, in the very moment -of farewell, to make her believe that he gave her the whole price of -her heart, and knew that he had spent it half before. Why had he not -stayed among the crowd of whom she asked nothing—but only prayed that -they might be less contemptible? - -But she lost energy at last even for her loud-whispered cries and -moans: she subsided into helpless sobs, and on the cold floor she -sobbed herself to sleep. - -In the chill hours of the morning twilight, when all was dim around -her, she awoke—not with any amazed wondering where she was or what had -happened, but with the clearest consciousness that she was looking into -the eyes of sorrow. She rose, and wrapped warm things around her, and -seated herself in a great chair where she had often watched before. She -was vigorous enough to have borne that hard night without feeling ill -in body, beyond some aching and fatigue; but she had waked to a new -condition: she felt as if her soul had been liberated from its terrible -conflict; she was no longer wrestling with her grief, but could sit -down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer in her -thoughts. For now the thoughts came thickly. It was not in Dorothea’s -nature, for longer than the duration of a paroxysm, to sit in the -narrow cell of her calamity, in the besotted misery of a consciousness -that only sees another’s lot as an accident of its own. - -She began now to live through that yesterday morning deliberately -again, forcing herself to dwell on every detail and its possible -meaning. Was she alone in that scene? Was it her event only? She forced -herself to think of it as bound up with another woman’s life—a woman -towards whom she had set out with a longing to carry some clearness and -comfort into her beclouded youth. In her first outleap of jealous -indignation and disgust, when quitting the hateful room, she had flung -away all the mercy with which she had undertaken that visit. She had -enveloped both Will and Rosamond in her burning scorn, and it seemed to -her as if Rosamond were burned out of her sight forever. But that base -prompting which makes a women more cruel to a rival than to a faithless -lover, could have no strength of recurrence in Dorothea when the -dominant spirit of justice within her had once overcome the tumult and -had once shown her the truer measure of things. All the active thought -with which she had before been representing to herself the trials of -Lydgate’s lot, and this young marriage union which, like her own, -seemed to have its hidden as well as evident troubles—all this vivid -sympathetic experience returned to her now as a power: it asserted -itself as acquired knowledge asserts itself and will not let us see as -we saw in the day of our ignorance. She said to her own irremediable -grief, that it should make her more helpful, instead of driving her -back from effort. - -And what sort of crisis might not this be in three lives whose contact -with hers laid an obligation on her as if they had been suppliants -bearing the sacred branch? The objects of her rescue were not to be -sought out by her fancy: they were chosen for her. She yearned towards -the perfect Right, that it might make a throne within her, and rule her -errant will. “What should I do—how should I act now, this very day, if -I could clutch my own pain, and compel it to silence, and think of -those three?” - -It had taken long for her to come to that question, and there was light -piercing into the room. She opened her curtains, and looked out towards -the bit of road that lay in view, with fields beyond outside the -entrance-gates. On the road there was a man with a bundle on his back -and a woman carrying her baby; in the field she could see figures -moving—perhaps the shepherd with his dog. Far off in the bending sky -was the pearly light; and she felt the largeness of the world and the -manifold wakings of men to labor and endurance. She was a part of that -involuntary, palpitating life, and could neither look out on it from -her luxurious shelter as a mere spectator, nor hide her eyes in selfish -complaining. - -What she would resolve to do that day did not yet seem quite clear, but -something that she could achieve stirred her as with an approaching -murmur which would soon gather distinctness. She took off the clothes -which seemed to have some of the weariness of a hard watching in them, -and began to make her toilet. Presently she rang for Tantripp, who came -in her dressing-gown. - -“Why, madam, you’ve never been in bed this blessed night,” burst out -Tantripp, looking first at the bed and then at Dorothea’s face, which -in spite of bathing had the pale cheeks and pink eyelids of a mater -dolorosa. “You’ll kill yourself, you _will_. Anybody might think now -you had a right to give yourself a little comfort.” - -“Don’t be alarmed, Tantripp,” said Dorothea, smiling. “I have slept; I -am not ill. I shall be glad of a cup of coffee as soon as possible. And -I want you to bring me my new dress; and most likely I shall want my -new bonnet to-day.” - -“They’ve lain there a month and more ready for you, madam, and most -thankful I shall be to see you with a couple o’ pounds’ worth less of -crape,” said Tantripp, stooping to light the fire. “There’s a reason in -mourning, as I’ve always said; and three folds at the bottom of your -skirt and a plain quilling in your bonnet—and if ever anybody looked -like an angel, it’s you in a net quilling—is what’s consistent for a -second year. At least, that’s _my_ thinking,” ended Tantripp, looking -anxiously at the fire; “and if anybody was to marry me flattering -himself I should wear those hijeous weepers two years for him, he’d be -deceived by his own vanity, that’s all.” - -“The fire will do, my good Tan,” said Dorothea, speaking as she used to -do in the old Lausanne days, only with a very low voice; “get me the -coffee.” - -She folded herself in the large chair, and leaned her head against it -in fatigued quiescence, while Tantripp went away wondering at this -strange contrariness in her young mistress—that just the morning when -she had more of a widow’s face than ever, she should have asked for her -lighter mourning which she had waived before. Tantripp would never have -found the clew to this mystery. Dorothea wished to acknowledge that she -had not the less an active life before her because she had buried a -private joy; and the tradition that fresh garments belonged to all -initiation, haunting her mind, made her grasp after even that slight -outward help towards calm resolve. For the resolve was not easy. - -Nevertheless at eleven o’clock she was walking towards Middlemarch, -having made up her mind that she would make as quietly and unnoticeably -as possible her second attempt to see and save Rosamond. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXXI. - -Du Erde warst auch diese Nacht beständig, -Und athmest neu erquickt zu meinen Füssen, -Beginnest schon mit Lust mich zu umgeben, -Du regst und rührst ein kräftiges Beschliessen -_Zum höchsten Dasein immerfort zu streben_. -—_Faust:_ 2r Theil. - - -When Dorothea was again at Lydgate’s door speaking to Martha, he was in -the room close by with the door ajar, preparing to go out. He heard her -voice, and immediately came to her. - -“Do you think that Mrs. Lydgate can receive me this morning?” she said, -having reflected that it would be better to leave out all allusion to -her previous visit. - -“I have no doubt she will,” said Lydgate, suppressing his thought about -Dorothea’s looks, which were as much changed as Rosamond’s, “if you -will be kind enough to come in and let me tell her that you are here. -She has not been very well since you were here yesterday, but she is -better this morning, and I think it is very likely that she will be -cheered by seeing you again.” - -It was plain that Lydgate, as Dorothea had expected, knew nothing about -the circumstances of her yesterday’s visit; nay, he appeared to imagine -that she had carried it out according to her intention. She had -prepared a little note asking Rosamond to see her, which she would have -given to the servant if he had not been in the way, but now she was in -much anxiety as to the result of his announcement. - -After leading her into the drawing-room, he paused to take a letter -from his pocket and put it into her hands, saying, “I wrote this last -night, and was going to carry it to Lowick in my ride. When one is -grateful for something too good for common thanks, writing is less -unsatisfactory than speech—one does not at least _hear_ how inadequate -the words are.” - -Dorothea’s face brightened. “It is I who have most to thank for, since -you have let me take that place. You _have_ consented?” she said, -suddenly doubting. - -“Yes, the check is going to Bulstrode to-day.” - -He said no more, but went up-stairs to Rosamond, who had but lately -finished dressing herself, and sat languidly wondering what she should -do next, her habitual industry in small things, even in the days of her -sadness, prompting her to begin some kind of occupation, which she -dragged through slowly or paused in from lack of interest. She looked -ill, but had recovered her usual quietude of manner, and Lydgate had -feared to disturb her by any questions. He had told her of Dorothea’s -letter containing the check, and afterwards he had said, “Ladislaw is -come, Rosy; he sat with me last night; I dare say he will be here again -to-day. I thought he looked rather battered and depressed.” And -Rosamond had made no reply. - -Now, when he came up, he said to her very gently, “Rosy, dear, Mrs. -Casaubon is come to see you again; you would like to see her, would you -not?” That she colored and gave rather a startled movement did not -surprise him after the agitation produced by the interview yesterday—a -beneficent agitation, he thought, since it seemed to have made her turn -to him again. - -Rosamond dared not say no. She dared not with a tone of her voice touch -the facts of yesterday. Why had Mrs. Casaubon come again? The answer -was a blank which Rosamond could only fill up with dread, for Will -Ladislaw’s lacerating words had made every thought of Dorothea a fresh -smart to her. Nevertheless, in her new humiliating uncertainty she -dared do nothing but comply. She did not say yes, but she rose and let -Lydgate put a light shawl over her shoulders, while he said, “I am -going out immediately.” Then something crossed her mind which prompted -her to say, “Pray tell Martha not to bring any one else into the -drawing-room.” And Lydgate assented, thinking that he fully understood -this wish. He led her down to the drawing-room door, and then turned -away, observing to himself that he was rather a blundering husband to -be dependent for his wife’s trust in him on the influence of another -woman. - -Rosamond, wrapping her soft shawl around her as she walked towards -Dorothea, was inwardly wrapping her soul in cold reserve. Had Mrs. -Casaubon come to say anything to her about Will? If so, it was a -liberty that Rosamond resented; and she prepared herself to meet every -word with polite impassibility. Will had bruised her pride too sorely -for her to feel any compunction towards him and Dorothea: her own -injury seemed much the greater. Dorothea was not only the “preferred” -woman, but had also a formidable advantage in being Lydgate’s -benefactor; and to poor Rosamond’s pained confused vision it seemed -that this Mrs. Casaubon—this woman who predominated in all things -concerning her—must have come now with the sense of having the -advantage, and with animosity prompting her to use it. Indeed, not -Rosamond only, but any one else, knowing the outer facts of the case, -and not the simple inspiration on which Dorothea acted, might well have -wondered why she came. - -Looking like the lovely ghost of herself, her graceful slimness wrapped -in her soft white shawl, the rounded infantine mouth and cheek -inevitably suggesting mildness and innocence, Rosamond paused at three -yards’ distance from her visitor and bowed. But Dorothea, who had taken -off her gloves, from an impulse which she could never resist when she -wanted a sense of freedom, came forward, and with her face full of a -sad yet sweet openness, put out her hand. Rosamond could not avoid -meeting her glance, could not avoid putting her small hand into -Dorothea’s, which clasped it with gentle motherliness; and immediately -a doubt of her own prepossessions began to stir within her. Rosamond’s -eye was quick for faces; she saw that Mrs. Casaubon’s face looked pale -and changed since yesterday, yet gentle, and like the firm softness of -her hand. But Dorothea had counted a little too much on her own -strength: the clearness and intensity of her mental action this morning -were the continuance of a nervous exaltation which made her frame as -dangerously responsive as a bit of finest Venetian crystal; and in -looking at Rosamond, she suddenly found her heart swelling, and was -unable to speak—all her effort was required to keep back tears. She -succeeded in that, and the emotion only passed over her face like the -spirit of a sob; but it added to Rosamond’s impression that Mrs. -Casaubon’s state of mind must be something quite different from what -she had imagined. - -So they sat down without a word of preface on the two chairs that -happened to be nearest, and happened also to be close together; though -Rosamond’s notion when she first bowed was that she should stay a long -way off from Mrs. Casaubon. But she ceased thinking how anything would -turn out—merely wondering what would come. And Dorothea began to speak -quite simply, gathering firmness as she went on. - -“I had an errand yesterday which I did not finish; that is why I am -here again so soon. You will not think me too troublesome when I tell -you that I came to talk to you about the injustice that has been shown -towards Mr. Lydgate. It will cheer you—will it not?—to know a great -deal about him, that he may not like to speak about himself just -because it is in his own vindication and to his own honor. You will -like to know that your husband has warm friends, who have not left off -believing in his high character? You will let me speak of this without -thinking that I take a liberty?” - -The cordial, pleading tones which seemed to flow with generous -heedlessness above all the facts which had filled Rosamond’s mind as -grounds of obstruction and hatred between her and this woman, came as -soothingly as a warm stream over her shrinking fears. Of course Mrs. -Casaubon had the facts in her mind, but she was not going to speak of -anything connected with them. That relief was too great for Rosamond to -feel much else at the moment. She answered prettily, in the new ease of -her soul— - -“I know you have been very good. I shall like to hear anything you will -say to me about Tertius.” - -“The day before yesterday,” said Dorothea, “when I had asked him to -come to Lowick to give me his opinion on the affairs of the Hospital, -he told me everything about his conduct and feelings in this sad event -which has made ignorant people cast suspicions on him. The reason he -told me was because I was very bold and asked him. I believed that he -had never acted dishonorably, and I begged him to tell me the history. -He confessed to me that he had never told it before, not even to you, -because he had a great dislike to say, ‘I was not wrong,’ as if that -were proof, when there are guilty people who will say so. The truth is, -he knew nothing of this man Raffles, or that there were any bad secrets -about him; and he thought that Mr. Bulstrode offered him the money -because he repented, out of kindness, of having refused it before. All -his anxiety about his patient was to treat him rightly, and he was a -little uncomfortable that the case did not end as he had expected; but -he thought then and still thinks that there may have been no wrong in -it on any one’s part. And I have told Mr. Farebrother, and Mr. Brooke, -and Sir James Chettam: they all believe in your husband. That will -cheer you, will it not? That will give you courage?” - -Dorothea’s face had become animated, and as it beamed on Rosamond very -close to her, she felt something like bashful timidity before a -superior, in the presence of this self-forgetful ardor. She said, with -blushing embarrassment, “Thank you: you are very kind.” - -“And he felt that he had been so wrong not to pour out everything about -this to you. But you will forgive him. It was because he feels so much -more about your happiness than anything else—he feels his life bound -into one with yours, and it hurts him more than anything, that his -misfortunes must hurt you. He could speak to me because I am an -indifferent person. And then I asked him if I might come to see you; -because I felt so much for his trouble and yours. That is why I came -yesterday, and why I am come to-day. Trouble is so hard to bear, is it -not?— How can we live and think that any one has trouble—piercing -trouble—and we could help them, and never try?” - -Dorothea, completely swayed by the feeling that she was uttering, -forgot everything but that she was speaking from out the heart of her -own trial to Rosamond’s. The emotion had wrought itself more and more -into her utterance, till the tones might have gone to one’s very -marrow, like a low cry from some suffering creature in the darkness. -And she had unconsciously laid her hand again on the little hand that -she had pressed before. - -Rosamond, with an overmastering pang, as if a wound within her had been -probed, burst into hysterical crying as she had done the day before -when she clung to her husband. Poor Dorothea was feeling a great wave -of her own sorrow returning over her—her thought being drawn to the -possible share that Will Ladislaw might have in Rosamond’s mental -tumult. She was beginning to fear that she should not be able to -suppress herself enough to the end of this meeting, and while her hand -was still resting on Rosamond’s lap, though the hand underneath it was -withdrawn, she was struggling against her own rising sobs. She tried to -master herself with the thought that this might be a turning-point in -three lives—not in her own; no, there the irrevocable had happened, -but—in those three lives which were touching hers with the solemn -neighborhood of danger and distress. The fragile creature who was -crying close to her—there might still be time to rescue her from the -misery of false incompatible bonds; and this moment was unlike any -other: she and Rosamond could never be together again with the same -thrilling consciousness of yesterday within them both. She felt the -relation between them to be peculiar enough to give her a peculiar -influence, though she had no conception that the way in which her own -feelings were involved was fully known to Mrs. Lydgate. - -It was a newer crisis in Rosamond’s experience than even Dorothea could -imagine: she was under the first great shock that had shattered her -dream-world in which she had been easily confident of herself and -critical of others; and this strange unexpected manifestation of -feeling in a woman whom she had approached with a shrinking aversion -and dread, as one who must necessarily have a jealous hatred towards -her, made her soul totter all the more with a sense that she had been -walking in an unknown world which had just broken in upon her. - -When Rosamond’s convulsed throat was subsiding into calm, and she -withdrew the handkerchief with which she had been hiding her face, her -eyes met Dorothea’s as helplessly as if they had been blue flowers. -What was the use of thinking about behavior after this crying? And -Dorothea looked almost as childish, with the neglected trace of a -silent tear. Pride was broken down between these two. - -“We were talking about your husband,” Dorothea said, with some -timidity. “I thought his looks were sadly changed with suffering the -other day. I had not seen him for many weeks before. He said he had -been feeling very lonely in his trial; but I think he would have borne -it all better if he had been able to be quite open with you.” - -“Tertius is so angry and impatient if I say anything,” said Rosamond, -imagining that he had been complaining of her to Dorothea. “He ought -not to wonder that I object to speak to him on painful subjects.” - -“It was himself he blamed for not speaking,” said Dorothea. “What he -said of you was, that he could not be happy in doing anything which -made you unhappy—that his marriage was of course a bond which must -affect his choice about everything; and for that reason he refused my -proposal that he should keep his position at the Hospital, because that -would bind him to stay in Middlemarch, and he would not undertake to do -anything which would be painful to you. He could say that to me, -because he knows that I had much trial in my marriage, from my -husband’s illness, which hindered his plans and saddened him; and he -knows that I have felt how hard it is to walk always in fear of hurting -another who is tied to us.” - -Dorothea waited a little; she had discerned a faint pleasure stealing -over Rosamond’s face. But there was no answer, and she went on, with a -gathering tremor, “Marriage is so unlike everything else. There is -something even awful in the nearness it brings. Even if we loved some -one else better than—than those we were married to, it would be no -use”—poor Dorothea, in her palpitating anxiety, could only seize her -language brokenly—“I mean, marriage drinks up all our power of giving -or getting any blessedness in that sort of love. I know it may be very -dear—but it murders our marriage—and then the marriage stays with us -like a murder—and everything else is gone. And then our husband—if he -loved and trusted us, and we have not helped him, but made a curse in -his life—” - -Her voice had sunk very low: there was a dread upon her of presuming -too far, and of speaking as if she herself were perfection addressing -error. She was too much preoccupied with her own anxiety, to be aware -that Rosamond was trembling too; and filled with the need to express -pitying fellowship rather than rebuke, she put her hands on Rosamond’s, -and said with more agitated rapidity,—“I know, I know that the feeling -may be very dear—it has taken hold of us unawares—it is so hard, it may -seem like death to part with it—and we are weak—I am weak—” - -The waves of her own sorrow, from out of which she was struggling to -save another, rushed over Dorothea with conquering force. She stopped -in speechless agitation, not crying, but feeling as if she were being -inwardly grappled. Her face had become of a deathlier paleness, her -lips trembled, and she pressed her hands helplessly on the hands that -lay under them. - -Rosamond, taken hold of by an emotion stronger than her own—hurried -along in a new movement which gave all things some new, awful, -undefined aspect—could find no words, but involuntarily she put her -lips to Dorothea’s forehead which was very near her, and then for a -minute the two women clasped each other as if they had been in a -shipwreck. - -“You are thinking what is not true,” said Rosamond, in an eager -half-whisper, while she was still feeling Dorothea’s arms round -her—urged by a mysterious necessity to free herself from something that -oppressed her as if it were blood guiltiness. - -They moved apart, looking at each other. - -“When you came in yesterday—it was not as you thought,” said Rosamond -in the same tone. - -There was a movement of surprised attention in Dorothea. She expected a -vindication of Rosamond herself. - -“He was telling me how he loved another woman, that I might know he -could never love me,” said Rosamond, getting more and more hurried as -she went on. “And now I think he hates me because—because you mistook -him yesterday. He says it is through me that you will think ill of -him—think that he is a false person. But it shall not be through me. He -has never had any love for me—I know he has not—he has always thought -slightly of me. He said yesterday that no other woman existed for him -beside you. The blame of what happened is entirely mine. He said he -could never explain to you—because of me. He said you could never think -well of him again. But now I have told you, and he cannot reproach me -any more.” - -Rosamond had delivered her soul under impulses which she had not known -before. She had begun her confession under the subduing influence of -Dorothea’s emotion; and as she went on she had gathered the sense that -she was repelling Will’s reproaches, which were still like a -knife-wound within her. - -The revulsion of feeling in Dorothea was too strong to be called joy. -It was a tumult in which the terrible strain of the night and morning -made a resistant pain:—she could only perceive that this would be joy -when she had recovered her power of feeling it. Her immediate -consciousness was one of immense sympathy without check; she cared for -Rosamond without struggle now, and responded earnestly to her last -words— - -“No, he cannot reproach you any more.” - -With her usual tendency to over-estimate the good in others, she felt a -great outgoing of her heart towards Rosamond, for the generous effort -which had redeemed her from suffering, not counting that the effort was -a reflex of her own energy. After they had been silent a little, she -said— - -“You are not sorry that I came this morning?” - -“No, you have been very good to me,” said Rosamond. “I did not think -that you would be so good. I was very unhappy. I am not happy now. -Everything is so sad.” - -“But better days will come. Your husband will be rightly valued. And he -depends on you for comfort. He loves you best. The worst loss would be -to lose that—and you have not lost it,” said Dorothea. - -She tried to thrust away the too overpowering thought of her own -relief, lest she should fail to win some sign that Rosamond’s affection -was yearning back towards her husband. - -“Tertius did not find fault with me, then?” said Rosamond, -understanding now that Lydgate might have said anything to Mrs. -Casaubon, and that she certainly was different from other women. -Perhaps there was a faint taste of jealousy in the question. A smile -began to play over Dorothea’s face as she said— - -“No, indeed! How could you imagine it?” But here the door opened, and -Lydgate entered. - -“I am come back in my quality of doctor,” he said. “After I went away, -I was haunted by two pale faces: Mrs. Casaubon looked as much in need -of care as you, Rosy. And I thought that I had not done my duty in -leaving you together; so when I had been to Coleman’s I came home -again. I noticed that you were walking, Mrs. Casaubon, and the sky has -changed—I think we may have rain. May I send some one to order your -carriage to come for you?” - -“Oh, no! I am strong: I need the walk,” said Dorothea, rising with -animation in her face. “Mrs. Lydgate and I have chatted a great deal, -and it is time for me to go. I have always been accused of being -immoderate and saying too much.” - -She put out her hand to Rosamond, and they said an earnest, quiet -good-by without kiss or other show of effusion: there had been between -them too much serious emotion for them to use the signs of it -superficially. - -As Lydgate took her to the door she said nothing of Rosamond, but told -him of Mr. Farebrother and the other friends who had listened with -belief to his story. - -When he came back to Rosamond, she had already thrown herself on the -sofa, in resigned fatigue. - -“Well, Rosy,” he said, standing over her, and touching her hair, “what -do you think of Mrs. Casaubon now you have seen so much of her?” - -“I think she must be better than any one,” said Rosamond, “and she is -very beautiful. If you go to talk to her so often, you will be more -discontented with me than ever!” - -Lydgate laughed at the “so often.” “But has she made you any less -discontented with me?” - -“I think she has,” said Rosamond, looking up in his face. “How heavy -your eyes are, Tertius—and do push your hair back.” He lifted up his -large white hand to obey her, and felt thankful for this little mark of -interest in him. Poor Rosamond’s vagrant fancy had come back terribly -scourged—meek enough to nestle under the old despised shelter. And the -shelter was still there: Lydgate had accepted his narrowed lot with sad -resignation. He had chosen this fragile creature, and had taken the -burthen of her life upon his arms. He must walk as he could, carrying -that burthen pitifully. - - - - -CHAPTER LXXXII. - -“My grief lies onward and my joy behind.” -—SHAKESPEARE: _Sonnets_. - - -Exiles notoriously feed much on hopes, and are unlikely to stay in -banishment unless they are obliged. When Will Ladislaw exiled himself -from Middlemarch he had placed no stronger obstacle to his return than -his own resolve, which was by no means an iron barrier, but simply a -state of mind liable to melt into a minuet with other states of mind, -and to find itself bowing, smiling, and giving place with polite -facility. As the months went on, it had seemed more and more difficult -to him to say why he should not run down to Middlemarch—merely for the -sake of hearing something about Dorothea; and if on such a flying visit -he should chance by some strange coincidence to meet with her, there -was no reason for him to be ashamed of having taken an innocent journey -which he had beforehand supposed that he should not take. Since he was -hopelessly divided from her, he might surely venture into her -neighborhood; and as to the suspicious friends who kept a dragon watch -over her—their opinions seemed less and less important with time and -change of air. - -And there had come a reason quite irrespective of Dorothea, which -seemed to make a journey to Middlemarch a sort of philanthropic duty. -Will had given a disinterested attention to an intended settlement on a -new plan in the Far West, and the need for funds in order to carry out -a good design had set him on debating with himself whether it would not -be a laudable use to make of his claim on Bulstrode, to urge the -application of that money which had been offered to himself as a means -of carrying out a scheme likely to be largely beneficial. The question -seemed a very dubious one to Will, and his repugnance to again entering -into any relation with the banker might have made him dismiss it -quickly, if there had not arisen in his imagination the probability -that his judgment might be more safely determined by a visit to -Middlemarch. - -That was the object which Will stated to himself as a reason for coming -down. He had meant to confide in Lydgate, and discuss the money -question with him, and he had meant to amuse himself for the few -evenings of his stay by having a great deal of music and badinage with -fair Rosamond, without neglecting his friends at Lowick Parsonage:—if -the Parsonage was close to the Manor, that was no fault of his. He had -neglected the Farebrothers before his departure, from a proud -resistance to the possible accusation of indirectly seeking interviews -with Dorothea; but hunger tames us, and Will had become very hungry for -the vision of a certain form and the sound of a certain voice. Nothing -had done instead—not the opera, or the converse of zealous politicians, -or the flattering reception (in dim corners) of his new hand in leading -articles. - -Thus he had come down, foreseeing with confidence how almost everything -would be in his familiar little world; fearing, indeed, that there -would be no surprises in his visit. But he had found that humdrum world -in a terribly dynamic condition, in which even badinage and lyrism had -turned explosive; and the first day of this visit had become the most -fatal epoch of his life. The next morning he felt so harassed with the -nightmare of consequences—he dreaded so much the immediate issues -before him—that seeing while he breakfasted the arrival of the -Riverston coach, he went out hurriedly and took his place on it, that -he might be relieved, at least for a day, from the necessity of doing -or saying anything in Middlemarch. Will Ladislaw was in one of those -tangled crises which are commoner in experience than one might imagine, -from the shallow absoluteness of men’s judgments. He had found Lydgate, -for whom he had the sincerest respect, under circumstances which -claimed his thorough and frankly declared sympathy; and the reason why, -in spite of that claim, it would have been better for Will to have -avoided all further intimacy, or even contact, with Lydgate, was -precisely of the kind to make such a course appear impossible. To a -creature of Will’s susceptible temperament—without any neutral region -of indifference in his nature, ready to turn everything that befell him -into the collisions of a passionate drama—the revelation that Rosamond -had made her happiness in any way dependent on him was a difficulty -which his outburst of rage towards her had immeasurably increased for -him. He hated his own cruelty, and yet he dreaded to show the fulness -of his relenting: he must go to her again; the friendship could not be -put to a sudden end; and her unhappiness was a power which he dreaded. -And all the while there was no more foretaste of enjoyment in the life -before him than if his limbs had been lopped off and he was making his -fresh start on crutches. In the night he had debated whether he should -not get on the coach, not for Riverston, but for London, leaving a note -to Lydgate which would give a makeshift reason for his retreat. But -there were strong cords pulling him back from that abrupt departure: -the blight on his happiness in thinking of Dorothea, the crushing of -that chief hope which had remained in spite of the acknowledged -necessity for renunciation, was too fresh a misery for him to resign -himself to it and go straightway into a distance which was also -despair. - -Thus he did nothing more decided than taking the Riverston coach. He -came back again by it while it was still daylight, having made up his -mind that he must go to Lydgate’s that evening. The Rubicon, we know, -was a very insignificant stream to look at; its significance lay -entirely in certain invisible conditions. Will felt as if he were -forced to cross his small boundary ditch, and what he saw beyond it was -not empire, but discontented subjection. - -But it is given to us sometimes even in our every-day life to witness -the saving influence of a noble nature, the divine efficacy of rescue -that may lie in a self-subduing act of fellowship. If Dorothea, after -her night’s anguish, had not taken that walk to Rosamond—why, she -perhaps would have been a woman who gained a higher character for -discretion, but it would certainly not have been as well for those -three who were on one hearth in Lydgate’s house at half-past seven that -evening. - -Rosamond had been prepared for Will’s visit, and she received him with -a languid coldness which Lydgate accounted for by her nervous -exhaustion, of which he could not suppose that it had any relation to -Will. And when she sat in silence bending over a bit of work, he -innocently apologized for her in an indirect way by begging her to lean -backward and rest. Will was miserable in the necessity for playing the -part of a friend who was making his first appearance and greeting to -Rosamond, while his thoughts were busy about her feeling since that -scene of yesterday, which seemed still inexorably to enclose them both, -like the painful vision of a double madness. It happened that nothing -called Lydgate out of the room; but when Rosamond poured out the tea, -and Will came near to fetch it, she placed a tiny bit of folded paper -in his saucer. He saw it and secured it quickly, but as he went back to -his inn he had no eagerness to unfold the paper. What Rosamond had -written to him would probably deepen the painful impressions of the -evening. Still, he opened and read it by his bed-candle. There were -only these few words in her neatly flowing hand:— - -“I have told Mrs. Casaubon. She is not under any mistake about you. I -told her because she came to see me and was very kind. You will have -nothing to reproach me with now. I shall not have made any difference -to you.” - -The effect of these words was not quite all gladness. As Will dwelt on -them with excited imagination, he felt his cheeks and ears burning at -the thought of what had occurred between Dorothea and Rosamond—at the -uncertainty how far Dorothea might still feel her dignity wounded in -having an explanation of his conduct offered to her. There might still -remain in her mind a changed association with him which made an -irremediable difference—a lasting flaw. With active fancy he wrought -himself into a state of doubt little more easy than that of the man who -has escaped from wreck by night and stands on unknown ground in the -darkness. Until that wretched yesterday—except the moment of vexation -long ago in the very same room and in the very same presence—all their -vision, all their thought of each other, had been as in a world apart, -where the sunshine fell on tall white lilies, where no evil lurked, and -no other soul entered. But now—would Dorothea meet him in that world -again? - - - - -CHAPTER LXXXIII. - -“And now good-morrow to our waking souls -Which watch not one another out of fear; -For love all love of other sights controls, -And makes one little room, an everywhere.” -—DR. DONNE. - - -On the second morning after Dorothea’s visit to Rosamond, she had had -two nights of sound sleep, and had not only lost all traces of fatigue, -but felt as if she had a great deal of superfluous strength—that is to -say, more strength than she could manage to concentrate on any -occupation. The day before, she had taken long walks outside the -grounds, and had paid two visits to the Parsonage; but she never in her -life told any one the reason why she spent her time in that fruitless -manner, and this morning she was rather angry with herself for her -childish restlessness. To-day was to be spent quite differently. What -was there to be done in the village? Oh dear! nothing. Everybody was -well and had flannel; nobody’s pig had died; and it was Saturday -morning, when there was a general scrubbing of doors and door-stones, -and when it was useless to go into the school. But there were various -subjects that Dorothea was trying to get clear upon, and she resolved -to throw herself energetically into the gravest of all. She sat down in -the library before her particular little heap of books on political -economy and kindred matters, out of which she was trying to get light -as to the best way of spending money so as not to injure one’s -neighbors, or—what comes to the same thing—so as to do them the most -good. Here was a weighty subject which, if she could but lay hold of -it, would certainly keep her mind steady. Unhappily her mind slipped -off it for a whole hour; and at the end she found herself reading -sentences twice over with an intense consciousness of many things, but -not of any one thing contained in the text. This was hopeless. Should -she order the carriage and drive to Tipton? No; for some reason or -other she preferred staying at Lowick. But her vagrant mind must be -reduced to order: there was an art in self-discipline; and she walked -round and round the brown library considering by what sort of manoeuvre -she could arrest her wandering thoughts. Perhaps a mere task was the -best means—something to which she must go doggedly. Was there not the -geography of Asia Minor, in which her slackness had often been rebuked -by Mr. Casaubon? She went to the cabinet of maps and unrolled one: this -morning she might make herself finally sure that Paphlagonia was not on -the Levantine coast, and fix her total darkness about the Chalybes -firmly on the shores of the Euxine. A map was a fine thing to study -when you were disposed to think of something else, being made up of -names that would turn into a chime if you went back upon them. Dorothea -set earnestly to work, bending close to her map, and uttering the names -in an audible, subdued tone, which often got into a chime. She looked -amusingly girlish after all her deep experience—nodding her head and -marking the names off on her fingers, with a little pursing of her lip, -and now and then breaking off to put her hands on each side of her face -and say, “Oh dear! oh dear!” - -There was no reason why this should end any more than a merry-go-round; -but it was at last interrupted by the opening of the door and the -announcement of Miss Noble. - -The little old lady, whose bonnet hardly reached Dorothea’s shoulder, -was warmly welcomed, but while her hand was being pressed she made many -of her beaver-like noises, as if she had something difficult to say. - -“Do sit down,” said Dorothea, rolling a chair forward. “Am I wanted for -anything? I shall be so glad if I can do anything.” - -“I will not stay,” said Miss Noble, putting her hand into her small -basket, and holding some article inside it nervously; “I have left a -friend in the churchyard.” She lapsed into her inarticulate sounds, and -unconsciously drew forth the article which she was fingering. It was -the tortoise-shell lozenge-box, and Dorothea felt the color mounting to -her cheeks. - -“Mr. Ladislaw,” continued the timid little woman. “He fears he has -offended you, and has begged me to ask if you will see him for a few -minutes.” - -Dorothea did not answer on the instant: it was crossing her mind that -she could not receive him in this library, where her husband’s -prohibition seemed to dwell. She looked towards the window. Could she -go out and meet him in the grounds? The sky was heavy, and the trees -had begun to shiver as at a coming storm. Besides, she shrank from -going out to him. - -“Do see him, Mrs. Casaubon,” said Miss Noble, pathetically; “else I -must go back and say No, and that will hurt him.” - -“Yes, I will see him,” said Dorothea. “Pray tell him to come.” - -What else was there to be done? There was nothing that she longed for -at that moment except to see Will: the possibility of seeing him had -thrust itself insistently between her and every other object; and yet -she had a throbbing excitement like an alarm upon her—a sense that she -was doing something daringly defiant for his sake. - -When the little lady had trotted away on her mission, Dorothea stood in -the middle of the library with her hands falling clasped before her, -making no attempt to compose herself in an attitude of dignified -unconsciousness. What she was least conscious of just then was her own -body: she was thinking of what was likely to be in Will’s mind, and of -the hard feelings that others had had about him. How could any duty -bind her to hardness? Resistance to unjust dispraise had mingled with -her feeling for him from the very first, and now in the rebound of her -heart after her anguish the resistance was stronger than ever. “If I -love him too much it is because he has been used so ill:”—there was a -voice within her saying this to some imagined audience in the library, -when the door was opened, and she saw Will before her. - -She did not move, and he came towards her with more doubt and timidity -in his face than she had ever seen before. He was in a state of -uncertainty which made him afraid lest some look or word of his should -condemn him to a new distance from her; and Dorothea was afraid of her -_own_ emotion. She looked as if there were a spell upon her, keeping -her motionless and hindering her from unclasping her hands, while some -intense, grave yearning was imprisoned within her eyes. Seeing that she -did not put out her hand as usual, Will paused a yard from her and said -with embarrassment, “I am so grateful to you for seeing me.” - -“I wanted to see you,” said Dorothea, having no other words at command. -It did not occur to her to sit down, and Will did not give a cheerful -interpretation to this queenly way of receiving him; but he went on to -say what he had made up his mind to say. - -“I fear you think me foolish and perhaps wrong for coming back so soon. -I have been punished for my impatience. You know—every one knows now—a -painful story about my parentage. I knew of it before I went away, and -I always meant to tell you of it if—if we ever met again.” - -There was a slight movement in Dorothea, and she unclasped her hands, -but immediately folded them over each other. - -“But the affair is matter of gossip now,” Will continued. “I wished you -to know that something connected with it—something which happened -before I went away, helped to bring me down here again. At least I -thought it excused my coming. It was the idea of getting Bulstrode to -apply some money to a public purpose—some money which he had thought of -giving me. Perhaps it is rather to Bulstrode’s credit that he privately -offered me compensation for an old injury: he offered to give me a good -income to make amends; but I suppose you know the disagreeable story?” - -Will looked doubtfully at Dorothea, but his manner was gathering some -of the defiant courage with which he always thought of this fact in his -destiny. He added, “You know that it must be altogether painful to me.” - -“Yes—yes—I know,” said Dorothea, hastily. - -“I did not choose to accept an income from such a source. I was sure -that you would not think well of me if I did so,” said Will. Why should -he mind saying anything of that sort to her now? She knew that he had -avowed his love for her. “I felt that”—he broke off, nevertheless. - -“You acted as I should have expected you to act,” said Dorothea, her -face brightening and her head becoming a little more erect on its -beautiful stem. - -“I did not believe that you would let any circumstance of my birth -create a prejudice in you against me, though it was sure to do so in -others,” said Will, shaking his head backward in his old way, and -looking with a grave appeal into her eyes. - -“If it were a new hardship it would be a new reason for me to cling to -you,” said Dorothea, fervidly. “Nothing could have changed me but—” her -heart was swelling, and it was difficult to go on; she made a great -effort over herself to say in a low tremulous voice, “but thinking that -you were different—not so good as I had believed you to be.” - -“You are sure to believe me better than I am in everything but one,” -said Will, giving way to his own feeling in the evidence of hers. “I -mean, in my truth to you. When I thought you doubted of that, I didn’t -care about anything that was left. I thought it was all over with me, -and there was nothing to try for—only things to endure.” - -“I don’t doubt you any longer,” said Dorothea, putting out her hand; a -vague fear for him impelling her unutterable affection. - -He took her hand and raised it to his lips with something like a sob. -But he stood with his hat and gloves in the other hand, and might have -done for the portrait of a Royalist. Still it was difficult to loose -the hand, and Dorothea, withdrawing it in a confusion that distressed -her, looked and moved away. - -“See how dark the clouds have become, and how the trees are tossed,” -she said, walking towards the window, yet speaking and moving with only -a dim sense of what she was doing. - -Will followed her at a little distance, and leaned against the tall -back of a leather chair, on which he ventured now to lay his hat and -gloves, and free himself from the intolerable durance of formality to -which he had been for the first time condemned in Dorothea’s presence. -It must be confessed that he felt very happy at that moment leaning on -the chair. He was not much afraid of anything that she might feel now. - -They stood silent, not looking at each other, but looking at the -evergreens which were being tossed, and were showing the pale underside -of their leaves against the blackening sky. Will never enjoyed the -prospect of a storm so much: it delivered him from the necessity of -going away. Leaves and little branches were hurled about, and the -thunder was getting nearer. The light was more and more sombre, but -there came a flash of lightning which made them start and look at each -other, and then smile. Dorothea began to say what she had been thinking -of. - -“That was a wrong thing for you to say, that you would have had nothing -to try for. If we had lost our own chief good, other people’s good -would remain, and that is worth trying for. Some can be happy. I seemed -to see that more clearly than ever, when I was the most wretched. I can -hardly think how I could have borne the trouble, if that feeling had -not come to me to make strength.” - -“You have never felt the sort of misery I felt,” said Will; “the misery -of knowing that you must despise me.” - -“But I have felt worse—it was worse to think ill—” Dorothea had begun -impetuously, but broke off. - -Will colored. He had the sense that whatever she said was uttered in -the vision of a fatality that kept them apart. He was silent a moment, -and then said passionately— - -“We may at least have the comfort of speaking to each other without -disguise. Since I must go away—since we must always be divided—you may -think of me as one on the brink of the grave.” - -While he was speaking there came a vivid flash of lightning which lit -each of them up for the other—and the light seemed to be the terror of -a hopeless love. Dorothea darted instantaneously from the window; Will -followed her, seizing her hand with a spasmodic movement; and so they -stood, with their hands clasped, like two children, looking out on the -storm, while the thunder gave a tremendous crack and roll above them, -and the rain began to pour down. Then they turned their faces towards -each other, with the memory of his last words in them, and they did not -loose each other’s hands. - -“There is no hope for me,” said Will. “Even if you loved me as well as -I love you—even if I were everything to you—I shall most likely always -be very poor: on a sober calculation, one can count on nothing but a -creeping lot. It is impossible for us ever to belong to each other. It -is perhaps base of me to have asked for a word from you. I meant to go -away into silence, but I have not been able to do what I meant.” - -“Don’t be sorry,” said Dorothea, in her clear tender tones. “I would -rather share all the trouble of our parting.” - -Her lips trembled, and so did his. It was never known which lips were -the first to move towards the other lips; but they kissed tremblingly, -and then they moved apart. - -The rain was dashing against the window-panes as if an angry spirit -were within it, and behind it was the great swoop of the wind; it was -one of those moments in which both the busy and the idle pause with a -certain awe. - -Dorothea sat down on the seat nearest to her, a long low ottoman in the -middle of the room, and with her hands folded over each other on her -lap, looked at the drear outer world. Will stood still an instant -looking at her, then seated himself beside her, and laid his hand on -hers, which turned itself upward to be clasped. They sat in that way -without looking at each other, until the rain abated and began to fall -in stillness. Each had been full of thoughts which neither of them -could begin to utter. - -But when the rain was quiet, Dorothea turned to look at Will. With -passionate exclamation, as if some torture screw were threatening him, -he started up and said, “It is impossible!” - -He went and leaned on the back of the chair again, and seemed to be -battling with his own anger, while she looked towards him sadly. - -“It is as fatal as a murder or any other horror that divides people,” -he burst out again; “it is more intolerable—to have our life maimed by -petty accidents.” - -“No—don’t say that—your life need not be maimed,” said Dorothea, -gently. - -“Yes, it must,” said Will, angrily. “It is cruel of you to speak in -that way—as if there were any comfort. You may see beyond the misery of -it, but I don’t. It is unkind—it is throwing back my love for you as if -it were a trifle, to speak in that way in the face of the fact. We can -never be married.” - -“Some time—we might,” said Dorothea, in a trembling voice. - -“When?” said Will, bitterly. “What is the use of counting on any -success of mine? It is a mere toss up whether I shall ever do more than -keep myself decently, unless I choose to sell myself as a mere pen and -a mouthpiece. I can see that clearly enough. I could not offer myself -to any woman, even if she had no luxuries to renounce.” - -There was silence. Dorothea’s heart was full of something that she -wanted to say, and yet the words were too difficult. She was wholly -possessed by them: at that moment debate was mute within her. And it -was very hard that she could not say what she wanted to say. Will was -looking out of the window angrily. If he would have looked at her and -not gone away from her side, she thought everything would have been -easier. At last he turned, still resting against the chair, and -stretching his hand automatically towards his hat, said with a sort of -exasperation, “Good-by.” - -“Oh, I cannot bear it—my heart will break,” said Dorothea, starting -from her seat, the flood of her young passion bearing down all the -obstructions which had kept her silent—the great tears rising and -falling in an instant: “I don’t mind about poverty—I hate my wealth.” - -In an instant Will was close to her and had his arms round her, but she -drew her head back and held his away gently that she might go on -speaking, her large tear-filled eyes looking at his very simply, while -she said in a sobbing childlike way, “We could live quite well on my -own fortune—it is too much—seven hundred a-year—I want so little—no new -clothes—and I will learn what everything costs.” - - - - -CHAPTER LXXXIV. - -“Though it be songe of old and yonge, - That I sholde be to blame, -Theyrs be the charge, that spoke so large - In hurtynge of my name.” -—_The Not-Browne Mayde_. - - -It was just after the Lords had thrown out the Reform Bill: that -explains how Mr. Cadwallader came to be walking on the slope of the -lawn near the great conservatory at Freshitt Hall, holding the “Times” -in his hands behind him, while he talked with a trout-fisher’s -dispassionateness about the prospects of the country to Sir James -Chettam. Mrs. Cadwallader, the Dowager Lady Chettam, and Celia were -sometimes seated on garden-chairs, sometimes walking to meet little -Arthur, who was being drawn in his chariot, and, as became the -infantine Bouddha, was sheltered by his sacred umbrella with handsome -silken fringe. - -The ladies also talked politics, though more fitfully. Mrs. Cadwallader -was strong on the intended creation of peers: she had it for certain -from her cousin that Truberry had gone over to the other side entirely -at the instigation of his wife, who had scented peerages in the air -from the very first introduction of the Reform question, and would sign -her soul away to take precedence of her younger sister, who had married -a baronet. Lady Chettam thought that such conduct was very -reprehensible, and remembered that Mrs. Truberry’s mother was a Miss -Walsingham of Melspring. Celia confessed it was nicer to be “Lady” than -“Mrs.,” and that Dodo never minded about precedence if she could have -her own way. Mrs. Cadwallader held that it was a poor satisfaction to -take precedence when everybody about you knew that you had not a drop -of good blood in your veins; and Celia again, stopping to look at -Arthur, said, “It would be very nice, though, if he were a Viscount—and -his lordship’s little tooth coming through! He might have been, if -James had been an Earl.” - -“My dear Celia,” said the Dowager, “James’s title is worth far more -than any new earldom. I never wished his father to be anything else -than Sir James.” - -“Oh, I only meant about Arthur’s little tooth,” said Celia, -comfortably. “But see, here is my uncle coming.” - -She tripped off to meet her uncle, while Sir James and Mr. Cadwallader -came forward to make one group with the ladies. Celia had slipped her -arm through her uncle’s, and he patted her hand with a rather -melancholy “Well, my dear!” As they approached, it was evident that Mr. -Brooke was looking dejected, but this was fully accounted for by the -state of politics; and as he was shaking hands all round without more -greeting than a “Well, you’re all here, you know,” the Rector said, -laughingly— - -“Don’t take the throwing out of the Bill so much to heart, Brooke; -you’ve got all the riff-raff of the country on your side.” - -“The Bill, eh? ah!” said Mr. Brooke, with a mild distractedness of -manner. “Thrown out, you know, eh? The Lords are going too far, though. -They’ll have to pull up. Sad news, you know. I mean, here at home—sad -news. But you must not blame me, Chettam.” - -“What is the matter?” said Sir James. “Not another gamekeeper shot, I -hope? It’s what I should expect, when a fellow like Trapping Bass is -let off so easily.” - -“Gamekeeper? No. Let us go in; I can tell you all in the house, you -know,” said Mr. Brooke, nodding at the Cadwalladers, to show that he -included them in his confidence. “As to poachers like Trapping Bass, -you know, Chettam,” he continued, as they were entering, “when you are -a magistrate, you’ll not find it so easy to commit. Severity is all -very well, but it’s a great deal easier when you’ve got somebody to do -it for you. You have a soft place in your heart yourself, you -know—you’re not a Draco, a Jeffreys, that sort of thing.” - -Mr. Brooke was evidently in a state of nervous perturbation. When he -had something painful to tell, it was usually his way to introduce it -among a number of disjointed particulars, as if it were a medicine that -would get a milder flavor by mixing. He continued his chat with Sir -James about the poachers until they were all seated, and Mrs. -Cadwallader, impatient of this drivelling, said— - -“I’m dying to know the sad news. The gamekeeper is not shot: that is -settled. What is it, then?” - -“Well, it’s a very trying thing, you know,” said Mr. Brooke. “I’m glad -you and the Rector are here; it’s a family matter—but you will help us -all to bear it, Cadwallader. I’ve got to break it to you, my dear.” -Here Mr. Brooke looked at Celia—“You’ve no notion what it is, you know. -And, Chettam, it will annoy you uncommonly—but, you see, you have not -been able to hinder it, any more than I have. There’s something -singular in things: they come round, you know.” - -“It must be about Dodo,” said Celia, who had been used to think of her -sister as the dangerous part of the family machinery. She had seated -herself on a low stool against her husband’s knee. - -“For God’s sake let us hear what it is!” said Sir James. - -“Well, you know, Chettam, I couldn’t help Casaubon’s will: it was a -sort of will to make things worse.” - -“Exactly,” said Sir James, hastily. “But _what_ is worse?” - -“Dorothea is going to be married again, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, -nodding towards Celia, who immediately looked up at her husband with a -frightened glance, and put her hand on his knee. Sir James was almost -white with anger, but he did not speak. - -“Merciful heaven!” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “Not to _young_ Ladislaw?” - -Mr. Brooke nodded, saying, “Yes; to Ladislaw,” and then fell into a -prudential silence. - -“You see, Humphrey!” said Mrs. Cadwallader, waving her arm towards her -husband. “Another time you will admit that I have some foresight; or -rather you will contradict me and be just as blind as ever. _You_ -supposed that the young gentleman was gone out of the country.” - -“So he might be, and yet come back,” said the Rector, quietly. - -“When did you learn this?” said Sir James, not liking to hear any one -else speak, though finding it difficult to speak himself. - -“Yesterday,” said Mr. Brooke, meekly. “I went to Lowick. Dorothea sent -for me, you know. It had come about quite suddenly—neither of them had -any idea two days ago—not any idea, you know. There’s something -singular in things. But Dorothea is quite determined—it is no use -opposing. I put it strongly to her. I did my duty, Chettam. But she can -act as she likes, you know.” - -“It would have been better if I had called him out and shot him a year -ago,” said Sir James, not from bloody-mindedness, but because he needed -something strong to say. - -“Really, James, that would have been very disagreeable,” said Celia. - -“Be reasonable, Chettam. Look at the affair more quietly,” said Mr. -Cadwallader, sorry to see his good-natured friend so overmastered by -anger. - -“That is not so very easy for a man of any dignity—with any sense of -right—when the affair happens to be in his own family,” said Sir James, -still in his white indignation. “It is perfectly scandalous. If -Ladislaw had had a spark of honor he would have gone out of the country -at once, and never shown his face in it again. However, I am not -surprised. The day after Casaubon’s funeral I said what ought to be -done. But I was not listened to.” - -“You wanted what was impossible, you know, Chettam,” said Mr. Brooke. -“You wanted him shipped off. I told you Ladislaw was not to be done as -we liked with: he had his ideas. He was a remarkable fellow—I always -said he was a remarkable fellow.” - -“Yes,” said Sir James, unable to repress a retort, “it is rather a pity -you formed that high opinion of him. We are indebted to that for his -being lodged in this neighborhood. We are indebted to that for seeing a -woman like Dorothea degrading herself by marrying him.” Sir James made -little stoppages between his clauses, the words not coming easily. “A -man so marked out by her husband’s will, that delicacy ought to have -forbidden her from seeing him again—who takes her out of her proper -rank—into poverty—has the meanness to accept such a sacrifice—has -always had an objectionable position—a bad origin—and, _I believe_, is -a man of little principle and light character. That is my opinion.” Sir -James ended emphatically, turning aside and crossing his leg. - -“I pointed everything out to her,” said Mr. Brooke, apologetically—“I -mean the poverty, and abandoning her position. I said, ‘My dear, you -don’t know what it is to live on seven hundred a-year, and have no -carriage, and that kind of thing, and go amongst people who don’t know -who you are.’ I put it strongly to her. But I advise you to talk to -Dorothea herself. The fact is, she has a dislike to Casaubon’s -property. You will hear what she says, you know.” - -“No—excuse me—I shall not,” said Sir James, with more coolness. “I -cannot bear to see her again; it is too painful. It hurts me too much -that a woman like Dorothea should have done what is wrong.” - -“Be just, Chettam,” said the easy, large-lipped Rector, who objected to -all this unnecessary discomfort. “Mrs. Casaubon may be acting -imprudently: she is giving up a fortune for the sake of a man, and we -men have so poor an opinion of each other that we can hardly call a -woman wise who does that. But I think you should not condemn it as a -wrong action, in the strict sense of the word.” - -“Yes, I do,” answered Sir James. “I think that Dorothea commits a wrong -action in marrying Ladislaw.” - -“My dear fellow, we are rather apt to consider an act wrong because it -is unpleasant to us,” said the Rector, quietly. Like many men who take -life easily, he had the knack of saying a home truth occasionally to -those who felt themselves virtuously out of temper. Sir James took out -his handkerchief and began to bite the corner. - -“It is very dreadful of Dodo, though,” said Celia, wishing to justify -her husband. “She said she _never would_ marry again—not anybody at -all.” - -“I heard her say the same thing myself,” said Lady Chettam, -majestically, as if this were royal evidence. - -“Oh, there is usually a silent exception in such cases,” said Mrs. -Cadwallader. “The only wonder to me is, that any of you are surprised. -You did nothing to hinder it. If you would have had Lord Triton down -here to woo her with his philanthropy, he might have carried her off -before the year was over. There was no safety in anything else. Mr. -Casaubon had prepared all this as beautifully as possible. He made -himself disagreeable—or it pleased God to make him so—and then he dared -her to contradict him. It’s the way to make any trumpery tempting, to -ticket it at a high price in that way.” - -“I don’t know what you mean by wrong, Cadwallader,” said Sir James, -still feeling a little stung, and turning round in his chair towards -the Rector. “He’s not a man we can take into the family. At least, I -must speak for myself,” he continued, carefully keeping his eyes off -Mr. Brooke. “I suppose others will find his society too pleasant to -care about the propriety of the thing.” - -“Well, you know, Chettam,” said Mr. Brooke, good-humoredly, nursing his -leg, “I can’t turn my back on Dorothea. I must be a father to her up to -a certain point. I said, ‘My dear, I won’t refuse to give you away.’ I -had spoken strongly before. But I can cut off the entail, you know. It -will cost money and be troublesome; but I can do it, you know.” - -Mr. Brooke nodded at Sir James, and felt that he was both showing his -own force of resolution and propitiating what was just in the Baronet’s -vexation. He had hit on a more ingenious mode of parrying than he was -aware of. He had touched a motive of which Sir James was ashamed. The -mass of his feeling about Dorothea’s marriage to Ladislaw was due -partly to excusable prejudice, or even justifiable opinion, partly to a -jealous repugnance hardly less in Ladislaw’s case than in Casaubon’s. -He was convinced that the marriage was a fatal one for Dorothea. But -amid that mass ran a vein of which he was too good and honorable a man -to like the avowal even to himself: it was undeniable that the union of -the two estates—Tipton and Freshitt—lying charmingly within a -ring-fence, was a prospect that flattered him for his son and heir. -Hence when Mr. Brooke noddingly appealed to that motive, Sir James felt -a sudden embarrassment; there was a stoppage in his throat; he even -blushed. He had found more words than usual in the first jet of his -anger, but Mr. Brooke’s propitiation was more clogging to his tongue -than Mr. Cadwallader’s caustic hint. - -But Celia was glad to have room for speech after her uncle’s suggestion -of the marriage ceremony, and she said, though with as little eagerness -of manner as if the question had turned on an invitation to dinner, “Do -you mean that Dodo is going to be married directly, uncle?” - -“In three weeks, you know,” said Mr. Brooke, helplessly. “I can do -nothing to hinder it, Cadwallader,” he added, turning for a little -countenance toward the Rector, who said— - -“_I_ should not make any fuss about it. If she likes to be poor, that -is her affair. Nobody would have said anything if she had married the -young fellow because he was rich. Plenty of beneficed clergy are poorer -than they will be. Here is Elinor,” continued the provoking husband; -“she vexed her friends by me: I had hardly a thousand a-year—I was a -lout—nobody could see anything in me—my shoes were not the right -cut—all the men wondered how a woman could like me. Upon my word, I -must take Ladislaw’s part until I hear more harm of him.” - -“Humphrey, that is all sophistry, and you know it,” said his wife. -“Everything is all one—that is the beginning and end with you. As if -you had not been a Cadwallader! Does any one suppose that I would have -taken such a monster as you by any other name?” - -“And a clergyman too,” observed Lady Chettam with approbation. “Elinor -cannot be said to have descended below her rank. It is difficult to say -what Mr. Ladislaw is, eh, James?” - -Sir James gave a small grunt, which was less respectful than his usual -mode of answering his mother. Celia looked up at him like a thoughtful -kitten. - -“It must be admitted that his blood is a frightful mixture!” said Mrs. -Cadwallader. “The Casaubon cuttle-fish fluid to begin with, and then a -rebellious Polish fiddler or dancing-master, was it?—and then an old -clo—” - -“Nonsense, Elinor,” said the Rector, rising. “It is time for us to go.” - -“After all, he is a pretty sprig,” said Mrs. Cadwallader, rising too, -and wishing to make amends. “He is like the fine old Crichley portraits -before the idiots came in.” - -“I’ll go with you,” said Mr. Brooke, starting up with alacrity. “You -must all come and dine with me to-morrow, you know—eh, Celia, my dear?” - -“You will, James—won’t you?” said Celia, taking her husband’s hand. - -“Oh, of course, if you like,” said Sir James, pulling down his -waistcoat, but unable yet to adjust his face good-humoredly. “That is -to say, if it is not to meet anybody else.” - -“No, no, no,” said Mr. Brooke, understanding the condition. “Dorothea -would not come, you know, unless you had been to see her.” - -When Sir James and Celia were alone, she said, “Do you mind about my -having the carriage to go to Lowick, James?” - -“What, now, directly?” he answered, with some surprise. - -“Yes, it is very important,” said Celia. - -“Remember, Celia, I cannot see her,” said Sir James. - -“Not if she gave up marrying?” - -“What is the use of saying that?—however, I’m going to the stables. -I’ll tell Briggs to bring the carriage round.” - -Celia thought it was of great use, if not to say that, at least to take -a journey to Lowick in order to influence Dorothea’s mind. All through -their girlhood she had felt that she could act on her sister by a word -judiciously placed—by opening a little window for the daylight of her -own understanding to enter among the strange colored lamps by which -Dodo habitually saw. And Celia the matron naturally felt more able to -advise her childless sister. How could any one understand Dodo so well -as Celia did or love her so tenderly? - -Dorothea, busy in her boudoir, felt a glow of pleasure at the sight of -her sister so soon after the revelation of her intended marriage. She -had prefigured to herself, even with exaggeration, the disgust of her -friends, and she had even feared that Celia might be kept aloof from -her. - -“O Kitty, I am delighted to see you!” said Dorothea, putting her hands -on Celia’s shoulders, and beaming on her. “I almost thought you would -not come to me.” - -“I have not brought Arthur, because I was in a hurry,” said Celia, and -they sat down on two small chairs opposite each other, with their knees -touching. - -“You know, Dodo, it is very bad,” said Celia, in her placid guttural, -looking as prettily free from humors as possible. “You have -disappointed us all so. And I can’t think that it ever _will_ be—you -never can go and live in that way. And then there are all your plans! -You never can have thought of that. James would have taken any trouble -for you, and you might have gone on all your life doing what you -liked.” - -“On the contrary, dear,” said Dorothea, “I never could do anything that -I liked. I have never carried out any plan yet.” - -“Because you always wanted things that wouldn’t do. But other plans -would have come. And how _can_ you marry Mr. Ladislaw, that we none of -us ever thought you _could_ marry? It shocks James so dreadfully. And -then it is all so different from what you have always been. You would -have Mr. Casaubon because he had such a great soul, and was so old and -dismal and learned; and now, to think of marrying Mr. Ladislaw, who has -got no estate or anything. I suppose it is because you must be making -yourself uncomfortable in some way or other.” - -Dorothea laughed. - -“Well, it is very serious, Dodo,” said Celia, becoming more impressive. -“How will you live? and you will go away among queer people. And I -shall never see you—and you won’t mind about little Arthur—and I -thought you always would—” - -Celia’s rare tears had got into her eyes, and the corners of her mouth -were agitated. - -“Dear Celia,” said Dorothea, with tender gravity, “if you don’t ever -see me, it will not be my fault.” - -“Yes, it will,” said Celia, with the same touching distortion of her -small features. “How can I come to you or have you with me when James -can’t bear it?—that is because he thinks it is not right—he thinks you -are so wrong, Dodo. But you always were wrong: only I can’t help loving -you. And nobody can think where you will live: where can you go?” - -“I am going to London,” said Dorothea. - -“How can you always live in a street? And you will be so poor. I could -give you half my things, only how can I, when I never see you?” - -“Bless you, Kitty,” said Dorothea, with gentle warmth. “Take comfort: -perhaps James will forgive me some time.” - -“But it would be much better if you would not be married,” said Celia, -drying her eyes, and returning to her argument; “then there would be -nothing uncomfortable. And you would not do what nobody thought you -could do. James always said you ought to be a queen; but this is not at -all being like a queen. You know what mistakes you have always been -making, Dodo, and this is another. Nobody thinks Mr. Ladislaw a proper -husband for you. And you _said_ you would never be married again.” - -“It is quite true that I might be a wiser person, Celia,” said -Dorothea, “and that I might have done something better, if I had been -better. But this is what I am going to do. I have promised to marry Mr. -Ladislaw; and I am going to marry him.” - -The tone in which Dorothea said this was a note that Celia had long -learned to recognize. She was silent a few moments, and then said, as -if she had dismissed all contest, “Is he very fond of you, Dodo?” - -“I hope so. I am very fond of him.” - -“That is nice,” said Celia, comfortably. “Only I would rather you had -such a sort of husband as James is, with a place very near, that I -could drive to.” - -Dorothea smiled, and Celia looked rather meditative. Presently she -said, “I cannot think how it all came about.” Celia thought it would be -pleasant to hear the story. - -“I dare say not,” said Dorothea, pinching her sister’s chin. “If you -knew how it came about, it would not seem wonderful to you.” - -“Can’t you tell me?” said Celia, settling her arms cozily. - -“No, dear, you would have to feel with me, else you would never know.” - - - - -CHAPTER LXXXV. - -“Then went the jury out whose names were Mr. Blindman, Mr. No-good, Mr. -Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. -Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, Mr. Implacable, who -every one gave in his private verdict against him among themselves, and -afterwards unanimously concluded to bring him in guilty before the -judge. And first among themselves, Mr. Blindman, the foreman, said, I -see clearly that this man is a heretic. Then said Mr. No-good, Away -with such a fellow from the earth! Ay, said Mr. Malice, for I hate the -very look of him. Then said Mr. Love-lust, I could never endure him. -Nor I, said Mr. Live-loose; for he would be always condemning my way. -Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady. A sorry scrub, said Mr. High-mind. -My heart riseth against him, said Mr. Enmity. He is a rogue, said Mr. -Liar. Hanging is too good for him, said Mr. Cruelty. Let us despatch -him out of the way said Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable, Might -I have all the world given me, I could not be reconciled to him; -therefore let us forthwith bring him in guilty of death.”—_Pilgrim’s -Progress_. - - -When immortal Bunyan makes his picture of the persecuting passions -bringing in their verdict of guilty, who pities Faithful? That is a -rare and blessed lot which some greatest men have not attained, to know -ourselves guiltless before a condemning crowd—to be sure that what we -are denounced for is solely the good in us. The pitiable lot is that of -the man who could not call himself a martyr even though he were to -persuade himself that the men who stoned him were but ugly passions -incarnate—who knows that he is stoned, not for professing the Right, -but for not being the man he professed to be. - -This was the consciousness that Bulstrode was withering under while he -made his preparations for departing from Middlemarch, and going to end -his stricken life in that sad refuge, the indifference of new faces. -The duteous merciful constancy of his wife had delivered him from one -dread, but it could not hinder her presence from being still a tribunal -before which he shrank from confession and desired advocacy. His -equivocations with himself about the death of Raffles had sustained the -conception of an Omniscience whom he prayed to, yet he had a terror -upon him which would not let him expose them to judgment by a full -confession to his wife: the acts which he had washed and diluted with -inward argument and motive, and for which it seemed comparatively easy -to win invisible pardon—what name would she call them by? That she -should ever silently call his acts Murder was what he could not bear. -He felt shrouded by her doubt: he got strength to face her from the -sense that she could not yet feel warranted in pronouncing that worst -condemnation on him. Some time, perhaps—when he was dying—he would tell -her all: in the deep shadow of that time, when she held his hand in the -gathering darkness, she might listen without recoiling from his touch. -Perhaps: but concealment had been the habit of his life, and the -impulse to confession had no power against the dread of a deeper -humiliation. - -He was full of timid care for his wife, not only because he deprecated -any harshness of judgment from her, but because he felt a deep distress -at the sight of her suffering. She had sent her daughters away to board -at a school on the coast, that this crisis might be hidden from them as -far as possible. Set free by their absence from the intolerable -necessity of accounting for her grief or of beholding their frightened -wonder, she could live unconstrainedly with the sorrow that was every -day streaking her hair with whiteness and making her eyelids languid. - -“Tell me anything that you would like to have me do, Harriet,” -Bulstrode had said to her; “I mean with regard to arrangements of -property. It is my intention not to sell the land I possess in this -neighborhood, but to leave it to you as a safe provision. If you have -any wish on such subjects, do not conceal it from me.” - -A few days afterwards, when she had returned from a visit to her -brother’s, she began to speak to her husband on a subject which had for -some time been in her mind. - -“I _should_ like to do something for my brother’s family, Nicholas; and -I think we are bound to make some amends to Rosamond and her husband. -Walter says Mr. Lydgate must leave the town, and his practice is almost -good for nothing, and they have very little left to settle anywhere -with. I would rather do without something for ourselves, to make some -amends to my poor brother’s family.” - -Mrs. Bulstrode did not wish to go nearer to the facts than in the -phrase “make some amends;” knowing that her husband must understand -her. He had a particular reason, which she was not aware of, for -wincing under her suggestion. He hesitated before he said— - -“It is not possible to carry out your wish in the way you propose, my -dear. Mr. Lydgate has virtually rejected any further service from me. -He has returned the thousand pounds which I lent him. Mrs. Casaubon -advanced him the sum for that purpose. Here is his letter.” - -The letter seemed to cut Mrs. Bulstrode severely. The mention of Mrs. -Casaubon’s loan seemed a reflection of that public feeling which held -it a matter of course that every one would avoid a connection with her -husband. She was silent for some time; and the tears fell one after the -other, her chin trembling as she wiped them away. Bulstrode, sitting -opposite to her, ached at the sight of that grief-worn face, which two -months before had been bright and blooming. It had aged to keep sad -company with his own withered features. Urged into some effort at -comforting her, he said— - -“There is another means, Harriet, by which I might do a service to your -brother’s family, if you like to act in it. And it would, I think, be -beneficial to you: it would be an advantageous way of managing the land -which I mean to be yours.” - -She looked attentive. - -“Garth once thought of undertaking the management of Stone Court in -order to place your nephew Fred there. The stock was to remain as it -is, and they were to pay a certain share of the profits instead of an -ordinary rent. That would be a desirable beginning for the young man, -in conjunction with his employment under Garth. Would it be a -satisfaction to you?” - -“Yes, it would,” said Mrs. Bulstrode, with some return of energy. “Poor -Walter is so cast down; I would try anything in my power to do him some -good before I go away. We have always been brother and sister.” - -“You must make the proposal to Garth yourself, Harriet,” said Mr. -Bulstrode, not liking what he had to say, but desiring the end he had -in view, for other reasons besides the consolation of his wife. “You -must state to him that the land is virtually yours, and that he need -have no transactions with me. Communications can be made through -Standish. I mention this, because Garth gave up being my agent. I can -put into your hands a paper which he himself drew up, stating -conditions; and you can propose his renewed acceptance of them. I think -it is not unlikely that he will accept when you propose the thing for -the sake of your nephew.” - - - - -CHAPTER LXXXVI. - -“Le cœur se sature d’amour comme d’un sel divin qui le conserve; de là -l’incorruptible adhérence de ceux qui se sont aimés dès l’aube de la -vie, et la fraîcheur des vielles amours prolongées. Il existe un -embaumement d’amour. C’est de Daphnis et Chloé que sont faits Philémon -et Baucis. Cette vieillesse-là, ressemblance du soir avec -l’aurore.”—VICTOR HUGO: _L’homme qui rit_. - - -Mrs. Garth, hearing Caleb enter the passage about tea-time, opened the -parlor-door and said, “There you are, Caleb. Have you had your dinner?” -(Mr. Garth’s meals were much subordinated to “business.”) - -“Oh yes, a good dinner—cold mutton and I don’t know what. Where is -Mary?” - -“In the garden with Letty, I think.” - -“Fred is not come yet?” - -“No. Are you going out again without taking tea, Caleb?” said Mrs. -Garth, seeing that her absent-minded husband was putting on again the -hat which he had just taken off. - -“No, no; I’m only going to Mary a minute.” - -Mary was in a grassy corner of the garden, where there was a swing -loftily hung between two pear-trees. She had a pink kerchief tied over -her head, making a little poke to shade her eyes from the level -sunbeams, while she was giving a glorious swing to Letty, who laughed -and screamed wildly. - -Seeing her father, Mary left the swing and went to meet him, pushing -back the pink kerchief and smiling afar off at him with the involuntary -smile of loving pleasure. - -“I came to look for you, Mary,” said Mr. Garth. “Let us walk about a -bit.” - -Mary knew quite well that her father had something particular to say: -his eyebrows made their pathetic angle, and there was a tender gravity -in his voice: these things had been signs to her when she was Letty’s -age. She put her arm within his, and they turned by the row of -nut-trees. - -“It will be a sad while before you can be married, Mary,” said her -father, not looking at her, but at the end of the stick which he held -in his other hand. - -“Not a sad while, father—I mean to be merry,” said Mary, laughingly. “I -have been single and merry for four-and-twenty years and more: I -suppose it will not be quite as long again as that.” Then, after a -little pause, she said, more gravely, bending her face before her -father’s, “If you are contented with Fred?” - -Caleb screwed up his mouth and turned his head aside wisely. - -“Now, father, you did praise him last Wednesday. You said he had an -uncommon notion of stock, and a good eye for things.” - -“Did I?” said Caleb, rather slyly. - -“Yes, I put it all down, and the date, _anno Domini_, and everything,” -said Mary. “You like things to be neatly booked. And then his behavior -to you, father, is really good; he has a deep respect for you; and it -is impossible to have a better temper than Fred has.” - -“Ay, ay; you want to coax me into thinking him a fine match.” - -“No, indeed, father. I don’t love him because he is a fine match.” - -“What for, then?” - -“Oh, dear, because I have always loved him. I should never like -scolding any one else so well; and that is a point to be thought of in -a husband.” - -“Your mind is quite settled, then, Mary?” said Caleb, returning to his -first tone. “There’s no other wish come into it since things have been -going on as they have been of late?” (Caleb meant a great deal in that -vague phrase;) “because, better late than never. A woman must not force -her heart—she’ll do a man no good by that.” - -“My feelings have not changed, father,” said Mary, calmly. “I shall be -constant to Fred as long as he is constant to me. I don’t think either -of us could spare the other, or like any one else better, however much -we might admire them. It would make too great a difference to us—like -seeing all the old places altered, and changing the name for -everything. We must wait for each other a long while; but Fred knows -that.” - -Instead of speaking immediately, Caleb stood still and screwed his -stick on the grassy walk. Then he said, with emotion in his voice, -“Well, I’ve got a bit of news. What do you think of Fred going to live -at Stone Court, and managing the land there?” - -“How can that ever be, father?” said Mary, wonderingly. - -“He would manage it for his aunt Bulstrode. The poor woman has been to -me begging and praying. She wants to do the lad good, and it might be a -fine thing for him. With saving, he might gradually buy the stock, and -he has a turn for farming.” - -“Oh, Fred would be so happy! It is too good to believe.” - -“Ah, but mind you,” said Caleb, turning his head warningly, “I must -take it on _my_ shoulders, and be responsible, and see after -everything; and that will grieve your mother a bit, though she mayn’t -say so. Fred had need be careful.” - -“Perhaps it is too much, father,” said Mary, checked in her joy. “There -would be no happiness in bringing you any fresh trouble.” - -“Nay, nay; work is my delight, child, when it doesn’t vex your mother. -And then, if you and Fred get married,” here Caleb’s voice shook just -perceptibly, “he’ll be steady and saving; and you’ve got your mother’s -cleverness, and mine too, in a woman’s sort of way; and you’ll keep him -in order. He’ll be coming by-and-by, so I wanted to tell you first, -because I think you’d like to tell _him_ by yourself. After that, I -could talk it well over with him, and we could go into business and the -nature of things.” - -“Oh, you dear good father!” cried Mary, putting her hands round her -father’s neck, while he bent his head placidly, willing to be caressed. -“I wonder if any other girl thinks her father the best man in the -world!” - -“Nonsense, child; you’ll think your husband better.” - -“Impossible,” said Mary, relapsing into her usual tone; “husbands are -an inferior class of men, who require keeping in order.” - -When they were entering the house with Letty, who had run to join them, -Mary saw Fred at the orchard-gate, and went to meet him. - -“What fine clothes you wear, you extravagant youth!” said Mary, as Fred -stood still and raised his hat to her with playful formality. “You are -not learning economy.” - -“Now that is too bad, Mary,” said Fred. “Just look at the edges of -these coat-cuffs! It is only by dint of good brushing that I look -respectable. I am saving up three suits—one for a wedding-suit.” - -“How very droll you will look!—like a gentleman in an old -fashion-book.” - -“Oh no, they will keep two years.” - -“Two years! be reasonable, Fred,” said Mary, turning to walk. “Don’t -encourage flattering expectations.” - -“Why not? One lives on them better than on unflattering ones. If we -can’t be married in two years, the truth will be quite bad enough when -it comes.” - -“I have heard a story of a young gentleman who once encouraged -flattering expectations, and they did him harm.” - -“Mary, if you’ve got something discouraging to tell me, I shall bolt; I -shall go into the house to Mr. Garth. I am out of spirits. My father is -so cut up—home is not like itself. I can’t bear any more bad news.” - -“Should you call it bad news to be told that you were to live at Stone -Court, and manage the farm, and be remarkably prudent, and save money -every year till all the stock and furniture were your own, and you were -a distinguished agricultural character, as Mr. Borthrop Trumbull -says—rather stout, I fear, and with the Greek and Latin sadly -weather-worn?” - -“You don’t mean anything except nonsense, Mary?” said Fred, coloring -slightly nevertheless. - -“That is what my father has just told me of as what may happen, and he -never talks nonsense,” said Mary, looking up at Fred now, while he -grasped her hand as they walked, till it rather hurt her; but she would -not complain. - -“Oh, I could be a tremendously good fellow then, Mary, and we could be -married directly.” - -“Not so fast, sir; how do you know that I would not rather defer our -marriage for some years? That would leave you time to misbehave, and -then if I liked some one else better, I should have an excuse for -jilting you.” - -“Pray don’t joke, Mary,” said Fred, with strong feeling. “Tell me -seriously that all this is true, and that you are happy because of -it—because you love me best.” - -“It is all true, Fred, and I am happy because of it—because I love you -best,” said Mary, in a tone of obedient recitation. - -They lingered on the door-step under the steep-roofed porch, and Fred -almost in a whisper said— - -“When we were first engaged, with the umbrella-ring, Mary, you used -to—” - -The spirit of joy began to laugh more decidedly in Mary’s eyes, but the -fatal Ben came running to the door with Brownie yapping behind him, -and, bouncing against them, said— - -“Fred and Mary! are you ever coming in?—or may I eat your cake?” - - - - -FINALE. - -Every limit is a beginning as well as an ending. Who can quit young -lives after being long in company with them, and not desire to know -what befell them in their after-years? For the fragment of a life, -however typical, is not the sample of an even web: promises may not be -kept, and an ardent outset may be followed by declension; latent powers -may find their long-waited opportunity; a past error may urge a grand -retrieval. - -Marriage, which has been the bourne of so many narratives, is still a -great beginning, as it was to Adam and Eve, who kept their honeymoon in -Eden, but had their first little one among the thorns and thistles of -the wilderness. It is still the beginning of the home epic—the gradual -conquest or irremediable loss of that complete union which makes the -advancing years a climax, and age the harvest of sweet memories in -common. - -Some set out, like Crusaders of old, with a glorious equipment of hope -and enthusiasm and get broken by the way, wanting patience with each -other and the world. - -All who have cared for Fred Vincy and Mary Garth will like to know that -these two made no such failure, but achieved a solid mutual happiness. -Fred surprised his neighbors in various ways. He became rather -distinguished in his side of the county as a theoretic and practical -farmer, and produced a work on the “Cultivation of Green Crops and the -Economy of Cattle-Feeding” which won him high congratulations at -agricultural meetings. In Middlemarch admiration was more reserved: -most persons there were inclined to believe that the merit of Fred’s -authorship was due to his wife, since they had never expected Fred -Vincy to write on turnips and mangel-wurzel. - -But when Mary wrote a little book for her boys, called “Stories of -Great Men, taken from Plutarch,” and had it printed and published by -Gripp & Co., Middlemarch, every one in the town was willing to give the -credit of this work to Fred, observing that he had been to the -University, “where the ancients were studied,” and might have been a -clergyman if he had chosen. - -In this way it was made clear that Middlemarch had never been deceived, -and that there was no need to praise anybody for writing a book, since -it was always done by somebody else. - -Moreover, Fred remained unswervingly steady. Some years after his -marriage he told Mary that his happiness was half owing to Farebrother, -who gave him a strong pull-up at the right moment. I cannot say that he -was never again misled by his hopefulness: the yield of crops or the -profits of a cattle sale usually fell below his estimate; and he was -always prone to believe that he could make money by the purchase of a -horse which turned out badly—though this, Mary observed, was of course -the fault of the horse, not of Fred’s judgment. He kept his love of -horsemanship, but he rarely allowed himself a day’s hunting; and when -he did so, it was remarkable that he submitted to be laughed at for -cowardliness at the fences, seeming to see Mary and the boys sitting on -the five-barred gate, or showing their curly heads between hedge and -ditch. - -There were three boys: Mary was not discontented that she brought forth -men-children only; and when Fred wished to have a girl like her, she -said, laughingly, “that would be too great a trial to your mother.” -Mrs. Vincy in her declining years, and in the diminished lustre of her -housekeeping, was much comforted by her perception that two at least of -Fred’s boys were real Vincys, and did not “feature the Garths.” But -Mary secretly rejoiced that the youngest of the three was very much -what her father must have been when he wore a round jacket, and showed -a marvellous nicety of aim in playing at marbles, or in throwing stones -to bring down the mellow pears. - -Ben and Letty Garth, who were uncle and aunt before they were well in -their teens, disputed much as to whether nephews or nieces were more -desirable; Ben contending that it was clear girls were good for less -than boys, else they would not be always in petticoats, which showed -how little they were meant for; whereupon Letty, who argued much from -books, got angry in replying that God made coats of skins for both Adam -and Eve alike—also it occurred to her that in the East the men too wore -petticoats. But this latter argument, obscuring the majesty of the -former, was one too many, for Ben answered contemptuously, “The more -spooneys they!” and immediately appealed to his mother whether boys -were not better than girls. Mrs. Garth pronounced that both were alike -naughty, but that boys were undoubtedly stronger, could run faster, and -throw with more precision to a greater distance. With this oracular -sentence Ben was well satisfied, not minding the naughtiness; but Letty -took it ill, her feeling of superiority being stronger than her -muscles. - -Fred never became rich—his hopefulness had not led him to expect that; -but he gradually saved enough to become owner of the stock and -furniture at Stone Court, and the work which Mr. Garth put into his -hands carried him in plenty through those “bad times” which are always -present with farmers. Mary, in her matronly days, became as solid in -figure as her mother; but, unlike her, gave the boys little formal -teaching, so that Mrs. Garth was alarmed lest they should never be well -grounded in grammar and geography. Nevertheless, they were found quite -forward enough when they went to school; perhaps, because they had -liked nothing so well as being with their mother. When Fred was riding -home on winter evenings he had a pleasant vision beforehand of the -bright hearth in the wainscoted parlor, and was sorry for other men who -could not have Mary for their wife; especially for Mr. Farebrother. “He -was ten times worthier of you than I was,” Fred could now say to her, -magnanimously. “To be sure he was,” Mary answered; “and for that reason -he could do better without me. But you—I shudder to think what you -would have been—a curate in debt for horse-hire and cambric -pocket-handkerchiefs!” - -On inquiry it might possibly be found that Fred and Mary still inhabit -Stone Court—that the creeping plants still cast the foam of their -blossoms over the fine stone-wall into the field where the walnut-trees -stand in stately row—and that on sunny days the two lovers who were -first engaged with the umbrella-ring may be seen in white-haired -placidity at the open window from which Mary Garth, in the days of old -Peter Featherstone, had often been ordered to look out for Mr. Lydgate. - -Lydgate’s hair never became white. He died when he was only fifty, -leaving his wife and children provided for by a heavy insurance on his -life. He had gained an excellent practice, alternating, according to -the season, between London and a Continental bathing-place; having -written a treatise on Gout, a disease which has a good deal of wealth -on its side. His skill was relied on by many paying patients, but he -always regarded himself as a failure: he had not done what he once -meant to do. His acquaintances thought him enviable to have so charming -a wife, and nothing happened to shake their opinion. Rosamond never -committed a second compromising indiscretion. She simply continued to -be mild in her temper, inflexible in her judgment, disposed to admonish -her husband, and able to frustrate him by stratagem. As the years went -on he opposed her less and less, whence Rosamond concluded that he had -learned the value of her opinion; on the other hand, she had a more -thorough conviction of his talents now that he gained a good income, -and instead of the threatened cage in Bride Street provided one all -flowers and gilding, fit for the bird of paradise that she resembled. -In brief, Lydgate was what is called a successful man. But he died -prematurely of diphtheria, and Rosamond afterwards married an elderly -and wealthy physician, who took kindly to her four children. She made a -very pretty show with her daughters, driving out in her carriage, and -often spoke of her happiness as “a reward”—she did not say for what, -but probably she meant that it was a reward for her patience with -Tertius, whose temper never became faultless, and to the last -occasionally let slip a bitter speech which was more memorable than the -signs he made of his repentance. He once called her his basil plant; -and when she asked for an explanation, said that basil was a plant -which had flourished wonderfully on a murdered man’s brains. Rosamond -had a placid but strong answer to such speeches. Why then had he chosen -her? It was a pity he had not had Mrs. Ladislaw, whom he was always -praising and placing above her. And thus the conversation ended with -the advantage on Rosamond’s side. But it would be unjust not to tell, -that she never uttered a word in depreciation of Dorothea, keeping in -religious remembrance the generosity which had come to her aid in the -sharpest crisis of her life. - -Dorothea herself had no dreams of being praised above other women, -feeling that there was always something better which she might have -done, if she had only been better and known better. Still, she never -repented that she had given up position and fortune to marry Will -Ladislaw, and he would have held it the greatest shame as well as -sorrow to him if she had repented. They were bound to each other by a -love stronger than any impulses which could have marred it. No life -would have been possible to Dorothea which was not filled with emotion, -and she had now a life filled also with a beneficent activity which she -had not the doubtful pains of discovering and marking out for herself. -Will became an ardent public man, working well in those times when -reforms were begun with a young hopefulness of immediate good which has -been much checked in our days, and getting at last returned to -Parliament by a constituency who paid his expenses. Dorothea could have -liked nothing better, since wrongs existed, than that her husband -should be in the thick of a struggle against them, and that she should -give him wifely help. Many who knew her, thought it a pity that so -substantive and rare a creature should have been absorbed into the life -of another, and be only known in a certain circle as a wife and mother. -But no one stated exactly what else that was in her power she ought -rather to have done—not even Sir James Chettam, who went no further -than the negative prescription that she ought not to have married Will -Ladislaw. - -But this opinion of his did not cause a lasting alienation; and the way -in which the family was made whole again was characteristic of all -concerned. Mr. Brooke could not resist the pleasure of corresponding -with Will and Dorothea; and one morning when his pen had been -remarkably fluent on the prospects of Municipal Reform, it ran off into -an invitation to the Grange, which, once written, could not be done -away with at less cost than the sacrifice (hardly to be conceived) of -the whole valuable letter. During the months of this correspondence Mr. -Brooke had continually, in his talk with Sir James Chettam, been -presupposing or hinting that the intention of cutting off the entail -was still maintained; and the day on which his pen gave the daring -invitation, he went to Freshitt expressly to intimate that he had a -stronger sense than ever of the reasons for taking that energetic step -as a precaution against any mixture of low blood in the heir of the -Brookes. - -But that morning something exciting had happened at the Hall. A letter -had come to Celia which made her cry silently as she read it; and when -Sir James, unused to see her in tears, asked anxiously what was the -matter, she burst out in a wail such as he had never heard from her -before. - -“Dorothea has a little boy. And you will not let me go and see her. And -I am sure she wants to see me. And she will not know what to do with -the baby—she will do wrong things with it. And they thought she would -die. It is very dreadful! Suppose it had been me and little Arthur, and -Dodo had been hindered from coming to see me! I wish you would be less -unkind, James!” - -“Good heavens, Celia!” said Sir James, much wrought upon, “what do you -wish? I will do anything you like. I will take you to town to-morrow if -you wish it.” And Celia did wish it. - -It was after this that Mr. Brooke came, and meeting the Baronet in the -grounds, began to chat with him in ignorance of the news, which Sir -James for some reason did not care to tell him immediately. But when -the entail was touched on in the usual way, he said, “My dear sir, it -is not for me to dictate to you, but for my part I would let that -alone. I would let things remain as they are.” - -Mr. Brooke felt so much surprised that he did not at once find out how -much he was relieved by the sense that he was not expected to do -anything in particular. - -Such being the bent of Celia’s heart, it was inevitable that Sir James -should consent to a reconciliation with Dorothea and her husband. Where -women love each other, men learn to smother their mutual dislike. Sir -James never liked Ladislaw, and Will always preferred to have Sir -James’s company mixed with another kind: they were on a footing of -reciprocal tolerance which was made quite easy only when Dorothea and -Celia were present. - -It became an understood thing that Mr. and Mrs. Ladislaw should pay at -least two visits during the year to the Grange, and there came -gradually a small row of cousins at Freshitt who enjoyed playing with -the two cousins visiting Tipton as much as if the blood of these -cousins had been less dubiously mixed. - -Mr. Brooke lived to a good old age, and his estate was inherited by -Dorothea’s son, who might have represented Middlemarch, but declined, -thinking that his opinions had less chance of being stifled if he -remained out of doors. - -Sir James never ceased to regard Dorothea’s second marriage as a -mistake; and indeed this remained the tradition concerning it in -Middlemarch, where she was spoken of to a younger generation as a fine -girl who married a sickly clergyman, old enough to be her father, and -in little more than a year after his death gave up her estate to marry -his cousin—young enough to have been his son, with no property, and not -well-born. Those who had not seen anything of Dorothea usually observed -that she could not have been “a nice woman,” else she would not have -married either the one or the other. - -Certainly those determining acts of her life were not ideally -beautiful. They were the mixed result of young and noble impulse -struggling amidst the conditions of an imperfect social state, in which -great feelings will often take the aspect of error, and great faith the -aspect of illusion. For there is no creature whose inward being is so -strong that it is not greatly determined by what lies outside it. A new -Theresa will hardly have the opportunity of reforming a conventual -life, any more than a new Antigone will spend her heroic piety in -daring all for the sake of a brother’s burial: the medium in which -their ardent deeds took shape is forever gone. But we insignificant -people with our daily words and acts are preparing the lives of many -Dorotheas, some of which may present a far sadder sacrifice than that -of the Dorothea whose story we know. - -Her finely touched spirit had still its fine issues, though they were -not widely visible. Her full nature, like that river of which Cyrus -broke the strength, spent itself in channels which had no great name on -the earth. But the effect of her being on those around her was -incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly -dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you -and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived -faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. - -THE END - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 145 *** |