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GEORGE    ELIOT'S    COMPLETE    WORKS 
J^antig  Uoliime  lEtiition, 

PRINTED  FROM  NEW  ELECTROTYPE  PLATES. 


This  copy  is  one  of  an  edition  of  one  thousand  im- 
mediately following  the  six  hundred  impressions  of  the 
EDITION  DE  LUXE. 


Dorothea. 


HANDY    VOLUME    EDITION 


MIDDLEMARCH 


A   STUDY   OF    PROVINCIAL    LIFE 


By    GEORGE    ELIOT 


Vol.  I. 


BOSTON 

ESTES    AND     LAURIAT 

1887 


4- 


TO 

lei^p  SDear  l^u^banti, 
GEORGE     HENRY     LEWES, 

IN    THIS     NINETEENTH    YEAR     OF    OUR 
BLESSED     UNION. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Prelude       3 

Book 

I.     Miss  Bijooke 5 

11.     Old  and  Young 126 

III      Waiting  for  Death 237 

IV.     Three  Love  Problems 331 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


DojiOTHEA Frederic  Dielman       Frontispiece 

Mr.  Casaubon  and  Dorothea      .     .     W.  L  Taylor 50 

Celia W.L    Taylor 200 

Mary  Garth  REFrsES  Mr.  Feather- 
stone      W.L.  Taylor 330 


MIDDLEMARCH. 


MIDDLEMARCH. 


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  be- 
ginning. 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 


4  MIDDLEMARCH. 

into  oblivion.  With  dim  lights  and  tangled  circumstance 
they  tried  to  shape  their  thought  and  deed  in  noble  agree- 
ment; 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  ar- 
dently  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  coifture  and 
the  favorite  love-stories  in  prose  and  verse.     Here  and  there 
a  cygnet  is  reared  uneasily  among  the  ducklings  m  the  brown 
pond,  and  never  finds  the  living  stream  in  fellowship  with  its 
own  oary-footed  kind.    Here  and  there  is  born  a  Samt  iheresa, 
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. 

xM  I  S  S      BROOKE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Since  I  cau  do  no  good  because  a  u'oman, 
Reach  constantly  at  something  that  is  near  it. 

The  Maid's  Trarjedij :  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  tlian  those  in  which  the  Blessed  Virgin  appeared  to  Ital- 
ian 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  impres- 
siveness  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  in- 
quired 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 


6  MIDDLEMARCH. 

Cromwell,  but  afterwards  conformed,  and  managed  to  come 
out  of  all  political  troubles  as  the  proprietor  of  a  respectable 
family  estate.  Young  women  of  sucli  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  b}^  heart ;  and  to  her  the  destinies  of 
mankind,  seen  by  the  light  of  Christianit}^,  made  the  solici- 
tudes of  feminine  fashion  appear  an  occupation  for  Bedlam. 
She  could  not  reconcile  the  anxieties  of  a  spiritual  life  involv- 
ing 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  mart\^rdom  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  famil}^  and  afterwards  in 
a  Swiss  family  at  Lausanne,  their  bachelor  uncle  and  guardian 
trying  in  this  way  to  remedy  the  disadvantages  of  their  or- 
phaned condition. 


MISS   BROOKE.  7 

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 
weatlier :  it  was  only  safe  to  say  that  he  would  act  with  benevo- 
lent intentions,  and  that  he  would  spend  as  little  money  as 
possible  in  carrying  them  out.  For  the  most  glutinously  in- 
definite minds  enclose  some  hard  grains  of  habit ;  and  a  man 
has  been  seen  lax  about  all  his  own  interests  except  the  re- 
tention 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  Dorotliea  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  gen- 
erous 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  ques- 
tion, innocent  of  future  gold-fields,  and  of  that  gorgeous  plu- 
tocracy 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  accord- 
ing 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 


8  MIDDLEMAKCH. 

books !  Such  a  wife  niiglit  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  peo- 
ple 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  amia- 
ble 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-w^se ;  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  con- 
cluded 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  liave  seemed  to  her  a  ridiculous  irrelevance. 
Dorothea,  with  all  her  eagerness  to  know  the  truths  of  life, 


MISS   BROOKE.  9 

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  wdien  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  se- 
curing 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  measui-ed  without  a  precise 
chronolog}^  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  w^hich  divided  the 
bedrooms  of  the   sisters,  bent  on   finishing  a  plan  for  some 


10  MIDDLEMARCH. 

buildings  (a  kind  of  work  wliicli  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  hesitat- 
ing a  little,  with  a  rising  sob  of  mortification,  "  necklaces  are 
quite  usual  now ;  and  Madame  Poin9on,  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 
Poin9on  who  wore  the  ornaments.  "  Of  course,  then,  let  us 
have  them  out.     Why  did  you  not  tell  me  before  ?     But  the 


MISS   BROOKE.  11 

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.  Doro- 
thea immediately  took  up  the  necklace  and  fastened  it  round 
her  sister's  neck,  where  it  fitted  almost  as  closely  as  a  brace- 
let ;  but  the  circle  suited  the  Henrietta-]\Iaria  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  3'our  Indian  muslin. 
But  this  cross  you  must  wear  with  j-our  dark  dresses." 

Celia  was  trying  not  to  smile  with  pleasure.  "  0  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  m'ujlit  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  j-ou  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 


12  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  ?  " 

"  N"ay,  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  satis- 
faction. 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. 

"  Plow  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  frag- 
ments 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  falter- 
ingly,  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." 


MISS   BROOKE.  13 

"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  lind  such  things, 
and  work  at  them,  and  sell  them !  "  She  paused  again,  and 
Celia  thought  that  her  sister  was  going  to  renounce  the  orna- 
ments, 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  b}^ 
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  im- 
aginative 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  meek- 
ness, it  would  not  be  for  lack  of  inward  lire. 

"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  wear- 
ing 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." 


14  MIDDLEMARCH. 

Thus  Celia,  mutely  bending  over  her  tapestry,  until  she 
heard  her  sister  calling  her. 

"  Here,  Kitty,  come  and  look  at  m}^  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  par- 
doned her.  Since  they  could  remember,  there  had  been  a  mix- 
ture of  criticism  and  awe  in  the  attitude  of  Celia's  mind  to- 
wards her  elder  sister.  The  younger  had  always  worn  a  yoke  ; 
but  is  there  any  yoked  creature  without  its  private  opinions  ? 


CHAPTER   11. 

"  Dime ;  no  ves  aquel  caballero  que  hacia  nosotros  Aiene  sobre  un  caballo 
rucio  rodado  que  trae  puesto  en  la  cabeza  un  yelmo  de  oro  ?  "  "  Lo  que  A'eo  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.  —  Cervan'tes. 

"  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,  Avho  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  re- 
mark 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 
WoL-dsworth,  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 


MISS   BROOKE.  15 

was  there :  he  was  a  poet  too.  Or,  as  I  may  say,  Wordsworth 
was  poet  one,  and  Dav}^  was  poet  two.  That  was  true  in  every 
sense,  you  know." 

Dorothea  felt  a  little  more  uneasy  than  usual.  In  the  begin- 
ning 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  excel- 
lent 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,  "  go- 
ing 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  per- 
forming 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. 


16  MIDDLEMARCH. 

''  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  miud  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  in- 
teresting man  she  had  ever  seen,  not  excepting  even  Monsieur 
Liret,  the  Vaudois  clergyman  who  had  given  conferences  on 
the  liistory  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,  thQugh.anly 


MISS   BROOKE.  IT 

as  a  lamp-holder !  This  elevating  thought  lifted  her  above 
her  annoyance  at  being  twitted  with  her  ignorance  of  politi- 
cal 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  pres- 
ently 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  can- 
tering 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  evi- 
dent 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  mo- 
ment she  felt  angry  with  the  perverse  Sir  James.   .  Why  did 

VOL.  vii.  2 


18  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  some- 
thing 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  Eomanist  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  docu- 
ments 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 


MISS   BKOOKE.  19 

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  cle  lalt.'' 

"  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  3^ou  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 


20  MIDDLEMARCH. 

that  this  was  a  pity.  She  had  never  been  deceived  as  to  the 
object  of  the  baronet's  interest.  Sometimes,  indeed,  she  liad  re- 
flected 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  w^ere  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  lie  ?  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  attach- 
ment. 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  qualifica- 
tion 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  mar- 
riage. 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  ignor?.nce  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." 


MISS   BROOKE.  21 

"  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  liow  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  brus- 
querie,  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  tliis  cruel  resolu- 
tion. It  is  not  possible  that  3'ou  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  remon- 
strance. 

Air.  Casaubon  had  come  up  to  the  table,  teacup  in  hand, 
and  was  listening. 

"  We  must  not  inquire  too  curiously  into  motives,"  he  inter- 
posed, 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  gratefull}-  to 
the  speaker.  Here  was  a  man  who  could  understand  the  higher 
inward  life,  and  with  whom  there  could  be  some  spiritual  com- 
munion ;  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  difficul- 
ties of  civilization.  Has  any  one  ever  pinched  into  its  pilulous 
smallness  the  cobweb  of  pre-matrimonial  acquaintanceship  ? 


22  MIDDLEMARCH. 

'^  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,  ex- 
cept, indeed,  in  a  religious  sort  of  way,  as  for  a  clergyman  of 
some  distinction. 

However,  since  Miss  Brooke  had  become  engaged  in  a  con- 
versation with  Mr.  Casaubon  about  the  Yaudois  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  sensi- 
ble 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. 


CHAPTEE   IIL 

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, 


MISS   BROOKE.  23 

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  j\Ir.  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  under- 
stood from  him  the  scope  of  his  great  work,  also  of  attrac- 
tively' 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  mythi- 
cal 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  explain- 
ing 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  ; 


24  MTDDLEMARCH. 

here  was  a  modern  Augustine  who  united  the  glories  of  doctor 
and  saint. 

The  sanctity  seemed  no  less  clearly  marked  than  the  learn- 
ing, 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  impor- 
tance of  ecclesiastical  forms  and  articles  of  belief  compared 
with  that  spiritual  religion,  that  submergence  of  self  in  com- 
munion 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  con- 
jure 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  him- 
self may  have  fallen  by  good-luck  on  a  true  description,  and 
wrong  reasoning  sometimes  lands  poor  mortals  in  right  con- 
clusions :  starting  a  long  way  off  the  true  point,  and  proceed- 
ing 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 
pi^essure  of  invitation  from  Mr.  Brooke,  who  offered  no  bait 
except  his  own  documents  on  machine-breaking  and  rick-burn- 
ing. jVIr.  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, 


MISS   BROOKE.  25 

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.  Ehamnus,  the  ruins 
of  Ehamnus  —  you  are  a  great  Grecian,  now.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  have  given  much  stud}^  to  the  topography.  I 
spent  no  end  of  time  in  making  out  these  things  —  Helicon, 
now.  Here,  now  !  —  '  We  started  the  next  morning  for  Par- 
nassus, 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  audi- 
ence ;  bowed  in  the  right  place,  and  avoided  looking  at 
anything  documentary  as  far  as  possible,  without  showing  dis- 
regard 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  citstos  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  ]\liss  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  men- 
tion of  that  date ;  judging  by  the  standard  of  his  own  memory, 
which  was  a  volume  where  a  vide  supra  could  serve  instead  of 


26  MIDDLEMARCH. 

repetitions,  and  not  the  ordinary  long-nsed  blotting-book  which 
only  tells  of  forgotten  writing.  But  in  this  case  Mr.  Casau- 
bon'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  Eectory  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 
j)0ssible  future  for  herself  to  which  she  looked  forward  with 
trembling  hope,  and  she  wanted  to  wander  on  in  that  vision- 
ary 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  back- 
ward. 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  asceti- 
cism. 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  sol- 
emn 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  sufiiciently  consecrated  in 


MISS   BROOKE.  27 

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  short- 
waisted  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  messen- 
ger had  suddenly  stood  beside  her  path  and  held  out  his  hand 
towards  her !  Por  a  long  while  she  had  been  oppressed  by 
the  indefiniteness  which  hung  in  her  mind,  like  a  thick  sum- 
mer haze,  over  all  her  desire  to  made  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  Char- 
acters," 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 


28  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  Avhat  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 


MISS  BROOKE.  29 

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,  rais- 
ing 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  inter- 
esting. I  like  to  think  that  the  animals  about  us  have  souls 
something  like  our  own,  and  either  carry  on  their  own  little 


30  MTDDLEMARCH. 

affairs  or  can  be  companions  to  us,  like  Monk  here.  Those 
creatures  are  parasitic." 

"  I  am  so  giacl  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  opin- 
ion 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  discrimi- 
nate 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 


MISS   BROOKE.  31 

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  de- 
serve 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  happi- 
ness 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  opin- 
ion. 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 


32  MIDDI.EMAKCH. 

liow  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  an}^  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  rhap- 
sodic mood  by  reminding  her  that  people  were  staring,  not  lis- 
tening. 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  un- 
derstand 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  con- 
versations with  him,  and  was  convinced  that  her  first  impres- 
sions 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  effec- 
tive on  her  inclination  because  it  was  now  obvious  that  his 
visits  were  made  for  her  sake.  This  accomplished  man  con- 
descended  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  rever- 


MTSS    BROOKE.  83 

ently  at  Mr.  Casaubon's  religious  elevation  above  herself  as  she 
did  at  his  intellect  and  learning.  He  assented  to  her  expres- 
sions of  devout  feeling,  and  usually  with  an  appropriate  quota- 
tion; 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  guid- 
ance. 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  nar- 
row 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  wicked- 
ness 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  de- 
tected herself  in  these  speculations.  But  her  uncle  had  been 
invited  to  go  to  Lowick  to  stay  a  couple  of  days :  was  it  rea- 
sonable 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  Chettani's  readiness  to  set  on  foot  the  de- 
sired improvements.  He  came  njuch  oftener  than  Mr.  Casau- 
bon, and  Dorothea  ceased  to  find  him  disagreeable  since  he 
showed  himself  so  entirely  in  earnest ;  for  he  had  already  en- 
tered 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 

VOL.    VII.  3 


34  MIDDLEMARCH. 

be  very  useful  members  of  society  under  good  feminine  direc- 
tion, if  they  were  fortunate  in  choosing  tlieir  sisters-in-law  !  It 
is  difficult  to  say  whether  there  was  or  was  not  a  little  wilful- 
ness 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  igno- 
rant 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. 

1st  Gent.  Our  deeds  are  fetters  that  we  forge  ourselves. 
2c?.  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." 

'- 1  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.  "0  Kitty,  you  are  a  wonderful  crea- 
ture I "  She  pinched  Celia's  chin,  being  in  the  mood  now  to 
think  her  very  winning  and  lovely  —  fit  hereafter  to  be  an  eter- 
nal cherub,  and  if  it  were  not  doctrinally  wrong  to  say  so, 
hardly  more  in  need  of  salvation  than  a  squirrel.     "  Of  course 


MISS   BROOKE.  36 

people  need  not  be  always  talking  well.  Only  one  tells  the 
quality  of  their  minds  when  they  try  to  t.ilk  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  jMiss  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  un- 
welcome 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  im- 
petuous manner.  "  I  have  never  agreed  with  him  about  an}^- 
thing  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." 


36  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"FoDd  of  him,  Celia !  How  can  you  choose  such  odious  ex- 
pressions ?  ''  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  Chris- 
tian, 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  intoler- 
able 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 
an37-  discouraging  presence  in  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress."  The 
fad  of  drawing  plans !  .  What  was   life  worth  —  what  great 


MISS    BROOKE.  37 

faith  was  possible  when  the  whole  effect  of  one's  actions  could 
be  withered  up  into  such  parched  rubbish  as  that  ?  AYhen  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  did  n'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  pam- 
phlets about  the  early  Church.  The  oppression  of  Celia,  Tan- 
tripp,  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. 

IMr.  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  lei- 
surely, air,  as  if  he  had  nothing  particular  to  say.     Dorothea 


38  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  appar- 
ently from  his  usual  tendency  to  say  what  he  had  said  before. 
This  fundamental  principle  of  human  speech  was  markedly  ex- 
hibited 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,  enjoy- 
ing 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  bethouglit  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  Eomilly !  he  would  have  helped  us.  I  knevv"  Eomilly. 
Casaubon  did  n't  know  Eomilly.  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  alwaj^s 
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 


MISS   BROOKE.  39 

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.  How- 
ever, 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  prom- 
ised 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  did  n'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  soinething  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,  m.y  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  to- 
gether.    I  shall  never  interfere  against  your  wishes,  my  dear. 


40  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  w^ell ; 
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  Chet- 
tam," 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  inex- 
haustible 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  —  1  mean 
for  you.  It 's  true,  every  year  wdll  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  noth- 
ing 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." 


MISS   BROOKE.  41 

"  Very  true.  You  could  n't  put  the  thing  better  —  could  n'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  is  n't  cast  in  a  mould  —  not  cut  out  by  rule  and  line, 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  I  never  married  myself,  and  it  Avill  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 
does  n't  go  much  into  ideas.  I  did,  when  I  Avas  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  reflecte'^1  that  he  had  cer- 
tainly 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 


42  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  be- 
fore 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,  ver- 
tigo, 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  Aquainas'  works ;  and  tell  me  Avhether 
those  men  took  pains.  —  Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholj/,  P.  I.  s.  2. 

This  was  Mr.  Casaubon's  letter. 

My  dear  Miss  Brookk, —  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  bad  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  T  had  preconceived,  and 
thus  evoking  more  decisively  those  aifections  to  which  I  have  but  now 
referred.  Our  conversations  have,  I  think,  made  sufficiently  clear  to 
you  the  tenor  of  my  life  and  j.^urposes;  a  tenor  nnsuited,  I  am  aware, 
to  the  connnoner  order  of  minds.  But  1  have  discerned  in  you  an 
elevation  of  thought  and  a  capability  of  devotedness,  which  1  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 


MISS   BROOKE.  43 

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  to- 
wards 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  feel- 
ings;  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  presenti- 
ment. To  be  accepted  by  you  as  your  husband  and  the  earthly  guar- 
dian 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, 

Edwakp  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,  w4th  a  childlike  sense  of  reclining,  in  the  lap  of 
a  divine  consciousness  w^hich  sustained  her  own.  She  re- 
mained 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  initia- 
tion.    She  was  going  to  have   room  for  the  energies  whieli 


44  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  trans- 
figured girlhood  fell  on  the  first  object  tliat  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,  witli  varia- 
tions," 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  un- 
usually uncertain,  and  she  coukl  not  bear  that  Mr.  Casaubon 
should  think  her  handwriting  bad  and  illegible.  She  piqued 
herself  on  writing  a  hand  in  which  each  letter  was  distinguish- 
able 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  mo- 
ments' silence,  during  which  he  pushed  about  various  objects 


MISS   BROOKE.  45 

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  noth- 
ing 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. 

jNIr.  Brooke  threw  his  head  and  shoulders  backward  as  if 
some  one  had  thrown  a  light  missile  at  him.  Dorothea  imme- 
diately 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  ^veil-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  does  n'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  could  n'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 


46  MIDDLEMAKCH. 

recur  to  disagreeable  subjects.  It  had  been  her  nature  when 
a  child  never  to  quarrel  with  any  one  —  only  to  observe  wath 
wonder  that  they  quarrelled  with  her,  and  looked  like  turkey- 
cocks  ;  whereupon  she  was  ready  to  l)lay  at  cat's  cradle  with 
them  whenever  they  recovered  themselves.  And  as  to  Doro- 
thea, 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,  intend- 
ing 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. 

"  ]S"o,  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  toAvard  Doro- 
thea, said,  "  Casaubon,  my  dear  :  he  will  be  here  to  dinner ; 
he  did  n't  wait  to  write  more  —  did  n'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 


MISS    BROOKE.  47 

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 :  sjie  had  only 
begun  to  feel  disgust  at  the  possibility  that  anything  in  Doro- 
thea'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  occu- 
pation, 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. 


48  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  alvv^ays  odious  to  her  to  have  any 
small  fears  or  contrivances  about  her  actions,  but  at  this  mo- 
ment 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  oppo- 
site 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." 


MISS    BKOOKE.  49 

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  tender- 
ness 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  clergjanan,  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  tete-a-tete  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. 
vol..  VII.  4 


50  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"My  dear  young  lady  —  Miss  Brooke — Dorothea!"  he 
said,  pressing  her  liand  between  his  hands,  "  this  is  a  happi- 
ness 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  charac- 
teristic excellences  of  womanhood.  The  great  charm  of  your 
sex  is  its  cajDability  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  Avords 
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  igno- 
rance," said  Dorothea.  "  J  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  hijn  a  blessing 


Mr.  Casaubon  and  Dorothea. 


MISS   BROOKE.  51 

in  every  way  suited  to  his  peculiar  wants.  He  was  being  uncon- 
sciously wrought  upon  by  the  charms  of  a  nature  which  was  en- 
tirely without  hidden  calculations  either  for  immediate  effects 
or  for  remoter  ends.  It  was  this  which  made  Dorothea  so  child- 
like, 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  teacliing  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  parson- 
age, 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  gate- 
way, 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  look- 
ing 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. 


52  MIDDLEMAKCH. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Fitchett,  how  are  your  fowls  laying  now  ?  " 
said  the  high-colored,  dark-eyed  lady,  with  the  clearest  chis- 
elled 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  Eector's 
chicken-broth  on  a  Sunday.  He  has  consumed  all  ours  that 
I  can  spare.  You  are  half  paid  with  the  sermon,  Mrs.  Fit- 
chett,  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  ver}^  hot  on  new  sorts  ;  to  oblige  ?/o?<." 

"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,  leav- 
ing Mrs.  Fitchett  laughing  and  shaking  her  head  slowly,  with 
an  interjectional  "  Sure/y,  sure/?/.'"  —  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 


MISS   BROOKE.  53 

furthered   their  comprehension  of   the   Thirty-nine  Articles, 
and  would  have  been  less  socially  uniting. 

Mr.  Brooke,  seeing  Mrs.  Cadwallader's  merits  from  a  dif- 
ferent 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  politics,  else  you  would  not  be  seeing  so 
much  of  the  lively  man.  I  shall  inform  against  you :  remem- 
ber you  are  both  suspicious  characters  since  you  took  Peel's 
side  about  the  Catholic  Bill.  I  shall  tell  everybody  tiiat  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  pam- 
phlets, and  throw  open  the  public-houses  to  distribute  them. 
Come,  confess  ! " 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  ;^^r.  Brooke,  smiling  and  rub- 
bing his  eye-glasses,  but  really  blushing  a  little  at  the  im- 
'peachmcnt.  "  Casaubon  and  I  don't  talk  i)olitics  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  do- 
ings. 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 
6th  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 


54  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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.  'Kobody  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  respec- 
table. How  wull  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  miitahile  semiiev  —  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  indepen- 
dent attitude  —  a  man's  caring  for  nothing  but  truth,  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  And  there  is  no  part  of  the  county  where  opin- 
ion 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  indepen- 
dent 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 


MISS   BROOKE.  55 

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  engage- 
mert  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.  Cadwalla- 
der; "  but  Avhere  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  talk- 
ing about  it." 

"My  niece  has  chosen  another  suitor  —  has  chosen  him,  you 
know.  I  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred  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  ne- 
cessity 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,  wdiat  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  Eector's  wife 
alone. 

"  This  is  frightful.     How  long  has  it  been  going  on  ?  '* 


56  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"I  only  knew  of  it  yesterday.  They  are  to  be  married  in 
six  weeks." 

"  Well,  ni}^  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  hhn  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  scmietimes  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  ^vaii  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  Braeys  —  obliged  to  get  my  coals  by  stratagem,  and 
pray  to  heaven  for  my  salad  oil.     However,  Casaubon  has 


MISS   BROOKE.  57 

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  Fresh- 
itt 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.  Cadwal- 
lader'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  contempla- 
tive stand,  she  said  — 

"  I  have  a  great  shock  for  yon  ;  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  ^liddlemarch  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." 


58  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"That  is  what  I  told  him.     He  is  vulnerable  to  reason  there 

—  always  a  few  grains  of  common-sense  in  an  ounce  of  miser- 
liness. 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  b}'  the  know^ledge  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.  Cad- 
wallader paused  a  fe^v  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  i)ick  it  up.  Per- 
haps 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 


MISS   BROOKE.  59 

put  off  till  sLe  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." 

"  Kot  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  j'ou  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  does  n'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. 

jSTow,  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  tele- 


60  MIDDLExMARCH. 

scopic  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  in- 
terview 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  our- 
selves 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  ani- 
mated tax-pennies,  a  stronger  lens  reveals  to  you  certain  tini- 
est 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  fasci- 
nating 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  ut- 
most accuracy,  and  reproduced  them  in  an  excellent  pickle  of 
epigrams,  which  she  herself  enjoyed  the  more  because  she  be- 
lieved as  unquestionably  in  birth  and  no-birth  as  she  did  in 
game  and  vermin.  She  would  never  have  disowned  an}^  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 


MISS  BROOKE.  61 

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.  Cad- 
wallader  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  ]\Irs. 
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  irregularit}^  As  to  freaks  like  this  of 
Miss  Brooke's,  ^Irs.  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  Meth- 
odistical  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 


62  MTDDLEMARCH. 

her,  and  when  a  woman  is  not  contradicted,  she  has  no  mo- 
tive 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  agree- 
ably that  he  was  not  an  object  of  preference  to  the  woman 
whom  he  had  preferred.  Already  the  knowledge  that  Doro- 
thea had  chosen  Mr.  Casaubon  had  bruised  his  attachment  and 
relaxed  its  hold.  Although  Sir  James  was  a  sportsman,  he 
had  some  otlier  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  mar- 
riage-tie. On  the  contrar}^,  having  the  amiable  vanity  which 
knits  us  to  those  who  are  fond  of  us,  and  disinclines  iis  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  Doro- 


MISS   BROOKE.  63 

thea  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  forth- 
with 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  disappoint- 
ment between  breakfast  and  dinner-time  ;  keep  back  the  tears 
and  look  a  little  pale  about  the  lips,  and  in  answer  to  in- 
quiries 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   VIT. 

Piacer  e  popone 
Vuol  la  sua  stagione. 

Italian  Proferb. 

Mk.  Casaubox,  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  court- 
ship. 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  him- 
self to  the  stream  of  feeling,  and  perhaps  was  surprised  to 


64  MIDDLEMARCH. 

find  what  an  exceedingly  shallow  rill  it  was.  As  in  droughty 
regions  baptism  by  immersion  could  only  be  performed  sym- 
bolically, so  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  j^^-ssion.  Nevertheless,  he  observed 
with  pleasure  that  Miss  Brooke  showed  an  ardent  submissive 
affection  which  promised  to  fulfil  his  most  agreeable  pre- 
visions 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.  Casau- 
bon, 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 


MISS   BROOKE.  65 

wished  to  know  Latin  and  Greek.  Those  provinces  of  mascu- 
line 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  igno- 
rance :  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  him- 
self 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, 
matheinatics,  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." 


QQ  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"Ah,  well,  without  uiiderstanding,  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:  Gliick,  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  Eose  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.  Celin,  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,  T  imagine,  after  boyhood.  As  to  the 
grander  forms  of  music,  worthy  to  accompany  solemn  celebra- 
tions, 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  Preiberg,  and  it  made  me  sob." 

"  That  kind   of  thing  is  not  healthy,  my   dear,"  said   Mr. 


MISS   BROOKE.  67 

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  trav- 
elling 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  reflec- 
tiveness, 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  his- 
torian 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  la- 
borious nights  with  burning  candles,  liad  no  idea  of  future 
gentlemen  measuring  their  idle  days  with  watclies.  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  ec- 
clesiastical 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. 


68  MIDDLEMARCH. 


CHAPTER   VIIT. 

"  Oh,  rescue  her  !  I  am  her  brother  now, 
And  you  her  father.     Every  gentle  maid 
Should  have  a  guardian  in  each  gentleman." 

It  was  w'onderful  to  Sir  James  Chettam  how  well  he  contin- 
ued 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  in- 
terview 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  min- 
gled with  compassion. 

Nevertheless,  while  Sir  James  said  to  himself  that  he  had 
completely  resigned  her,  since  with  the  perversity  of  a  Des- 
demona  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  ?  Some- 
thing might  be  done  perhaps  even  now,  at  least  to  defer  the 
marriage.  On  his  way  home  he  turned  into  the  Kectory  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  bar- 
onet to  join  him  there.     The  two  were  better  friends  than  any 


MISS   BROOKE.  69 

other  landholder  and  clergyman  in  the  connty  —  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  some- 
body should  speak  to  him." 

''  What  ?  meaning  to  stand  ?  "  said  Mr.  Cadwallader,  going 
on  wath  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 
"svon'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  bit- 
terness. ^'  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,  Cadwal- 
lader—  a  man  with  daughters,  can  look  at  the  affair  with 
indifference  :  and  with  such  a  heart  as  yours  !  Do  think  seri- 
ously about  it." 

"I  am  not  joking:  I  am  as  serious  as  possible,"  said  the 
Rector,  with  a  provoking  little  inward  laugh.     ''You  are  as 


70  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  under- 
stand 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  arm- 
holes  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  — 

"  iSTow,  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  T^ole,  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  Avell  as  that,  if  you  tried  his 
metal.      You  would,  Chettam  ;  but  not  every  man." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Sir  James,  coloring.  "J.  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 


MISS    BROOKE.  71 

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  inter- 
fere 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  —  T  wish 
you  would  talk  to  Brooke  about  it.'' 

Sir  James  rose  as  he  was  finishing  his  sentence,  for  lie  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,  thei-e  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 


72  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  does  n'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  any- 
thing 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  ab- 
stract 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  w^ith." 

"  W^ell,  he  is  what  Miss  Brooke  likes,"  said  the  Eector.  "  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  Badical  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 


MISS   BROOKE.  73 

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  mis  judg- 
ment. It  was  a  sign  of  his  good  disposition  that  he  did  not 
slacken  at  all  in  his  intention  of  carrying  out  Dorothea's  de- 
sign of  the  cottages.  Doubtless  this  persistence  was  the  best 
course  for  his  own  dignity  :  but  pride  only  helps  us  to  be  gen- 
erous ;  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  persever- 
ance 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.  Per- 
haps she  gave  to  Sir  James  Chettam's  cottages  all  the  interest 
she  could  spare  from  Mr.  Casaubon,  or  rather  from  the  sym- 
phony 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  succeed- 
ing 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  be- 
tween a  man  and  a  woman  who  have  no  passion  to  hide  or 
confess. 


74  MIDDLEMARCH. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Ist  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  ?   .  .  . 

2c?  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. 


MISS   BROOKE.  75 

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  ever- 
greens 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  i)rince  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  hap- 
pily 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  curi- 
ous 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  pain- 
fully inexplicable,  staring  into  the  midst  of  her  Puritanic  con- 
ceptions :  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 
stiuiies  of  the  past  were  not  carried  on  by  means  of  such 
aids. 


76  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  confi- 
dence 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  inter- 
preted 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. 

"  Xow,  my  dear  Dorothea,  I  wish  you  to  favor  me  by  point- 
ing 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  de- 
cided 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  any- 
thing 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  book- 
case 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 
V)are  now." 


MISS   BROOKE.  77 

"  '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  motlier,"  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 
tliis  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  ^Ir.  Casaubon's  mother.  It  was  a  new  open- 
ing 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  indeli- 
cate just  then  to  ask  for  an}^  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,  Doro- 
thea ;  for  the  cottages  are  like  a  row  of  alms-houses  —  little 
gardens,  gilly-flowers,  that  sort  of  thing." 


78  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  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  com- 
ing 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,   where    the    curate    had    probably    no 


MISS   BROOKE.  79 

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  si)eckled 
fowls  were  so  numerous  that  Mr.  Brooke  observed,  "Your 
farmers  leave  some  barley  for  the  women  to  glean,  I  see.  The 
poor  folks  liere  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  siiha lid i turn  ;  that  is,  present  in  the  king's  mind,  but  not 
uttered,"  said  Mr.  Casaubon,  smiling  and  bending  his  head 
towards  Celia,  who  innnediately  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  Avould  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 


80  MIDDLEMARCH. 

which  she  would  await  new  duties.  Mau}^  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  wish- 
ing 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." 


MISS   BROOKE.  81 

The  cousId  was  so  close  now,  that,  when  he  lifted  his  hat, 
Dorothea  could  see  a  pair  of  gray  eves  rather  near  together,  a 
delicate  irregular  nose  with  a  little  ripple  in  it,  and  hair  fall- 
ing 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  introduc- 
tion to  his  future  second  cousin  and  her  relatives  ;  but  wore 
rather  a  pouting  air  of  discontent. 

"You  are  an  artist,  I  see,"  said  ^Ir.  Brooke,  taking  up 
the  sketch-book  aud  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  witli  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  pic- 
tures and  nature  which  I  am  too  ignorant  to  feel  —  just 
as  5^ou  see  v/hat  a  Greek  sentence  stands  for  wliich  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  3'ou  took  to 
drawing  plans  ;  you  don't  understand  morhidezza,  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  preoccupa- 
tion in  observing  Dorothea.     Ladislaw  had  made  up  his  mind 

VOL.    VII,  6 


82  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  judg- 
ment, and  was  certain  that  she  thought  his  sketch  detestable. 
There  was  too  much  cleverness  in  her  apology :  she  was  laugh- 
ing both  at  her  uncle  and  himself.  But  what  a  voice  !  It  was 
like  the  voice  of  a  soul  that  had  once  lived  in  an  ^olian  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,"  con- 
tinued 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  nov\r  we  will  pass  on  to  the  house,  lest  the  young  ladies 
should  be  tired  of  standing." 

AYhen  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,  Casau- 
bon ?  "   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." 


MISS   BROOKE.  88 

"  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,  prepa- 
ration for  he  knows  not  what.  He  declines  to  choose  a 
profession." 

"  Pie  has  no  means  but  wliat  you  furnish,  I  suppose." 

"I  have  always  given  him  and  his  friends  reason  to  under- 
stand 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  expecta- 
tion 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  enlarge- 
ment 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  ho  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,  wlio  had  certainly  an  impartial  mind. 

"  It  is,  I  fear,  nothing  more  than  a  part  of  his  general  in- 
accuracy 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  ordinarv  rule  as  to 
choose  one." 

"  Perhaps  he  has  conscientious  scruples  founded  on  his  own 
unfitness,"  said  Dorothea,  who  was  interesting  herself  in  find- 
ing a  favorable  explanation,     "  Because  the  law  and  medicine 


84  MIUDLEMARCH. 

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  Ladis- 
law  is  chiefly  determined  in  his  aversion  to  these  callings  by 
a  dislike  to  steady  application,  and  to  that  kind  of  acquire- 
ment 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  Doro- 
thea 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  jntiable 
than  ever. 


MISS   BROOKE.  80 


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  Conti- 
nent, seeming  by  this  cold  vagueness  to  waive  inquiry.  In- 
deed, Will  had  declined  to  fix  on  any  more  precise  destination 
than  the  entire  area  of  Europe.  Genius,  he  held,  is  necessa- 
rily intolerant  of  fetters  :  on  the  one  hand  it  must  have  the 
utmost  play  for  its  spontaneity  ;  on  the  other,  it  may  confi- 
dently 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 


86  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  mate- 
rial of  her  youthful  illusions,  does  it  follow  that  he  was  fairly 
represented  in  the  minds  of  those  less  impassioned  personages 
w^ho  have  hitherto  delivered  their  judgments  concerning  him  ? 
I  protest  against  any  absolute  conclusion,  any  prejudice  de- 
rived 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  Celiacs  criticism  of  a 
middle-aged  scholar's  personal  appearance.  I  am  not  sure 
that  the  greatest  man  of  his  age,  if  ever  that  solitary  superla- 
tive existed,  could  escape  these  unfavorable  reflections  of  him- 
self 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  him- 
self, 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  ?  Sup- 
pose we  turn  from  outside  estimates  of  a  man,  to  wonder, 
with  keener  interest,  what  is  the  report  of  his  own  conscious- 
ness 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  pres- 


MISS   BROOKE.  87 

sure,  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  confi- 
dence ;  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  disai)proval  of  it,  and  in  the 
present  stage  of  tilings  I  feel  more  tenderly  towards  his  ex- 
perience of  success  than  towards  the  disappointment  of  the 
amiable  Sir  James.  For  in  truth,  as  the  day  fixed  for  his 
marriage  came  nearer,  ^Ir.  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  tliough  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,  w^e  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  en- 
joyment, 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  fatall}^  on  the  strength  of 
them.     And  now  he  was  in  danger  of  being  saddened  by  the 


88  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  expe- 
rience in  which  he  was  as  utterly  condemned  to  loneliness  as 
in  the  despair  which  sometimes  threatened  him  while  toiling  iu 
the  morass  of  authorship  without  seeming  nearer  to  the  goal. 
And  his  was  that  worst  loneliness  which  would  shrink  from 
sympath}^.  He  could  not  but  wish  that  Dorothea  should  think 
him  not  less  happy  than  the  world  would  expect  her  success- 
ful 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  vapor- 
ous 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  look- 
ing 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  neighbor- 
hood of  Freshitt  and  Tipton  had  pronounced  her  clever,  that 
epithet  would  not  have  described  her  to  circles  in  whose  more 


MISS   BROOKE.  89 

precise  vocabulary  cleverness  implies  mere  aptitude  for  know- 
ing and  doing,  apart  from  character.  All  her  eagerness  for 
acquirement  lay  within  that  fnll  current  of  sympathetic  mo- 
tive 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  con- 
strained 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  expec- 
tation was  unbroken,  and  however  her  lover  might  occasion- 
ally 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.  Casau- 
bon 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  Eome,  and  I  should  feel  more  at  liberty  if 
you  had  a  companion." 

The  words  "  I  should  feel  more  at  liberty  "  grated  on  Doro- 
thea. 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  T  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. 


90  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  to^yards  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  Tan- 
tripp  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  INIr.  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  &ilver-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  expres- 
sion of  all  search  after  mere  effect.  Sometimes  when  Dorothea 
was  in  company,  there  seemed  to  be  as  complete  an  air  of 
rej)ose  about  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  picture  of  Santa  Barbara 
looking  out  from  her  tower  into  the  clear  air  ;  but  these  inter- 
vals of  quietude  made  the  energy  of  her  speech  and  emotion  the 
more  remarked  when  some  outward  appeal  had  touched  her. 


MISS   BROOKE.  91 

She  was  naturally  the  subject  of  many  observations  this 
evening,  for  the  dinner-party  was  large  and  rather  more  mis- 
cellaneous 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  phil- 
anthropic 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.  Cadwalla- 
der  said  that  Brooke  was  beginning  to  treat  the  ^liddlemarch- 
ers,  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  coun- 
try, 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  ^Ir.  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  some- 
thing 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 


92  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  Avere  a  marrying  man  I  should  choose 
Miss  Yincy  before  either  of  them." 

"  Well,  make  up,  make  up,"  said  Mi\  Standi sh,  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  Yincy  who  had  the  honor  of  being  Mr.  Chichely's 
ideal  was  of  course  not  present;  for  Mr.  Brooke,  always  ob- 
jecting 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.  Cadwal- 
lader  could  object  to  ;  for  ]\Irs.  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  pro- 
fessional 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.  Ren- 
frew'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 


MISS  BROOKE.  93 

dear  ?  "  said  the  mild  but  stately  dowager,  turning  to  Mrs.  Cad- 
wallader  reflectively,  when  Mrs.  Renfrew's  attention  was  called 
away. 

''  It  strengtliens  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  —  re- 
duce the  disease,  you  know,  if  you  are  right,  my  dear.  And  I 
think  what  you  say  is  reasonable." 

"  Certainly  it  is  reasonaljle.  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,  should  n'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.  Cad- 
wallader  in  an  undertone,  seeing  the  gentlemen  enter,  "//e 
does  not  want  drying." 

"  Who,  my  dear  ?  "  said  Lady  Cliettam,  a  charming  woman, 
not  so  quick  as  to  nullify  the  pleasure  of  explanation. 

"  The  bridegroom  —  Casaubon.  He  has  certainly  been  dry- 
ing 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,  witli  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 
Kim  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  ?  " 


94  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  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  North- 
unjberland,  really  well  connected.  One  does  not  expect  it  in 
a  practitioner  of  that  kind.  Eor  my  own  part,  I  like  a  medi- 
cal 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  ani- 
mated 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 
rpiick.  "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  te.  t 
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 


MISS   BROOKE.  95 

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  con- 
firmed 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,  includ- 
ing 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  mj 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  Brous- 
sais  ;  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  INIr.  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 


96  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  ex- 
periment—  an  experiment,  you  know,""  said  Mr.  Brooke,  nod- 
ding 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.  Yincy,  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  expres- 
sion 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  wo- 
man any  more  than  Mr.  Chichely's.  Considered,  indeed,  in 
relation  to  the  latter,  whose  mind  was  matured,  she  was  alto- 
gether a  mistake,  and  calculated  to  shock  his  trust  in  final 
causes,  including  the  adaptation  of  fine  young  women  to  purple- 
faced  bachelors.  But  Lydgate  was  less  ripe,  and  might  pos- 
sibly have  experience  before  him  which  would  modify  his 
opinion  as  to  the  most  excellent  things  in  woman. 


MISS    BROOKE.  97 

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  Kome. 


CHAPTER   XI. 


And  persons  such  as  comedy  would  choose, 
When  she  would  show  an  image  of  tlie  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  ]\Iiss  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  inves- 
tigated by  science.  But  Bosamond  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  volumi- 
nous notes,  and  had  made  that  sort  of  reputation  which  pre- 
cedes performance,  —  often  the  larger  part  of  a  man's  fame. 
He  took  a  wife,  as  we  have  seen,  to  adorn  the  remaining  quad- 
rant of   his  course,  and    be   a   little  moon  that  would   cause 

VOT,.    VII.  7 


98  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  cir- 
cumstances, 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,  not- 
withstanding 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  impor- 
tant to  Lydgate  than  the  turn  of  Miss  Brooke's  mind,  or  to 
Miss  Brooke  than  the  qualities  of  the  woman  w^ho  had  at- 
tracted 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  calcu- 
lated irony  on  the  indifference  or  the  frozen  stare  with  which 
we  look  at  our  unintroduced  neighbor.  Destiny  stands  by 
sarcastic  with  our  dramatis  personm  folded  in  her  hand. 

Old  provincial  society  had  its  share  of  this  subtle  move- 
ment: 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  conscious- 
ness 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  conse- 
quence ;  while  a  few  personages  or  families  that  stood  with 
rocky  firmness  amid  all  this  fluctuation,  were  slowly  present- 
ing new  aspects  in  spite  of  solidity,  and  altering  with  the 


MISS  BROOKE.  99 

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  acquain- 
tanceship. 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  move- 
ment and  mixture  went  on  in  old  England  as  we  find  in  older 
Herodotus,  who  also,  in  telling  wdiat  had  been,  thought  it  well 
to  take  a  woman's  lot  for  his  starting-point ;  though  lo,  as 
a  maiden  apparently  beguiled  by  attractive  merchandise,  was 
the  reverse  of  Miss  Brooke,  and  in  this  respect  perhaps  bore 
more  resemblance  to  Kosamond  Yincy,  who  had  excellent 
taste  in  costume,  with  that  nymph-like  figure  and  pure  blond- 
ness  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  in- 
cluded 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  ex- 
ample :  no  pupil,  she  said,  exceeded  that  young  lady  for  men- 
tal 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  Kosamond  would 
have  been  enough  with  most  judges  to  dispel  any  prejudice 
excited  by  Mrs.  Lemon's  praise. 

Lydgate  could  not  be  long  in  jVIiddlemarch  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  acquaint- 
ances.    For  who  of  any  consequence  in  Middlemarch  was  not 


100  MIDDLEMARCH. 

connected  or  at  least  acquainted  with  the  Vincys  ?  They  were 
old  manufacturers,  and  had  kept  a  good  house  for  three  gener- 
ations, 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  inn- 
keeper'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  affectigns  of  the  widower.  And  it  happened  that  Mr.  Bul- 
strode and  Mr.  Featherstone,  two  of  Peacock's  most  impor- 
tant patients,  had,  from  different  causes,  given  an  especially 
good  reception  to  his  successor,  who  had  raised  some  partisan- 
ship 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  gen- 
eral good-fellowship  than  to  taking  sides,  but  there  was  no 
need  for  him  to  be  hasty  in  making  any  new  man's  acquaint- 
ance. Bosamond  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 


MISS   BROOKE.  101 

son  to  the  warehouse,  and  when  Miss  Morgan  was  already  far 
on  in  morning  lessons  with  the  younger  girls  in  the  school- 
room. 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  ]\Ir.  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,  slie  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  cliange  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  cap- 
strings,  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  liim  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  un- 
ladylike 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  dav." 


102  MIDDLEMARCH. 

^^  Xot  to  any  one  who  is  like  Fred." 

"  Don't  decry  your  own  brother,  my  dear.  Few  young  men 
■^mve  less  against  them,  although  he  could  n'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  liosamond's  face  broke  into  a  smile  which 
suddenly  revealed  two  dimples.  She  herself  thought  unfavor- 
ably 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." 

"  AVhy,  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.  Supe- 
rior is  getting  to  be  shopkeepers'  slang." 


MISS   BROOKE.  103 

"  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-jjlalterJ^ 

"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  liear  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  coifee  and  buttered 
toast ;  while  he  walked  round  the  table  snrveying  the  ham, 
potted  beef,  and  other  cold  remnants,  with  an  air  of  silent  re- 
jection, 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,  1  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  disagree- 
able, any  more  than  sisters." 

"  I  don't  make  myself  disagreeable  ;  it  is  you  who  find  me 


104  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  as- 
sociated 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  wliat  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,  Tred,  tell  us  all 
about  the  new  doctor.     How  is  your  uncle  pleased  with  him  ?  " 

'Pretty  well,  I  think.  He  asks  Lydgate  all  sorts  of  ques- 
tions and  then  screws  up  his  face  while  lie  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  fam- 
ily," said  Eosamond,  with  a  tone  of  decision  which  showed  that 
she  had  thought  on  this  subject.  Eosamond  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." 


MISS  BROOKE.  105 

"  Oh,  tallish,  dark,  clever  —  talks  well  —  rather  a  prig,  I 
think." 

"1  never  can  make  out  what  you  mean  by  a  prig,"  said 
Kosamond. 

"  A  fellow  who  wants  to  show  that  he  has  opinions." 

*^  Why,  my  dear,  doctors  must  have  opinions,"  said  Mrs. 
Viucy.     "  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  INIr.  Lydgate,"  said  Rosa- 
mond, not  without  a  touch  of  innuendo. 

"  Keally,  I  can't  say,"  said  Fred,  rather  glumly,  as  he  left  the 
table,  and  taking  up  a  novel  wliich  he  had  brouglit  down  with 
him,  threw  himself  into  an  arm-chair.  "  If  you  are  jealous 
of  her,  go  oftener  to  Stone  Court  yourself  and  eclipse  her." 

"  1  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  have  n'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  com- 
plaint, 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 


106  MTDDLEMARCH. 

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  j  for  I 
must  go  and  do  some  shopping." 

"  Fred's  studies  are  not  very  deep,"  said  Kosamond,  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 
Eosamond,  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."  Eosamond  really  wished  to  go  to  Stone  Court,  of  all 
other  places. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Eosy,"  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  ?  " 

"Eeally,  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  Eosamond,  I 
will  tell  him  how  obliging  you  are." 


MISS   BROOKE.  107 

'-  Why  yhould  you  expect  me  to  oblige  you  by  heariug  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  ilosamond  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  land- 
scape, almost  ail  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  physi- 
ognomy, dear  to  the  eyes  that  have  looked  on  them  from  child- 
hood :  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  won- 
drous 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 


108  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  Rosa- 
mond 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  unex- 
pected 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  tho  line  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." 

"  .1  don't  know  at  all.  And  she  is  not  in  the  least  evangeli- 
cal," 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,  muf- 
fled, neutral  tone,  as  of  a  voice  heard  through  cotton  wool) 


MISS   BROOKE.  109 

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  yon  driving  at  there?"  said  ]\Ir.  Featherstone, 
liolding  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  some- 
where 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  sav  Mr.  Bulstrode  condemns  Mrs. 


110  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  chil- 
dren 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.  W^aule,"  said  Mary  Garth.  "  I  dis- 
like 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  has  n't  got  expec- 
tations ?  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  the^n. 
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  ?  " 


MISS   BROOKE.  Ill 

''1  never  said  so,  brother"  (Mrs.  Waiile'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,  Eosamond  en- 
tered, 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  cere- 
mony wnth  which  lie  marked  his  sense  of  blood-relationship. 
Indeed,  she  herself  was  accustomed  to  think  that  entire  free- 
dom from  the  necessity  of  behaving  agreeably  was  included  in 
the  Almighty's   intentions  about  families.      She  rose   slowly 


112  xMIDDLEMARCH. 

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  oAvn 
sister  and  your  own  nieces,  if  you  'd  only  say  the  word. 
There 's  Kebecca,  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  rumi- 
nating 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  die  had  gained  so  much  by  manganese  and  things,  turn- 
ing up  when  nobody  expected  it  ?  —  and  why  w^as  there  a 
Lowick  parish  church,  and  the  Waules  and  Powderells  all  sit- 
ting 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  w^e  are  frightened  at  much  that  is  not 
strictl}^  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." 


MISS   BROOKE. 


113 


^•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  (:\i:ary  as  an  articled  pupil),  so  that 
they  had  many  memories  in  common,  and  liked  very  well 
to  talk  in  private.  Indeed,  this  tete-a-tete  was  one  of  Rosa- 
mond'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,  w^hich  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  indigna- 
tion 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  canning  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  to 
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,  wath  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  Feather- 

VOL.   VII.  8 


114  MIDDLEMARCH. 

stone,  who  often  wondered  that  so  many  fools  took  his  own 
assertions  for  i^roofs.  "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  1  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,  re- 
ligious, 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  sermon- 
izing 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  did  n't  get  it — Bulstrode 'ud  know  that  too.  You  bring 
me  a  writing  from  Bulstrode  to  say  he  does  n'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  inust  be  joking,  sir.  Mr.  Bulstrode,  like  other  men, 
believes  scores  of  things  that  are  not  true,  and  he  has  a  preju- 
dice 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.  Bat  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. 


MISS   BROOKE.  115 

"  Ay,  I  know  what  you  mean.  You  'd  sooner  offend  me 
than  Bulstrode.  And  what 's  he  ?  —  he  's  got  no  land  here- 
about 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  starv- 
ing 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  does  n'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  '11  see  if  I  can't  back 
you  a  bit.  Come  now  !  That 's  a  bargain.  Here,  give  me 
your  arm.     I  '11  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 


116  MIDDLEMARCII. 

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,  Cul- 
pepper, Klopstock's  "  Messiah,"  and  several  volumes  of  the 
'•  Gentleman's  Magazine." 

"Eead  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  stand- 
ing 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  Middle- 
march  looked  blond  by  the  side  of  Rosamond,  and  the  slim 


MISS   BROOKE.  117 

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  tempta- 
tions and  vices  quite  as  much  as  beauty;  it  is  apt  either  to 
feign  amiability,  or,  not  feigning  it,  to  show  all  the  repulsive- 
ness  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  tine  veracity  and  fitness 
in  the  phrase.  At  the  age  of  tvvo-and-twenty  Mary  had  cer- 
tainly 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.  Ad- 
vancing 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-  Eembrandt  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  conse- 
quence in  reality,"  said  Rosamond,  turning  her  head  towards 


118  MIDDLEMARCH. 

Mary,  but  with  eyes  swerving  towards  the  new  view  of  her 
neck  in  the  glass. 

''  You  mean  my  beauty,"  said  Mary,  rather  sardonically. 

Eosamond  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  —  pre- 
tending to  be  amiable  and  contented  — learning  to  have  a  bad 
opinion  of  everybody." 

"  It  is  a  wretched  life  for  you." 

"  No,"  said  Mar}^,  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  Eosamond,  retiectively  ;  "one  wonders  what 
such  people  do,  wdthout  any  prospect.  To  be  sure,  there  is 
religion  as  a  support.  But,"  she  added,  dimpling,  "  it  is  very 
different  with  yon,  Mary.     You  may  have  an  offer." 

"  Has  any  one  told  3^ou  he  means  to  make  me  one  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  I  mean,  there  is  a  gentleman  who  may 
fall  in  love  with  yon,  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  detest- 
ing 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  Eosamond's  indirectness. 

"  Merely,  how  you  like  him." 

"  There  is  no  question  of  liking  at  present.  My  liking  al- 
ways wants  some  little  kindness  to  kindle  it.  I  am  not  mag- 
nanimous enough  to  like  people  who  speak  to  me  without 
seeming  to  see  me." 


MISS   BROOKE.  119 

"Is  lie  so  haughty  ?  "  said  Kosamond,  with  heightened  satis- 
faction.    ''  You  know  that  he  is  of  good  family  ?  " 

"  Xo ;  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." 

Eosamond  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  tovs  les  gouts,  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,  Kosy." 

"  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  asso- 
ciated 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  ht  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." 


120  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"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  Eosamond,  in- 
clined 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  dif- 
ferent." 

"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  Eosa- 
mond,  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  Eosamond,  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  Eosamond,  putting  on 
her  hat. 

"Quarrel?     Nonsense;  we  have  not  quarrelled.     If  one  is 


MISS   BROOKE.  121 

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  hav- 
ing 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.  Kothing  escaped  Lydgate  in  Rosa- 
mond'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  inter- 
est, 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  w^as  going,"  said 
Rosamond,  rising  to  reach  her  hat,  wdiicli  she  had  laid  aside 
before  singing,  so  that  her  flower-like  head  on  its  white  stem 


122  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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. 
8he  was  by  nature  an  actress  of  parts  that  entered  into  her 
loliysiquG :  she  even  acted  her  ow^n  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.  Feather- 
stone,  "let  the  next  be  w^ho  she  w^ill.  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, 
wliich  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  w^hen  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  contem- 
plated beforehand.  Ever  since  that  important  new  arrival  in 
Middlemarch  she  had  woven  a  little  future,  of  which  some- 
thing like  this  scene  was  the  necessary  beginning.  Strangers, 
whether  wrecked  and  clinging  to  a  raft,  or  duly  escorted  and 
accompanied  by  portmanteaus,  have  always  ]iad  a  circumstan- 
tial fascination  for  the  virgin  mind,  against  Avhich  native  merit 
lias  urged  itself  in  vain.  And  a  stranger  Avas  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  Rosiimond's  social  romance,  which  had  always  turned 


MISS  BROOKE.  123 

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  awak- 
ening 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 
ill  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,  carry- 
ing a  certain  air  of  distinction  congruous  with  good  family, 
and  possessing  connections  Avhich  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  foun- 
dation had  been  once  presupposed ;  and  before  they  had  rid- 
den a  mile  she  was  far  on  in  the  costume  and  introductions  of 
her  wedded  life,  having  determined  on  her  house  in  Middle- 
march,  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. 


124  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  with- 
out 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  expecta- 
tions 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  bit- 
terness. 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  Bul- 
strode'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 
j^ower  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  diffi- 
cult task  of  knowing  another  soul  is  not  for  young  gentleinen 
whose  consciousness  is  chiefly  made  up  of  their  own  wishes. 


MISS   BROOKE.  125 

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  Eosamond,  it  would  be  sure  to  reach  his 
father,  who  would  as  surely  question  him  about  it.  He  said 
to  Eosamond,  as  they  slackened  their  pace  — 

"Eosy,  did  Mary  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Waule  had  said  any- 
tliing  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  reall}' ,  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." 

"jSTot  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    11. 

OLD     AND     YOUNG. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

1st  Gent.  How  class  your  man  ?  —  as  better  than  the  most. 

Or,  seemiug  better,  Avorse  beneath  that  cloak  ? 

As  saint  or  knave,  pilgrim  or  hypocrite  ? 
2c?  Gent.  Nay,  tell  me  how  you  class  your  wealth  of  books. 

The  drifted  relics  of  all  time.     As  Avell 

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  some- 
times 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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  127 

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  improve- 
ment 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  con- 
scious 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  con- 
stitution, 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  provin- 
cial town  like  this,"  said  Lydgate.  "  A  fine  fever  hospital  in 
addition  to  the  old  infirmary  might  be  the  nucleus  of  a  medi- 
cal 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  Avho 
has  a  grain  of  public  spirit  as  well  as  a  few  ideas,  should  do 


128  MIDDLEMARCH. 

what  he  can  to  resist  the  rush  of  everything  that  is  a  little 
better  than  common  towards  London.  Any  valid  profes- 
sional 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  sono- 
rous, 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  opportuni- 
ties," 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  with- 
stood. 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  dis- 
like 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  every- 
where 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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  129 

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  jNIr.  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  coun- 
try who  has  greater  talents."  Mr.  Bulstrode  paused  and 
looked  meditative. 

VOL.    VII,  9 


130  MIDDLEMARCH. 

'•  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  chap- 
lain —  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  co-operation 
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  Avith  clerical  disputes," 
said  Lydgate.  "  The  path  I  have  chosen  is  to  work  well  in 
ni}^  own  profession." 

"  My  responsibility,  Mr.  Lydgate,  is  of  a  broader  kind. 
With  me,  indeed,  this  question  is  one  of  sacred  accountable- 
ness ;  whereas  with  my  opponents,  I  have  good  reason  to  say 
that  it  is  an  occasion  for  gratifying  a  spirit  of  worldly  opposi- 
tion. But  I  shall  not  therefore  drop  one  iota  of  my  convic- 
tions, 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  mor- 
tal 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  whis- 
per 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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  131 

announced.  That  florid  sociable  personage  was  become  more 
interesting  to  him  since  he  had  seen  Kosamond.  Xot  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  invita- 
tion which  he  had  been  "  in  no  hurry  about,"  for  Rpsamond  at 
breakfast  had  mentioned  that  she  thought  her  uncle  Feather- 
stone  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  pad- 
ding," 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." 

"Tliat  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  Feath- 
erstone'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  hand- 
some 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.  Bul- 
strode rarely  shrank  from,  but  Mr.  Vincy  was  not  equally  pre- 
pared to  be  patient.     "When  a  man  has  the  immediate  prospect 


132  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  back- 
ground. And  this  particular  reproof  irritated  him  more  than 
any  other.  It  was  eminently  superfluous  to  him  to  be  told 
that  he  w^as  reaping  the  consequences.  But  he  felt  his  neck 
under  Bulstrode's  yoke ;  and  though  he  usually  enjoyed  kick- 
ing, 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  could  n't 
foresee  everything  in  the  trade  ;  there  was  n'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  re- 
ligion, it  seems  to  me  a  man  should  n't  ^vant  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  princi- 
ples. The  only  difference  I  see  is  that  one  w^orldliness  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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  133 

his  land.  Of  course  you  never  said  any  such  nonsense.  But 
the  ohi  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  wa}'.  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  3'Oung  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  Feather- 
stone'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  fur- 
thering 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  ob- 
ject 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  part- 


134  MIDDLEMARCH. 

nerships,  that 's  all  T  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  tlie  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  1 
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  intri- 
cacies 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  every- 
thing 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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  135 

might  as  well  slander  Fred :  it  comes  pretty  near  to  it  when 
you  refuse  to  say  you  did  n'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  3'Ou  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  per- 
haps 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  what- 
ever 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  tliat ;  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  Har- 
riet, she  '11  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  ^Fr.  Bulstrode  had  begun 
by  admonishing  ^Ir.  Vincy,  and  had  ended  by  seeing  a  very 
unsatisfactory  reflection  of  himself  in  the  coarse  unflatter- 
ing 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  com])ly  directly  in 
consequence  of  uncomfortable  suggestions.  Before  changing 
his  course,  he  always  needed  to  shape  his  motives  and  bring 


136  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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." 


CHAPTEE   XIV. 

"  Follows  here  the  strict  receipt 
For  that  sauce  to  daiuty  meat, 
Named  Idleness,  which  many  eat 
By  preference,  and  call  it  sweet : 

First  icalchfor  worsels,  like  a  hound, 

Mix  ivdl  with  buffets,  stir  them  round 

With  (jood  thick  oil  of  flatteries, 

And  froth  with  mean  seJj-laudim)  lies. 

Serve  warm  :  the  iiessds  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  morn- 
ing 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  draw- 
ing down  their  corners. 

"  Under  the  circumstances  I  u'ill  not  decline  to  state  my  con- 
viction—  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  2'>i'omiscd  by  Mr.  Featherstone 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  137 

—  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  i^roceedinrj^  it  is  unreasonable 
to  presume  that  a  young  man  of  sense  and  character  would  at- 
tempt it  —  ah,  but  the  gentleman  does  n"t  say  you  are  a  3'oung 
man  of  sense  and  character,  mark  you  that,  sir  I  —  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  pn'operty  that  might  accrue  to  him  on 
Mr.  F eather stone' 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,''  ]\lr. 
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.  "  Yon  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  ex[)ect  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  serv^ant  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  could  n'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  INIr.  Featherstone  was  in  one  of  his  most  snap- 
pish humors  this  morning,  and  though  Fred  had  now  the  pros- 
pect of  receiving  the  much-needed  present  of  money,  he  would 


138  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  doAvn  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  dispo- 
sition, 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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  139 

his  spectacles  and  presented  him  with  a  little  sheaf  of  notes : 
Fred  could  see  distinctly  that  there  were  but  live,  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  hapj^y,  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  ex- 
pectations ?  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  higlier 
education  of  this  country  did  not  seem  to  help  him.  Never- 
theless 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  deliber- 
ately, and  at  length,  as  if  his  inward  meditation  had  more 
deeply  convinced  him,  repeating,  "  I  should  think  it  is 
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.  Y^ou  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 
ratlier  a  fool  for  doing  so. 

"  Y"es,  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 


140  MIDDLEMAECH. 

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  '11  have  twenty 
X;ound  over  to  get  yourself  out  of  auy  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.  HeHl  never  have  much  to  leave 
you  :  he  '11  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. 


OLD  AND   YOUNG.  141 

"  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  sliall  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  fancy- 
ing 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  did  n'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  morn- 
ing," 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 


142  MIDDLEMAECH. 

being  a  teacher,  and  I  am  not  fit  for  that :  my  mind  is  too 
fond  of  wandering  on  its  own  way.  I  think  any  hardsliip  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  im- 
prisoned with  ogres  in  fairy  tales." 

'■'' Bosy  !  ^^  cried  Tred,  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  could  n'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,  INIary." 

"I  never  said  you  ought  to  be  a  clergyman.  There  are 
other  sorts  of  work.  It  seems  to  me  very  misei'able  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.  Y'ou  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  quar- 
relling 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. 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  143 

*'  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  fcr  us,  we  only  get  farther  and  farther 
into  the  swamp  of  awkwardness.  This  was  what  Fred  Y^incy 
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  Breuda  Troil 

—  she  had  known  Mordaunt  Merton  ever  since  they  were 
chihlren ;  but  then  he  seems  to  have  been  an  estimable  young 
man ;  and  Minna  Avas  still  more  deeply  in  love  with  Cleveland, 
who  was  a  stranger.  \Vaverle3"  was  new  to  Flora  Maclvor; 
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  expe- 
rience 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  noth- 
ing more  than  clear  windows  where  observation  sat  laugh- 
ingly. 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." 

"  Xot  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.  '^ 


144  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  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  proniise  to  marry  me  — 
I  mean,  when  I  am  able  to  marr^'." 

"  If  I  did  love  you,  I  would  not  marry  you  :  I  would  cer- 
tainly 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  maintain- 
ing 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  3^our  own,  I  suppose.  There !  there  is 
Mr.  Lydgate.     I  must  go  and  tell  my  uncle." 


OLD   AND   YOUXG.  145 

"  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,  red- 
dening. "  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  hav- 
ing Mr.  Featherstone's  land  in  the  background,  and  a  persua- 
sion 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  lingers." 

"  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  fond- 
ness for  another  person  also  that  made  him  particularly  anx- 
ious 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. 


10 


146  MIDDLEMARCH. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

"  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, 
Eresh  as  starlight's  aged  truth  — 
Many-named  Nature ! " 

A  GKEAT  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  succes- 
sive books  of  his  history,  where  he  seems  to  bring  his  arm- 
chair to  the  proscenium  and  chat  with  us  in  all  the  lust}^  ease 
of  his  fine  English.  But  Eielding  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  camp- 
stool  in  a  parrot-house.  I  at  least  have  so  much  to  do  in 
unravelling  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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  147 

even  to  those  who  had  seen  the  most  of  him  since  his  arrival 
in  Middle  march.  For  surely  all  must  admit  that  a  man  may 
be  pulfed  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  w^as 
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  bj^  others  equally  strong ;  each 
lady  who  saw  medical  truth  in  Wrench  and  "  the  strengthen- 
ing treatment"  regarding  Toller  and  "the  lowering  system'^ 
as  medical  perdition.  For  the  heroic  times  of  copious  bleed- 
ing 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  w-ithout  shilly-shally 
—  as  if,  for  example,  it  were  to  be  called  insurrection,  which 
must  not  be  fired  on  with  blank-cartridge,  but  liave  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.  Xobody's  imagination 
had  gone  so  far  as  to  conjecture  tliat  ^Ir.  .Lydgate  could  know 
as  much  as  Dr.  Sprague  and  Dr.  ^linchin,  the  two  ph^^sicians, 
who  alone  could  offer  any  hope  wdien  danger  was  extreme, 
and  when  the  smallest  hope  was  worth  a  guinea.  Still,  I 
repeat,  there  was  a  general  impression  that  Lydgate  was  some- 
thing 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  w^hich  they  are  hopeful  of  achievement,  resolute  in  avoid- 
ance, thinking  that  Mammon  shall  never  put  a  bit  in  their 
mouths  and  get  astride  their  backs,  but  rather  that  Mammon, 


148  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  vokune,  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.  Some- 
thing 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  Kasselas  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  ]io  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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  149 

more  than  was  necessary  for  mature  life.  Probably  this  Avas 
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  ding}^  labels 
—  the  volumes  of  an  old  Cyclopa?dia  which  he  had  never  dis- 
turbed. 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  witli  valves  of  any  sort,  but  he 
knew  that  valvcB  were  folding-doors,  and  through  this  crevice 
came  a  sudden  light  startling  him  with  his  tirst  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, 
hiul  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  supjiosed  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  Troubar 


150  MIDDLEMARCH. 

dour  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  gener- 
ous 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  unknow- 
ingly :  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  vibra- 
tions 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  youth- 
ful 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  be- 
tween 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. 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  151 

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  qualifica- 
tions. 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  sever- 
ance 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,  jeal- 
ousies, 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  pro- 
moted in  town,  and  many  more  got  a  legal  riglit  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  Cam- 
bridge, 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.  Consid- 
ering 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  chang- 
ing the  numbers.  He  meant  to  be  a  unit  who  would  make  a 
certain  amount  of  difference  towards  that  spreading  change 
R'hich  would  one  day  tell  appreciably  upon  the  averages,  and 
in  the  mean  time  have  the  pleasure  of  making  an  advan- 
tageous difference  to  the  viscera  of  his  own  patients.  But  he 
did  not  simply  aim  at  a  more  genuine  kind  of  practice  than 


lo2  MIDDLEMARCH. 

was  common.  He  was  ambitious  of  a  wider  effect :  he  was 
tired  witli  the  possibility  that  he  might  work  out  the  proof 
of  au  aiiatoDiical  conception  and  make  a  link  in  the  chain  of 
discovery. 

Does  it  seem  incongruous  to  you  that  a  Middlemarch  sur- 
geon 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  bar- 
riers 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  confi- 
dence 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  w^ho  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  fur- 
ther his  thought  as  an  instrument  of  larger  inquiry.  Was  not 
this  the  typical  pre-eminence  of  his  profession  ?  He  would 
be  a  good  JMiddlemarch  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  repre- 


OLD  AND  YOUNG.  153 

sent  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  demon- 
strating 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  per- 
centage 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  Pa- 
thology were  a  line  America  for  a  spirited  young  adventurer. 
Lydgate  was  ambitious  above  all  to  contribute  towards  enlarg- 
ing 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  be- 
ginning 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.  Ko  man,  one  sees,  can  understand  and  estimate 
the   entire  structure  or  its  parts  —  what  are  its  frailties  and 


154  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  tu.ning  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  prac- 
tice 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-hydro- 
gen,  showing  the  very  grain  of  things,  and  revising  all  former 
explanations.  Of  this  sequence  to  Bichat's  work,  already  vi- 
brating 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  be- 
gun to  use  again  with  new  enthusiasm  of  reliance.  Such  was 
Lydgate's  plan  of  his  future  :  to  do  good  small  work  for  Mid- 
dlemarch,  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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  155 

t]iat  made  life  interesting  quite  apart  from  the  cultiis  of  horse- 
flesh  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  start- 
ing-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  ar- 
duous 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  doc- 
tor and  immortal  discoverer,  and  the.e  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  chan- 
nel 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  dis- 
tilled have  distinguishable  physiognomies,  diction,  accent,  and 
grimaces ;  filling  up  parts  in  very  various  dramas.  Our  vani- 
ties differ  as  our  noses  do :  all  conceit  is  not  the  same  conceit, 
but  varies  in  correspondence  with  the  minutine  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  doc- 
trines.    All  his  faults  were  marked  by  kindred  traits,  and  were 


156  MIDDLEMAKCH. 

those  of  a  man  who  had  a  fine  barytone,  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  common- 
ness? 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  pleas- 
ures ;  unable  to  go  beyond  Offenbach's  music,  or  the  brilliant 
punning  in  the  last  burlesque.  Lydgate's  spots  of  common- 
ness 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  desir- 
ability 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  un- 
explained shocks,  and  w^ent  to  finish  his  evening  at  the  theatre 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  157 

of  the  Porte  Saint  Martin,  where  there  was  a  melodrama  which 
he  had  already  seen  several  times  ;  attracted,  not  by  the  in- 
genious 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  Proven(;ale,  with  dark  eyes, 
a  Greek  profile,  and  rounded  majestic  form,  having  that  sort  of 
beauty  w^hich  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  satisiied.  Lyd- 
gate'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  Proven(;ale  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  ac- 
quaintance of  his  heroine  by  finding  a  contusion  on  her  head 
and  lifting  her  gentl}'  in  his  arms.  Paris  i-ang  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  mur- 
der was  absurd  :  no  motive  was  discoverable,  the  young  couple 
being  understood  to  dote  on  each  other  ;  and  it  was  not  un- 
precedented that  an  accidental  slip  of  the  foot  should  have 
brought   these    grave   consequences.     The   legal  investigation 


158  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  w^as  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,  Avhere  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  per- 
sistent self  pauses  and  awaits  us. 

To  have  approached  Laure  with  any  suit  that  was  not  rever- 
entially 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, 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  •  159 

and  looking  at  him  witli  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,  "/  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  I  "  said  Lydgate,  in  a  groan  of  horror.  "  And 
you  planned  to  murder  him  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  plan :  it  came  to  me  in  the  play  —  /  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. 

"Y"ou  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  abun- 
dant kindness  of   his  heart  and  his    belief   that  human  life 


160  •  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  wo- 
man, 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  mor- 
tals generally  to  any  eager  attempt  at  exactness  in  the  repre- 
sentation to  themselves  of  what  did  not  come  under  their  own 
senses.  Not  onl}'  young  virgins  of  that  town,  but  gray -bearded 
men  also,  were  often  in  haste  to  conjecture  how  a  new  acquaint- 
ance might  be  ^vrought  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  Avoman  is  adored 

In  thy  fair  self  1  find  — 
For  the  whole  sex  can  but  afford 

The  handsome  and  the  kind. 

Sir  Charles  Sedlet. 

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. 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  161 

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  })Ost, 
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  shoe- 
maker'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  neiglibors'  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  tlirough  a  great  deal  of  spiuitual 
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  appre- 
ciated. 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.  Yincy's  table 
when  Lydgate  was  dining  there,  and  the  family  connection 
with  Mr.  Bulstrode  did  not,  he  observed,  prev^ent  some  free- 
dom 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  doc- 
trine, and  his  preference  for  Mr.  Farebrother,  whose  sei-mons 
were  free  from  that  taint.  Mr.  Vincy  liked  well  enough  the 
VOL.  VI  r.  11 


162  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  'ni  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  responsibil- 
ity 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  per- 
sonal liking.  The  fittest  man  for  a  particular  post  is  not  al- 
ways the  best  fellow  or  the  most  agreeable.  Sometimes,  if 
you  wanted  to  get  a  reform,  your  only  wa}^  would  be  to  pen- 
sion 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  w^as  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  physi- 
cian w^iose  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  un- 
taxed kind  of  property  which  it  is  very  unpleasant  to  find 
depreciated. 

Lydgate's  remark,  however,  did  not  meet  the  sense  of  the 
company.  Mi'.  Vincy  said,  that  if  he  could  have  his  way,  he 
would  not  put  disagreeable  fellows  anywhere. 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  163 

''  Hang  your  reforms  I  "  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  sal*e  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  stand- 
ing 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  j^ost-morteni  examination.  How  is  he  to  know 
the  action  of  a  poison  ?  Y^ou  might  as  well  say  that  scanning 
verse  will  teach  you  to  scan  the  potato  crops." 

"  Y^ou  are  aware,  I  suppose,  that  it  is  not  the  coroner's 
business  to  conduct  the  j^ost-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  be- 
lieve that  strychnine  will  destroy  the  coats  of  the  stomach  if 
an  ignorant  practitioner  happens  to  tell  him  so." 


164  MIDDLEMARCH. 

Lydgate  had  really  lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Chichely 
was  his  Majesty^s  coroner,  and  ended  innocently  with  the  ques- 
tion, "  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  difficul- 
ties 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  Eosamond,  whom  he  had  easily  monopolized  in  a 
tete-a-tete^  since  Mrs.  Vincy  herself  sat  at  the  tea-table.  She 
resigned  no  domestic  function  to  her  daughter ;  and  the  ma- 
tron'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  attrac- 
tions of  the  Vincy  house  — attractions  which  made  it  all  the 
easier  to  fall  in  love  with  the  daughter.  The  tinge  of  unpre- 
tentious, inoffensive  vulgarity  in  Mrs.  Vincy  gave  more  effect 
to  E/Osamond'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  Eosamond  could  say  the  right 


OLD   AND    YOUXG.  165 

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  regret- 
ted that  he  had  not  heard  her  sing  the  other  day  at  Stone 
Court.  The  only  pleasure  he  allowed  himself  during  the  lat- 
ter 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  rhyth- 
mic 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,  her- 
self 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  Rosa- 
mond. "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. 


166  MIDDLEMARCH. 

But  our  organist  at  St.  Peter's  is  a  good  musician,  and  I  go  on 
studying  Avith  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  Eosamond  blush  with  pleasure.  But  she  re- 
mained 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  Eosamond  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  w^ere  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  Eosamond, 
moving  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  where  Fred  having 
opened  the  piano,  at  his  father's  desire,  that  Eosamond  might 
give  them  some  music,  was  parenthetically  performing  "  Cherry 
Eipe  !  "  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  Eosamond.     "'  He  has  an  ear." 

Fred  laughed,  and  w^ent  on  with  his  tune  to  the  end. 

Eosamond  turned  to  Lydgate,  smiling  gently,  and  said, 
"  You  perceive,  tlie  bears  will  not  alwaj^s  be  taught." 

"Now  then,  Eosy!"   said   Fred,  springing  from   the  stool 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  lt)7 

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.  Rosa- 
mond, 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  w^as  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  w^as  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  conjunc- 
tions 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  moonliglit,"  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  canzo- 
nets, or  "  Voi,  che  sapete,"  or  "  Batti,  batti "  —  she  only  w^anted 
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  joungest  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 


168  MIDDLEMARCH. 

that  Lj^lgate  Lad  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  honse  ex- 
ceptional in  most  county  towns  at  that  time,  when  Evangeli- 
calism had  cast  a  certain  suspicion  as  of  plague-infection  over 
the  few  amusements  ^vhich  survived  in  the  provinces.  At  the 
Yincys'  there  was  always  wdiist,  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!  ]\Ir.  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  be- 
guiling to  people  who  had  no  particular  use  for  their  odd  hours. 

Everything  looked  blooming  and  joyous  except  Miss  Mor- 
gan, 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  q:o. 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  169 

"  You  will  not  like  us  at  Middlemarch,  I  feel  sure,"  she  said, 
when  the  whist-phwers  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  conies,  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 
yon  care  about  dancing  at  all  ?  I  am  not  quite  sure  whether 
clever  men  ever  dance." 

"  I  would  dance  with  you  if  j-ou  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  whetlier  you  would  feel  insulted  if  you  were 
asked  to  come." 

"Xot  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.  Fare  brother's  play,  which  was  masterly,  and  also  his  face, 
Avhich  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.  Fare- 
brother  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  Avas  the  oldest  church  in  Middlemarch ;  the 
living,  however,  was  but  a  vicarage  worth  barely  four  hun- 
dred a-year.  Lydgate  had  heard  that,  and  he  wondered  now 
whether  Mr.  Farebrother  cared  about  the  money  he  won  at 


170  MlDDLEiMAKCH. 

cards  ;  thinking,  "  He  seems  a  very  pleasant  fellow,  but  Bul- 
strode  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  Kosamond  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  Kosamond  exceedingi}^ ;  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  ana- 
tomical demonstrations  in  order  to  ascertain  the  specific  differ- 
ences 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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  171 

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  arbitra- 
riness, 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  phospho- 
resence ;  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  ar- 
duous invention  which  is  the  very  eye  of  research,  provi- 
sionally 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 


172  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  Avas  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  pic- 
tures 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  medi- 
tation to  Eosamond,  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  enjoy- 
ment 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  Eosamond  had 


OLD   AND    YOUNG.  173 

registered  every  look  and  word,  and  estimated  them  as  the  open- 
ing incidents  of  a  preconceived  romance  —  incidents  wliich 
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  rela- 
tives quite  equal  to  the  county  people  who  looked  down 
on  the  Middlemarchers.  It  was  part  of  Rosamond's  clever- 
ness 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  aris- 
tocracy, 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  any- 
thing 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 


174  MIDDLEMARCH. 

elegancies,  which  would  find  in  Lydgate  a  more  adequate  ad- 
mirer than  she  had  yet  been  conscious  of. 

For  Eosamond,  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  Eookh." 

"  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  Eosamond  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  broth- 
er's family,  had  two  sincere  wishes  for  Eosamond  —  that 
she  might  show  a  more  serious  turn  of  mind,  and  that  she 
might  meet  w^th  a  husband  whose  wealth  corresponded  to  her 
habits. 


CHAPTEE  XVII. 

"  The  clerkly  person  smiled  and  said, 
Promise  Avas  a  pretty  maid, 
But  being  poor  she  died  unwed." 

The  Eev.  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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  175 

upon.  All  the  furniture  too  in  the  house  was  old,  but  with 
another  grade  of  age  —  that  of  jMr,  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  Chancel- 
lors 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  genu- 
ine respectability  :  ^Irs.  Farebrother,  the  Vicar's  white-haired 
mother,  befrilled  and  kerchiefed  with  dainty  cleanliness,  up- 
right, quick-eyed,  and  still  under  seventy  ;  Miss  Noble,  her 
sister,  a  tiny  old  lady  of  meeker  aspect,  with  frills  and  ker- 
chief 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  curmud- 
geon in  a  new  piece.  This  was  not  the  case  w4th  Mr.  Fare- 
brother  :  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  evi- 
dently accustomed  to  tell  her  company  what  they  ought  to 
think,  and  to  regard  no  subject  as  quite  safe  without  her  steer- 
ing. 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 


176  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  crea- 
tures 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  re- 
pressed 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.  Fare- 
brother  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  could  n'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  ques- 
tion about  right  and  wrong.  We  knew  our  catechism,  and 
that  was  enough  ;  we  learned  our  creed  and  our  ^wty.  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. 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  177 

"  But  my  mother  always  gives  way,"  said  the  Vicav,  slyly. 

"Xo,  no,  Camden,  yon  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  witli  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.  Mi-.  Lydgate,  that  he  will  com- 
pare 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  ^Irs.  Farebrother, 
her  sharpness  blunted  for  the  moment  by  her  confidence  in 
maternal  judgments.  "She  saj'S  the  truth  to  herself,  depend 
upon  it." 

"And  what  is  the  truth  ?  "  said  Lydgate.  "  I  am  curious 
to  know." 

VOL.    VII.  12 


178  MIDDLEMARCH. 

*'  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  re- 
sumed 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  Lj^lgate  ;  "  shall 
we  go  ?  " 

All  three  ladies  remonstrated.  Mr.  Lydgate  ought  not  to 
be  hurried  away  Avithout  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.  Lyd- 
gate 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  stud}^,  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. 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  179 

"  Men  of  your  profession  don't  generally  smoke,"  he  said. 
Lydgate  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "Isot  of  mine  either, 
properly,  I  suppose.  You  will  hear  that  pipe  alleged  against 
me  by  Bulstrode  and  Company.  They  don't  know  how  jjleased 
the  devil  would  be  if  I  gave  it  up.'' 

"  I  understand.  Y^ou  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  compro- 
mise. I  feed  a  weakness  or  two  lest  they  should  get  clam- 
orous. 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.  Y^ou  don't  really  care  about  these 
things  ?  " 

"Xot  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  iVIr.  Farebrother,  turn- 
ing 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  Jj^his  Brassicce, 
with  the  well-known  signature  of  Philomicron,  for  the  '  Twad- 
dler'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  Solo- 
mon, showing  the  harmony  of  the  Book  of  Proverbs  with  the 
results  of  modern  research.  Y"ou  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 


180  MIDDLE  MARCH. 

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  win- 
nings 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  Back- 
woods 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  pro- 
fession 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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  181 

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  ex- 
change ?     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  Ob- 
servations 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  alto- 
gether, and  become  good  for  nothing,  or  3-ou  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,"  Lyd- 
gate began,  after  they  had  sat  down.  "  I  made  up  m}^  mind 


182  MTDDLEMARCH. 

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  did  n'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  Avithout  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  confirma- 
tion —  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  vou  will  offend  Bulstrode." 


OLD    AND   YOUNG.  183 

f '  AVliat  is  there  against  Bulstrode  ?  ' '  said  Lydgate,  em- 
phatically. 

'^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  hospi- 
tals, 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  quan- 
tity 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  uncomfort- 
able 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  Bul- 
strode'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  1  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 
23rofession  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  supersed- 
ing you  ?  " 

"That  I  don't  teach  his  opinions  —  which  he  calls  spiritual 
religion ;  and  that  I  liave  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 


184  MIDDLExMARCH. 

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  tliem  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  ques- 
tion 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  w^ould  really  have  been  a  matter  of  total  indifference  to 
him  —  that  is  to  say,  he  would  have  taken  the  more  conven- 
ient 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 
Avarn  off  than  to  obtain  his  interest,  showed  an  unusual  deli- 
cacy and  generosity,  which  Lydgate's  nature  was  keenly  alive 
to.  It  went  along  with  other  points  of  conduct  in  Mr.  Fare- 
brother  which  were  exceptionally  fine,  and  made  his  character 
resemble  those  southern  landscapes  which  seem  divided  be- 
tween 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  iu 
many  ways  shaped  his  life  rather  uneasily  for  himself;  few 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  185 

men  who  feel  the  pressure  of  small  needs  are  so  nobly  resolute 
not  to  dress  up  their  inevitabl}^  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  with- 
out book.  People  outside  his  parish  went  to  hear  him ;  and, 
since  to  fill  the  church  was  always  tlie  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  inter- 
nal arrangements  of  the  new  hospital,  and  the  tw^o  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  ^Middle- 
march  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 


186  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  aga-inst  the  election  of  Mr. 
Farebrother :  he  had  too  much  on  his  hands  already,  especially 
considering  how  much  time  he  spent  on  non-clerical  occupa- 
tions. Then  again  it  was  a  continually  repeated  shock,  dis- 
turbing Lydgate's  esteem,  that  the  Vicar  should  obviously 
play  for  the  sake  of  money,  liking  the  play  indeed,  but  evi- 
dently 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  re- 
garded as  the  chief  temptation  in  Middlemarch.  The  Yicar 
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  deter- 
mining 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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  187 

expenditure.     It  was  possible  that  lie  would  not  have  made 
such  a  calculation  in  his  own  case. 

And  now,  when  the  question  of  voting  had  come,  this  repul-^ 
sive  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  Avere  invariably  fit  for  any  function  they  desired  to  un 
dertake !  Lydgate  was  convinced  that  if  there  had  been  no 
valid  objection  to  Mr.  Farebrother,  he  would  have  voted  for 
hiin,  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,  wdio 
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  igno- 
ble care  about  winning  at  cards.  IVIoreover,  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  peo- 
ple 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  bad  been  con- 
cerned, he  would  not  have  cared  a  rotten  nut  for  the  banker's 
friendship  or  enmity.  What  he  really  cared  for  was  a  me- 
dium 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 


188  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  cham- 
bers, 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  X->hysi- 
cians,  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  fore- 
seen, an  adherent  of  Mr.  Farebrother.  The  Doctor  was  more 
than  suspected  of  having  no  religion,  but  somehow  Middle- 
march  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  clever- 
ness 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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  189 

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  praj^er,  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  ad- 
hesion to  particular  tenets.  If  Mr.  Bulstrode  insisted,  as  he 
was  apt  to  do,  on  the  Lutheran  doctrine  of  justification,  as  that 
by  w^hich  a  Church  must  stand  or  fall.  Dr.  Minchin  in  return 
was  quite  sure  that  man  was  not  a  mere  machine  or  a  fortui- 
tous conjunction  of  atoms  ;  if  Mrs.  Wimple  insisted  on  a  par- 
ticular 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  quota- 
tions, 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 ;  j^ou  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  enjo3^ed  about  equally  the  mysterious 
privilege  of  medical  reputation,  and  concealed  with  much  eti- 
quette their  contempt  for  each  other's  skill.  Regarding  them- 
selves as  Middlemarch  institutions,  they  were  ready  to  combine 
against  all  innovators,  and  against  non-professionals  given  to 


190  MIDDLEMAECH. 

interference.  On  this  ground  tliey  were  botli  in  their  hearts 
equally  averse  to  Mr.  Bulstrode,  though  Dr.  IMinchin  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  lay- 
man who  pried  into  the  professional  conduct  of  medical  men, 
and  was  always  obtruding  his  reforms,  —  though  he  was  less 
directly  embarrassing  to  the  two  phj^sicians  than  to  the  sur- 
geon apothecaries  who  attended  paupers  by  contract,  was  never- 
theless offensive  to  the  professional  nostril  as  such ;  and  Dr. 
Minchin  shared  fully  in  the  new  pique  against  Bulstrode,  ex- 
cited 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  practi- 
tioner, who  had  come  into  the  town  on  Mr.  Peacock's  retire- 
ment 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  Avho  had  not  been  to  either 
of  the  English  universities  and  enjoyed  the  absence  of  anatom- 
ical and  bedside  study  there,  but  came  with  a  libellous  preten- 
sion 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  judg- 
ment concerning  it. 

Dr.  Sprague  said  at  once  bluntly  to  the  group  assembled 
when  he  entered,  "I  go  for  Farebrother.     A  salary,  with  all 


OLD   AND   YOUXG.  191 

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  '11 
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  j\Ir.  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  Direc- 
tors, to  consider  whether  we  will  regard  it  as  our  whole  busi- 
ness 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  carry- 
ing 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  con- 
ducting themselves  could  not  afford  either  morally  or  finan- 
cially 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 


192  MIDDLEMARCH. 

nothing  to  do  with  them  here.  Farebrother  has  been  doing 
the  work — what  there  was  —  without  pa}^,  and  if  pay  is  to 
be  given,  it  shoukl  be  given  to  him.  I  call  it  a  confounded 
job  to  take  the  thing  away  from  Farebrother." 

"1  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  had  n'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  IVIinchin  !  "  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  an}''  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  JMr.  Tyke  an  exemplary  man  —  none  more  so  —  and 
I  believe  him  to  be  proposed  from  unimpeachable  motives. 
I,  for  my  part,  w^ish  that  I  could  give  him  my  vote.  But  I 
am  constrained  to  take  a  view  of  the  case  w^iich  gives  the  pre- 
ponderance 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  ;  bat  he  will  make  a  little  attend- 
ance here  go  as  far  as  he  can." 


OLD   AXD   YOUNG.  193 

'•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  Eeverend  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.  Lyd- 
gate  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  mat- 
ter. He  had  not  himself  attended  to  the  affairs  of  the  In- 
firmary, 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  ques- 
tion, 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 

VOL.    VII.  13 


194  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  elec- 
tioneering 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." 

"  B}^  his  enemies,"  flashed  out  Mr.  Hawley. 

"  I  trust  there  is  no  personal  hostility  concerned  here," 
said  Mr.  Thesiger. 

"  I  '11  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  sup- 
pose 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  per- 
son 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  ?  " 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  195 

"  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  sus- 
pended. 

"  I  merely  mean  that  you  are  expected  to  vote  with  Mr.  Bul- 
strode.     Do  you  regard  that  meaning  as  offensive  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  offensive  to  others.  But  1  shall  not  desist  from 
voting  with  him  on  that  account." 

Lydgate  immediately  wrote  down  "  Tyke." 

So  the  Eev.  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  Phar- 
isee, 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  tinc- 
ture of  the  Pharisee,  and  by  dint  of  admitting  to  himself  that 
he  was  too  much  as  other  men  were,  he  had  become  remark- 
ably 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  jjie,  I  know,"  he  said 
one  day  to  Lydgate.     "  But  then  I  am  not  a  mighty  man  — 


196  MIDDLEMAECH. 

I  shall  never  be  a  man  of  renown.  The  choice  of  Hercules 
is  a  pretty  fable ;  but  Proclicus  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  piti- 
able infirmity  of  will  in  Mr.  Farebrother. 


CHAPTEE   XIX. 

L'  altra  vedete  ch'  ha  fatto  alia  guancia 
Delia  sua  palma,  sospirando,  letto. 

Purgatorio,  vii. 

When  George  the  Pourth  was  still  reigning  over  the  priva- 
cies of  Windsor,  when  the  Duke  of  Wellington  was  Prime 
Minister,  and  Mr.  Vincy  was  mayor  of  the  old  corporation  in 
Mjddlemarch,  Mrs.  Casaubon,  born  Dorothea  Brooke,  had 
taken  her  wedding  journey  to  Kome.  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  infor- 
mation 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  orna- 
mental vase  due  to  the  painter's  fancy.  Eomanticism,  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  distinguish- 
able vigorous  enthusiasm  in  certain  long-haired  German  artists 
at   Eome,  and  the   vouth  of  other   nations   who   worked   or 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  197 

idled    near   them  were    sometimes   caught   in   the    spreading 
movement. 

One  fine  morning  a  young  man  whose  hair  was  not  immod- 
erately long,  but  abundant  and  curly,  and  who  was  otherwise 
English  in  his  equipment,  had  just  turned  his  back  on  the  Bel- 
vedere Torso  in  the  Vatican  and  was  looking  out  on  the  mag. 
nificent  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  re- 
clining 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  dream- 
ily on  a  streak  of  sunlight  which  fell  across  the  floor.  But 
she  became  conscious  of  the  two  strangers  who  suddenl}^  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  ofP. 

"  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  sensu- 
ous perfection  :  and  here  stands  beauty  in  its  breathing  life, 
with  the  consciousness  of  Christian  centuries  in  its  bosom.    But 


198  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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. 
How^ever,  she  is  married;  I  saw  her  wedding-ring  on  that  won- 
derful left  hand,  otherwise  I  should  have  thought  the  sallow 
Geistllcher  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  Ladis- 
law, 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'. 

"  Schon,  schon.  Don't  be  snappish.  You  are  not  angry 
w4th  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 
did  n't  know  they  were  coming  to  Kome." 

"  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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  199 

and  all  but  exhausted  in  the  act  of  covering  your  bit  of  can- 
vas. 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  Xaumann :  that  stands  firm,"  said  the  good-natured  paint- 
er, 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  geni- 
alisch,  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." 

"]Srot  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  every- 
body's service  as  models.  And  yow  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  ?  Y^our  painting  and  Plastik  are  poor 
stuff  after  all.  They  perturb  and  dull  conceptions  instead  of 
raising  them.     Language  is  a  finer  medium." 

"Y^es,  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 


200  MIDDLEMARCH. 

stares  at  you  with  an  insistent  imperfection.  I  feel  that  es- 
pecially 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  con- 
tinually creating  collisions  and  nodes  for  themselves  in  dramas 
which  nobody  is  prepared  to  act  with  them.  Their  suscep- 
tibilities will  clash  against  objects  that  remain  innocently 
quiet. 


^liiilili  at- 

Celia. 


OLD  AND  YOUNG.  201 


CHAPTEK  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  thought- 
fulness  for  others  will  sometimes  allow  herself  when  she  feels 
securely  alone.  And  ^Ir.  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  deso- 
lation 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  ex- 
perience 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  dream- 
like strangeness  of  her  bridal  life.  Dorothea  had  now  been 
five  weeks  in  Home,  and  in  the  kindly  mornings  when  autumn 
and  winter  seemed  to  go  hand  in  hand  like  a  happy  aged  cou- 
ple one  of  whom  would  presently  survive  in  chiller  loneliness, 
she  had  driven  about  at  first  with  Mr.  Casaubon,  but  of  late 


202  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  mas- 
querade of  ages,  in  which  her  own  life  too  seemed  to  become 
a  masque  with  enigmatical  costumes. 

To  those  who  have  looked  at  Eome  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,  Kome  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  Puritan- 
ism, 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  qualit}"  of  a  pleasure  or  a  pain  ;  a  girl 
who  had  lately  become  a  wife,  and  from  the  enthusiastic  accep- 
tance of  untried  duty  found  herself  plunged  in  tumultuous  pre- 
occupation 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. 
Euins  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,  sen- 
suous and  spiritual,  mixed  confusedly  with  the  signs  of  breath- 
ing forgetfulness  and  degradation,  at  flrst  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 


OLD  AND  YOUNG.  203 

flow  of  emotion.  Forms  both  pale  and  glowing  took  posses- 
sion 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  every- 
where 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  tum- 
bled 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  his- 
tory of  the  lights  and  shadows  ;  for  that  new  real  future  which 
was  replacing  the  imaginary  drew  its  material  from  the  end- 
less minutiae  by  which  her  view  of  Mr.  Casaubon  and  her 
wifely  relation,  now  that  she  was  married  to  him,  was  gradu- 
ally changing  with  the  secret  motion  of  a  watch-hand  from 


204  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  dis- 
order of  a  life  Avithout  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  giv- 
ing the  heads  of  any  subject  on  demand  ?  And  was  not  Eome 
the  place  in  all  the  world  to  give  free  play  to  such  accomplish- 
ments ?  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  com- 
panionship, 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  w^e 
begin  by  knowing  little  and  believing  much,  and  we  sometimes 
end. .by  inverting  the  quantities. 


OLD  AND  YOUNG.  205 

Still,  sucli  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  find- 
ing 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  accom- 
plishment 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  here- 
after 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  Eome,  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  in- 
ward fits  of  anger  and  repulsion,  or  else  into  forlorn  weariness. 


206  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  advan- 
tage 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  ac- 
quitting 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  embalm- 
ment 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  E-aphael, 
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  rep- 
resent 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  Eaphael,  an^^ 
of  which  it  were  a  pity  to  omit  in  a  visit  to  Eome.  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  conoscenti." 

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  w^orld  would  be  joy- 
ously 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. 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  207 

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  raythologists'  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  Doro- 
thea 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 


208  MIDDLEMARCH. 

those  amenities  of  life  which  were  suited  to  the  well-adjusted 
stiff  cravat  of  the  period,  and  to  a  mind  weighted  with  un- 
published 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  And  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  inore  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  hsKl  been  troublesome  to  Mr. 
Casaubon. 

She  had  begun,  w^hile  they  were  taking  coft'ee,  with  a  deter- 
mination to  shake  off  w^hat  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  w^e  might  have  been  at 
Lowick  for  the  Christmas ;  but  my  inquiries  here  have  been 
protracted  beyond  their  anticipated  period.  I  trust,  how- 
ever, that  the  time  here  has  not  been  passed  unpleasantly  to 
you.  Among  the  sights  of  Europe,  that  of  Eome  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  Eome  and  die : ' 
but  in  your  case  T  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  any- 
thing else  than  an  irreproachable  husband,  who  would  make  a 
charming  young  woman  as  happy  as  she  deserved  to  be. 


OLD   AND  YOUNG.  209 

"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  w^ord  half  a  negative.  ^'I  have  been  led  far- 
ther than  I  had  foreseen,  and  various  subjects  for  annotation 
liave  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  labori- 
ous one,  but  your  society  has  happily  prevented  me  from  that 
too  continuous  prosecution  of  thought  beyond  the  hours  of 
study  which  has  been  the  ^lare  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  supi)osed  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  wdiat  you  used  to  speak  of  ? 
—  will  you  not  make  up  3' our  mind  what  part  of  them  you 
wdll  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  rea- 
sons why  Dorothea's  words  were  among  the  most  cutting  and 
irritating  to  him  that  she  could  have  been  impelled  to  use. 

VOL.    VII.  14 


210  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  heart- 
beats, but  only  felt  that  her  own  was  beating  violently.  In 
Mr.  Casaubon's  ear,  Dorothea's  voice  gave  loud  emphatic  itera- 
tion 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  unmistaka- 
bly repeated  from  without,  they  are  resisted  as  cruel  and  un- 
just. 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  con- 
fused 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  quick- 
ness 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  exasperat- 
ing of  all  criticism,  —  that  which  sees  vaguely  a  great  many 
line  ends,  and  has  not  the  least  notion  what  it  costs  to  reach 
them. 

For  the  first  time  since  Dorothea  had  known  him,  IVIr.  Casau- 
bon'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  sea- 
sons, 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 


OLD   AXD    YOUXO.  211 

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  super- 
ficial 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  froni  a  fruit  when  sudden 
heat  cracks  it.  Dorothea  Avas  not  only  his  wife :  she  was  a 
personification  of  that  shallow  world  which  surrounds  the  ill- 
appreciated  or  desponding  author. 

Dorothea  was  indignant  in  her  turn.  Had  she  not  been  re- 
pressing 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  note- 
books—  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  —  tliat  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,  confound- 
ing and  stultifying.  To  have  changed  your  longitude  exten- 
sively, 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  catas- 


212  MIDDLEMARCH. 

troplie,  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  sub- 
jection than  he  had  been  able  to  imagine,  since  this  charming- 
young  bride  not  onl}^  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  Doro- 
thea'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  Xaumann  had 
to  await  Ladislaw  with  whom  he  was  to  settle  a  bet  of  cham- 
pagne about  an  enigmatical  mediaeval-looking  figure  there. 
After  they  had  examined  the  figure,  and  had  walked  on  finish- 
ing 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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  213 

all  thought  and  feeling  were  apt  sooner  or  later  to  flow  —  the 
reaching  forward  of  the  whole  consciousness  towards  the  full- 
est truth,  the  least  partial  good.  There  was  clearly  something 
better  than  anger  and  despondency. 


CHAPTER   XXL 

Hire  facounde  eke  full  womanly  and  plain, 
No  contrefeted  ternies  had  she 
To  senieii  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  cry- 
ing 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 


214  MIDDLEMAPtCH. 

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  Kome, 
until  this  morning,  when  I  saw  you  in  the  Vatican  Museum," 
he  said.  "I  knew  you  at  once  —  but  —  I  mean,  that  I  con- 
cluded Mr.  Casaubon's  address  would  be  found  at  the  Poste 
Restante,  and  I  was  anxious  to  pay  ni}^  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  un- 
thinkingly between  the  fire  and  the  light  of  the  tall  window, 
and  pointing  to  a  chair  opposite,  with,  the  quietude  of  a  benig- 
nant 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.  Es- 
pecially now.  We  are  about  to  leave  Kome,  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  sur- 
plus stock  of  false  antiquities  kept  in  a  vendor's  back  cham- 
ber, having  first  got  this  adorable  young  creature  to  marry 
him,  and  then  passing  his  honeymoon  away  from  her,  groping 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  215 

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  banish- 
ing 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  think- 
ing 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  mucli,  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  Dorotliea,  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  compara- 
tively 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  proces- 
sions ;  I  fesl  myself  in  the  presence  of  some  higher  life  than 


216  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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,  w^hile  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  Eome  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  wliat  has  been  done 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  217 

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  ^Ir.  Casaubon  say  that  he  regrets  your  want 
of  patience,"  said  Dorothea,  gently.  She  was  ratlier  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.  Casau- 
bon because  of  her  morning's  trouble. 

"  Certainly  you  differ,"  she  said,  rather  proudly.  "  I  did 
not  think  of  comjmring  you:  such  power  of  persevering  de- 
voted labor  as  Mr.  Casaubon's  is  not  common." 

Will  saw  that  she  Avas  offended,  but  this  only  gave  an  addi- 
tional 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. 

"  Xo,  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  anni- 
hilate that  vaunted  laboriousness,  and  was  unable  to  imagine 
the  mode  in  which  Dorothea  would  be  wounded.     Younjr  Mr. 


218  MIDDLEMARCH. 

Ladislaw  was  not  at  all  deej^  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  obser- 
vation. 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 
^olian  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 


OLD   AND    YOUNG.  219 

of  heroism  to  release  her  and  fall  at  her  feet.  But  he  was 
something  more  unmanageable  than  a  dragon :  he  was  a  bene- 
factor 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  con- 
trary, 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  AVill  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  Kome  —  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  soniewhat  weary.     Ladislavv  under- 


220  MIDDLEMARCH. 

stood,  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  j\Ir.  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  re- 
turning penitence  afar  off,  and  fall  on  its  neck  and  kiss  it  ? 

"  My  dear  Dorothea  —  '  who  wdth  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  be- 
cause 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. 


OLD  AND   YOUNG.  221 

"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.  To- 
day she  had  begun  to  see  that  she  had  been  under  a  wild  illu- 
sion 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  whicli  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  witli  a  certain  difference. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Nous  causames  longtemps  ;  elle  etait  simple  et  bonne. 
Ne  sachant  pas  le  mal,  elle  faisait  le  bien  ; 
Des  ricbesses  du  coeur  elle  me  fit  I'aumone, 
Et  tout  en  ecoutant  comme  le  cceur  se  doune, 
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  da}',  and  gave  no  opportunity  for  Mr.  Casaubon  to  show 
disapprobation.     On  the  contrary  it  seemed  to  Dorothea  that 


222  MIDDLEMARCH. 

Will  had  a  happier  way  of  drawing  her  husband  into  conver- 
sation 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  him- 
self, 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  Avas  certainly  one  of  his  good 
days.  He  described  touches  of  incident  among  the  poor  peo- 
ple in  Kome,  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-enthu- 
siastic half-playful  picture  of  the  enjoyment  he  got  out  of  the 
very  miscellaneousness  of  Eome,  which  made  the  mind  flexi- 
ble with  constant  comparison,  and  saved  you  from  seeing  the 
world's  ages  as  a  set  of  box-like  partitions  without  vital  con- 
nection. 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 
Kome  had  given  him  quite  a  new  sense. of  history  as  a  whole : 
the  fragments  stimulated  his  imagination  and  made  him  con- 
structive. 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  contrib- 
uting to  form  the  world's  opinion  makes  conversation  particu- 
larly 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  Eome,  encouraged  Will 
to  urge  that  Mrs.  Casaubon  should  not  go  away  without  see- 
ing a  studio  or  two.  Would  not  Mr.  Casaubon  take  her  ? 
That  sort  of  thing  ought  not  to  be  missed :  it  was  quite  spe- 
cial :  it  was  a  form  of  life  that  grew  like  a  small  fresh  vegeta- 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  223 

tion  with  its  population  of  insects  on  huge  fossils.  Will  would 
be  happy  to  conduct  them  —  not  to  anything  w^earisome,  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  w^as 
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  conce])tion  of  supreme  events  as  mys- 
teries 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  Tam- 
burlaine  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.  1  take  Tamburlaine  in  his 
chariot  for  the  tremendous  course  of  the  world's  physical  his- 
tory 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. 
Everj'thing  you  can  imagine  !  " 


224  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  What  a  difficult  kind  of  shorthand  !  "  said  Dorothea,  smil- 
ing towards  her  husband.  "  It  would  require  all  your  knowl- 
edge to  be  able  to  read  it." 

Mr.  Casaubon  blinked  furtively  at  Will.  He  had  a  suspi- 
cion 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  w^ere  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  w^edged  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  w^hich  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,  ix,  is  ^\  j^fitscherel,  which  is  his  most  oppro- 
brious 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  sitirically.     Will  did  not  half  like  it,  but  managed 


OLD   AND  YOUXG.  225 

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  Xaumanu,  after  draw- 
ing Will  aside  for  a  moment  and  looking,  first  at  a  large  can- 
vas, then  at  JVIr.  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  physiog- 
nomy, 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.  Casau- 
bon the  wisest  and  worthiest  among  the  sons  of  men.  In  that 
case  her  tottering  faith  would  have  become  firm  again. 

Kaumann's  apjiaratus  was  at  hand  in  wonderful  complete- 
ness, and  the  sketch  went  on  at  once  as  well  as  the  conver- 
sation. 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 
Eome,  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  politics,  which  brought  long  answers,  and  Will  mean- 
while had  perched  himself  on  some  steps  in  the  background 
overlooking  all. 

Presently  Naumann  said  —  "  Xow  if  I  could  lay  this  by  for 


226  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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.  Put- 
ting it  aside  for  a  moment,  he  looked  round  vaguely,  as  if 
seeking  some  occupation  for  his  visitors,  and  afterwards  turn- 
ing 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  pic- 
ture —  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  neces- 
sary 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 


OLD   AND  YOUNG.  22T 

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  — 

"Xow,  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  bad,  it  was  granted 
for  the  morrow.  On  the  morrow  Santa  Clara  too  was  re- 
touched more  than  once.  The  result  of  all  was  so  far  from 
displeasing  to  Mr.  Casaubon,  that  he  arranged  for  the  pur- 
chase of  the  picture  in  which  Saint  Thomas  Aquinas  sat 
among  the  doctors  of  the  Church  in  a  disputation  too  abstract 
to  be  rei:)resented,  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  dissatis- 
fied with  —  he  could  not,  in  conscience,  engage  to  make  a 
worthy  picture  of  it ;  so  about  the  Santa  Clara  the  arrange- 
ment 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.  Ko 
sooner  did  Naumann  mention  any  detail  of  Dorothea's  beauty, 
than  Will  got  exasperated  at  his  presumption  :  there  was  gross- 
ness  in  his  choice  of  the  most  ordinary  words,  and  what  busi- 
ness 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  gratifica- 
tion of  his  pride  in  being  the  person  who  could  grant  Xaumann 
such  an  opportunity  of  studying  her  loveliness  —  or  rather  her 
divineness,   for  the  ordinary  phrases   which   might  apply   to 


228  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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. 

'■  Schon  !  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  think- 
ing 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  w^ere  now  concentrated  on 
seeing  Dorothea  Avhen  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  ap- 
proving 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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  229 

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.  Casaubou 
would  not  be  at  home. 

Dorothea,  who  had  not  been  made  aware  that  her  former 
reception  of  Will  had  displeased  her  husband,  had  no  hesita- 
tion 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  object- 
ed :  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  tliese  little  Homei-ic  bits :  they  are  exquisitely 
neat.     And  the  color  is  line  :  it  will  just  suit  you." 

"  Oh,  they  are  for  my  sister,  who  has  quite  a  different  com- 
plexion. You  saw  her  with  me  at  Lowick  :  she  is  light-haired 
and  ver}'  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,  frankl}^,  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  beauti- 
ful everywhere." 


230  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  dull  about  many  things,' '  said  Dorothea, 
simply.  "  I  should  like  to  make  life  beautiful  —  I  mean  every- 
body'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,  impet- 
uously. "  You  might  say  the  same  of  landscape,  of  poetry,  of 
all  refinement.  If  you  carried  it  out  you  ought  to  be  misera- 
ble 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  any- 
thing 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  fur- 
ther 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  consecra- 
tion of  ugliness  rather  than  beauty.  The  painting  and  sculp- 
ture 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." 


OLD    AND    YOUNG.  231 

"  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  goodc  I  have  often  felt  since  I  have  been  in 
Kome  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  mean- 
ing 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  be- 
cause 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  ca- 
dence, 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. 


232  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you  again  about  something  you  said  the 
other  day.  Perhaps  it  was  half  of  it  your  lively  way  of  speak- 
ing :  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  Ger- 
man—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  ?  "  Doro- 
thea'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  con- 
stantly 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  fur- 
bishing up  broken-legged  theories  about  Clius  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 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  233 

vain  ?  I  wonder  it  does  not  aifect  you  more  painfully,  if  you 
really  think  that  a  man  like  Mr.  Casaubon,  of  so  much  good- 
ness, 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  feel- 
ing," 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.  Casau- 
bon's  generosity  has  perhaps  been  dangerous  to  me,  and  I  mean 
to  renounce  the  liberty  it  has  given  me.  T  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  Eome.     I  wanted  to  know  you." 

"And  I  have  made  you  angry,"  said  Will.  "I  have  niade 
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." 


234  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  Still,  you  don't  like  me  ;  I  have  made  myself  an  unpleas- 
ant 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  appar- 
ently 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,"  Doro- 
thea went  on  cheerfully.  "  I  believe  devoutly  in  a  natural  dif- 
ference of  vocation.  If  it  were  not  for  that  belief,  I  suppose 
I  should  be  very  narrow  —  there  are  so  many  things,  besides 
painting,  that  J  am  quite  ignorant  of.  You  would  hardly  be- 
lieve 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  pro- 
duce 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. 


OLD   AND   YOUNG.  235 

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  tlie  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.  Casau- 
bon'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  lier  brief  pacing  and  stood  opposite 
Will,  looking  gravely  at  him. 

"  Certainly,  I  will  promise  you,"  said  Will,  reddening  how- 
ever. 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,  wliom  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  x>orte  cocliere  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  prepara- 
tions for  departure. 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you  about  our  cousin  Mr.  Ladis- 
law,  which  I  think  will  heighten  your  opinion  of  him,"  said 
Dorothea  to  her  husband  in  the  course  of  the  evening.  She 
had  ]nentioned  immediately  on  his  entering  that  Will  had  just 
gone  away,  and  would  come  again,  but  Mr.  Casaubon  had  said, 


236  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  I  met  liim  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  (lie  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  sufficientlj^  indicated." 

Dorothea  did  not  mention  Will  again. 


BOOK    III. 

WAITING   FOR  DEATH. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

"  Your  horses  of  the  Sun,"  he  said, 

"  And  first-rate  wliip  Apollo  ! 
"Whate'er  they  be,  I  '11  eat  my  head, 

But  I  will  beat  them  hollow." 

Fred  Vixcy,  we  have  seen,  had  a  debt  on  his  mind,  and 
though  no  such  immaterial  burthen  could  depress  that  buoyant- 
heavted  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  "  ad- 
dicted 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 


238  MIDDLExMARCH. 

confidence  should  have  a  basis  in  external  facts  ;  such  confi- 
dence, we  know,  is  something  less  coarse  and  materialistic :  it 
is  a  comfortable  disposition  leading  ns  to  expect  that  the  wis- 
dom of  providence  or  the  folly  of  our  friends,  the  mysteries  of 
hick  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  w^orth  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  hopeful- 
ness 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  defi- 
ciencies 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  woidd.  Mr.  Vincy  himself  had 
expensive  Middlemarch  habits  —  spent  money  on  coursing,  on 
his  cellar,  and  on  dinner-giving,  while  mamma  had  those  run- 
ning accounts  with  tradespeople,  which  give  a  cheerful  sense 
of  getting  everything  one  wants  without  any  question  of  pay- 
ment. But  it  was  in  the  nature  of  fathers,  Fred  knew,  to  bully 
one  about  expenses  :  there  w^as  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  proj^riety's  sake.     The 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH. 


239 


easier  course  plainly,  was  to  renew  the  bill  with  a  friend's  sig- 
nature. 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  usu- 
ally 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  offences, 
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  alwavs  a  certain  number  who  are  dismissed  as  but  moder- 
ately 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  Eosamond  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. 
GartlVs  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  then- 
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 


240  MIDULEMARCH. 

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  tliere  were  nice  distinctions  of  rank  in 
Middlemarch  ;  and  though  old  manufacturers  could  not  any 
more  than  dukes  be  connected  with  non^  but  equals,  they 
were  conscious  of  an  inherent  social  superiority  which  was 
defined  with  great  nicety  in  practice,  though  hardly  expressi- 
ble 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  as- 
signees, 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.  Yiucy  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  trade- 
marks, 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  be- 
come more  frequent,  the  increasing  ardor  of  his  affection  for 
Mary  inclining  him  the  more  towards  those  who  belonged  to 
her. 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  241 

Mr.  Garth  had  a  small  office  in  the  town,  and  to  this  Fred 
went  with  his  request.  He  obtained  it  without  much  diffi- 
culty, for  a  large  amount  of  painful  experience  had  not  suf- 
ficed to  make  Caleb  Garth  cautious  about  his  own  affairs,  or 
distrustful  of  his  fellow-men  when  they  had  not  proved  them- 
selves 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  pre- 
conceive 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  tliat  it  was  an  occasion  for  a 
friendly  hint  as  to  conduct,  and  that  before  giving  his  signa- 
ture 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  w^as  a  misfortune,  eh,  that  breaking  the  horse's  knees  ? 

VOL.    VII.  16 


242  MIDDLEMARCH. 

And  then,  these  exchanges,  they  don't  answer  when  you  have 
'cute  jockeys  to  deal  with.  You  '11  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  re- 
turned 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  Pred'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  disappoint- 
ment. 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 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH.  243 

be  done  for  him  by  uncle  Featherstone  determined  the  angle 
at  which  most  people  viewed  Fred  Yincy  in  Middlemarch; 
and  in  his  own  consciousness,  what  uncle  Featherstone  would 
do  for  him  in  an  emergency,  or  w^hat  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  Feed'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  certifi- 
cate, 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  accu- 
sation 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  wath  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 


244  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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.  Yincy'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 
propert}^,  and  in  his  anxiety  to  meet  the  imminent  bill  he  de^ 
termined  to  sacrifice  a  possession  without  w^hich  life  would  cer- 
tainly be  worth  little.  He  made  the  resolution  with  a  sense  of 
heroism — heroism  forced  on  him  by  the  dread  of  breaking  his 
word  to  ^Ir.  Garth,  by  his  love  for  Mary  and  awe  of  her  opinion. 
He  would  start  for  Houndsley  horse-fair  which  w^as  to  be  held 
the  next  morning,  and  —  simply  sell  his  horse,  bringing  back 
the  money  by  coach  ?  —  Well,  the  horse  w^ould  hardh^  fetch 
more  than  thirty  pounds,  and  there  was  no  knowing  what 
might  happen ;  it  would  be  folly  to  balk  himself  of  luck  be- 
forehand. 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  expressh^,  he  should  virtually 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH.  245 

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  w^ay  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  driz- 
zling 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  IMajesty  George  the  Fourth  with  legs 
and  cravat,  and  various  leaden  spittoons,  might  have  seemed 
a  hard  business,  but  for  the  sustaining  power  of  nomencla- 
ture which  determined  that  the  pursuit  of  these  things  was 
"gay." 

In  Mr.  Horrock  there  was  certainly  an  apparent  unfathom- 
ableness  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  acccompanied 
by  adequate  silence,   likely    to   create    the    reputation    of   an 


246  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  physiog- 
nomy 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  terri- 
bly effective.  A  mixture  of  passions  w^as  excited  in  Fred  —  a 
mad  desire  to  thrash  Horrock's  opinion  into  utterance,  re- 
strained by  anxiety  to  retain  the  advantage  of  his  friendship. 
There  was  always  the  chance  that  Horrock  might  say  some- 
thing 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  tlieir  moderation,  and,  on  the  whole,  flour- 
ished 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  infu- 
sion 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 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  247 

shown  about  the  horses  he  had  himself  bought  and  sold ;  the 
number  of  miles  they  would  trot  you  in  no  time  without  turn- 
ing a  hair  being,  after  the  lapse  of  years,  still  a  subject  of 
passionate  asseveration,  in  which  he  would  assist  the  imagi- 
nation 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.  Bam- 
bridge'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  any- 
body 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  saw- 
yers. I  never  heard  but  one  worse  roarer  in  my  life,  and  that 
was  a  roan  :  it  belonged  to  Pegw^ell,  the  corn-factor ;  he  used 
to  drive  him  in  his  gig  seven  years  ago,  and  he  M'anted  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  was  n'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  ?" 


248  MIDDLEMARCH. 

Mr.  Horrock  looked  before  him  with  as  complete  a  neu- 
trality as  if  he  had  been  a  portrait  by  a  great  master. 

Fred  gave  up  the  fallacious  hope  of  getting  a  genuine  opin- 
ion ;  but  on  reflection  he  saw  that  Bam  bridge'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  adv^anta- 
geously  of  his  horse,  but  an  opening  which  made  him  congratu- 
late 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  Dia- 
mond, implying  that  it  was  a  public  character.  For  himself 
he  only  wanted  a  useful  hack,  which  would  draw  upon  occa- 
sion ;  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  unsanitar}^  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 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  249 

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  ad- 
missions. 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  be  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  b}^  the  trans- 
action, 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  dis- 
suaded 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  thor- 
oughly applied,  else  life  would  come  to  a  standstill:  some- 
thing 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  men- 
tal 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. 


250  MIDDLEMARCH, 


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  propi- 
tious events  at  Houndsley  Fred  Vincy  had  fallen  into  worse 
spirits  than  he  had  known  in  his  life  before.  Kot  that  he  had 
been  disappointed  as  to  the  possible  market  for  his  horse,  but 
that  before  the  bargain  could  be  concluded  with  Lord  Medli- 
cote'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  kick- 
ing, 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  hun- 
dred 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  utterl}^  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 


WAITING    FOR    DEATH.  251 

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  exist- 
ence 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  antirj^ue  personage  w^hen  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  consider- 
able difference  to  Fred  at  that  time  if  Mary  Garth  liad  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  farin-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  ^vas  inclined 
to  sarcasm  and  to  impulsive  sallies,  as  Mary  was.  In  her  pres- 
ent 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 


252  MIDDLEMARCH. 

early  made  up  lier  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  con- 
fidences 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  accu- 
rately instructed  than  most  matrons  in  Middlemarch,  and  — 
where  is  the  blameless  woman?  —  apt  to  be  a  little  severe  to- 
wards her  owm  sex,  which  in  her  opinion  w^as  framed  to  be 
entirely  subordinate.  On  the  other  hand,  she  was  dispropor- 
tionately indulgent  towards, the  failings  of  men,  and  was  often 
heard  to  say  that  these  were  natural.  Also,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  Mrs.  Garth  was  a  trifle  too  emphatic  in  her  resist- 
ance 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,  mak- 
ing 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  w^ith  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  yef  did  not  hinder  her  face  from 
looking  benevolent,  and  her  words  which  came  forth  like  a 
procession  were  uttered  in  a  fervid  agreeable  contralto.  Cer- 
tainly, the  exemplary  IMrs.  Garth  had  her  droll  aspects,  but 
her  character  sustained  her  oddities,  as  a  very  fine  wine 
sustains  a  flavor  of  skin. 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  253 

Towards  Fred  Viiio.y  she  had  a  motherly  feeling,  and  had  al- 
ways been  disposed  to  excuse  his  errors,  though  she  wouhl  prob- 
ably 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  excep- 
tional indulgence  towards  him  made  it  the  harder  to  Fred  that 
he  must  now  inevitably  sink  in  her  opinion.  And  the  circum- 
stances 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,  observ- 
ing 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  Avash 
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  or- 
namental pinches,  while  she  expounded  Avith  grammatical  fer- 
vor what  were  the  right  views  about  the  concord  of  verbs  and 
pronouns  with  "nouns  of  multitude  or  signifying  man}-,"  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  remark- 
able 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  pro- 
spective 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  ener- 
getic young  male  with  a  heavy  brow,  from  due  attention  to 
the  lesson.     "  '  Not  without  regard  to  the  import  of  the  word 


254  MIDDLEMARCH. 

as  conveying  unity  or  plurality  of  idea'  — tell  me  again  what 
that  means,  Ben." 

(Mrs.  Garth,  like  more  celebrated  educators,  had  her  favor- 
ite ancient  paths,  and  in  a  general  wreck  of  society  would  have 
tried  to  hold  her  "  Lindley  Murra}^ "  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  w^ite  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  were  n'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 
anj^thing  more  difficult,  if  j'Ou  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  should  n't  care,  I  should  leave  off,"  said  Ben,  wdtli  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  w^as  a  Eoman  —  let  me  tell,"  said  Letty, 
using  her  elbow  contentiously. 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH.  255 

"You  silly  thing,  he  was  a  Koman  farmer,  and  he  was 
ploughing." 

"  Yes,  but  before  that  —  that  did  n't  come  first  —  people 
wanted  him,"  said  Letty. 

"  AYell,  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  —  could  n'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  enuncia- 
tion, 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  fight- 
ing, 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. 

"Yery  well,  dictator!"  said  Ben,  contemptuously.  "But 
that  is  n't  a  good  word  :  he  did  n'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 


256  MIDDLEMARCH. 

at  work  there.  He  put  his  arm  round  Letty's  neck  silenth', 
and  led  her  into  the  kitchen  without  his  usual  jokes  and 
caresses. 

Mrs.  Garth  was  surprised  to  see  Fred  at  this  hour,  but  sur- 
prise 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  need  n't  go  on  about  Cincinnatus,  need  we  ?  "  said 
Ben,  who  had  taken  Fred's  whip  out  of  his  hand,  and  was  try- 
ing its  efficiency  on  the  cat. 

"Ko,  go  out  now.  But  put  that  wliip  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,  ren- 
dering 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." 

"  Sliall  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 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  257 

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  com- 
ing 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  sur- 
prise, 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." 

W^hile  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  did  n't  tell  you.  Susan:  I  put  m}'  name  to  a  bill  for 

VOT>      VIT.  17 


258  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  w^ater  which  remains 
smooth.     She  fixed  her  63^68  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  hesi- 
tating 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  ever}^ 
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  tlie  imagination  on 
other  people's  needs  is  not  common  with  hopeful  youug  gen- 
tlemen.    Indeed  we  are  most  of  us  brought  up  in  the  notion 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  259 

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  —  ultimatel}'/''  he 
stammered  out. 

"  Yes,  ultimately,"  said  ]\Irs.  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  3^ou  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  misfor- 
tune 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  Yincy,"  said  Mrs.  Garth.  "  I 
would  not  have  believed  beforehand  that  he  would  have  drawn 
3'ou  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 


260  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  your- 
self. 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  Marj^,  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  specta- 
cles, 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  liis  whole  store  of 
maledictory  expression,  and  was  uttered  with  a  slight  snarl 
easy  to  imagine.  But  it  would  be  difiicult  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 


WAITING    FUK   DEATH.  261 

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  pre- 
cision 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  philos- 
ophy for  him  without  the  aid  of  philosophers,  a  religion  with- 
out 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  classihcation  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  or- 
thodox 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  firma- 
ments, 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 


262  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  every- 
body 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. 


CHAPTEE   XXV. 

Love  seeketh  not  itself  to  please, 

Nor  for  itself  liatli  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  :  Soiujs  of  Experience. 

Fred  Vtncy  wanted  to  arrive  at  Stone  Court  when  Mary 
could  not  expect  him,  and  when  his  uncle  was  not  down-stairs  : 
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  speak- 
ing, 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." 


AVAITING   FOR   DEATH.  263 

"  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  thau 
imagine  it." 

"I  owed  money  —  a  liundred  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  luicle  gave  me  a  hun- 
dred 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 
tlian  ever. 

"  I  would  n't  have  hurt  you  so  for  the  world,  Mary,"  he 
said  at  last.     "  You  can  never  forgive  me." 

"  What  does  it  matter  whether  I  forgive  you  ?  "  said  Mary, 
passionately.  "  AVould  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  ; 
"  my  anger  is  of  no  use."  She  dried  her  eyes,  threw  aside 
her  book,  rose  and  fetched  her  sewing. 


264  MIDDLEMARCH. 

Fred  followed  her  with  his  eyes^  hoping  that  they  would 
meet  hers,  and  in  that  way  find  access  for  his  imploring  peni- 
tence.    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  ?  " 

"]\ry  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  liim  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  wdien  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  pleas- 
ures, but  because  he  was  always  thinking  of  the  work  he  was 
doing  for  other  people.  And  he  has  fared  liard,  and  worked 
hard  to  make  good  everybody's  loss." 

"  And  you  think  that  I  shall  never  try  to  make  good  any- 
thing, Mary.     It  is  not  generous  to  believe  the  worst  of  a 


WAITINU    FOK    DEATH.  265 

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  impres- 
sibility very  different  from  that  hard  slight  thing  which  we 
call  girlislmess.  At  Fred's  last  words  she  felt  an  instantane- 
ous 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,  lier  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,  ISIary,  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,  Mar^^,  if  you  will  say 
that  you  love  me." 

"  I  should  be  a&hamed  to  say  that  I  loved  a  man  who  must 


266  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  illumina- 
tion 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  iNIary  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 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  267 

tea  with  Mr.  Featlierstoue,  Caleb  rose  to  bid  him  good-by,  aud 
said,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Mary." 

She  took  a  caudle  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  wdien  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  FVed  is  not  to  be  trusted,  Mary,"  said  the 
father,  with  hesitating  tenderness.     "He  means  better  than 


268  MIDDLEMARCH. 

he  acts,  perhaps.  Hut  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,  Mar}^ " — 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  has  n'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  have  n'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,  child." 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  269 

"  Father  !  "  said  Mary,  in  her  deepest  tone  of  remonstrance. 
"  Take  pocketf uls  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  ordi- 
nary 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  1  rail  at  liim  :  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  rea- 
sons that  were  quite  peremptory.  From  those  visits  to  unsani- 
tary 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  seemed 
mere  depression  and  headache,  but  which  got  so  mueli  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 :  T  think 
you  must  send  for  Wrench." 

Wrench  came,  but  did  not  apprehend  anytliing  serious,  spoke 
of  a  "  slight  derangement,"  and  did  not  speak  of  coming  again 
on  the  morrow.  He  had  a  due  value  for  the  Yincys'  house, 
but  the  wariest  men  are  apt  to  be  dulled  by  routine,  and  on 


270  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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,  hav- 
ing 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  shiver- 
ing 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  Eosamond,  who  was  seated  near  the  win- 
dow (the  dining-room  windows  looked  on  that  highly  respecta- 
ble 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  in- 
stant, 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  Kosamond  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  im- 
portance, especially  on  what  Mr.  Wrench  had  said  and  had  not 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  271 

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  ty- 
phoid fever,  and  that  he  had  taken  just  the  w^rong  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  IMrs.  Yincy'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. 
W^rench,  who  had  attended  their  house  so  many  years  in  pref- 
erence 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  ^Irs.  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  imme- 
diately 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.  W^rench  here,  then,  shall  I  ?  "  said  Lyd- 
gate, really  believing  that  W^rench  was  not  well  prepared  to 
deal  wisely  with  a  case  of  this  kind. 

"Pray  make  that  arrangement,  Mr.  Lydgate,"  said  Rosa- 
mond, coming  to  her  mother's  aid,  and  supporting  her  arm  to 
lead  her  away. 


272  MIDDLEMAKCH. 

When  Mr.  Vincy  came  home  he  was  very  angry  with  Wrench, 
and  did  not  care  if  he  never  came  into  his  house  again.  Lyd- 
gate  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  Prit- 
chard  need  n'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  un- 
fortunate 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  exas- 
peration, especially  if  he  happens  to  have  been  an  object  of 
dislike  beforehand.  Country  practitioners  used  to  be  an  irri- 
table 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^ 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  273 

started  up  when  he  heard  Wrench  come  in,  and  went  into  the 
hall  to  let  him  know  what  he  thought. 

"  I  '11  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.  W^rench  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  INIr.  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  ungentleraanly  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  repu- 
tation 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.  W^rench  could 
wish,  by  an  unprofessional  openness. 

However,  Lydgate  was  installed  as  medical  attendant  on  the 
Yincys,  and  the  event  was  a  subject  of  general  conversation  in 
Middlemarch.  Some  said,  that  the  Vincys  had  behaved  scan- 
dalously, that  Mr.  Vincy  had  threatened  W^-ench,  and  that  Mrs. 
Vincy  had  accused  him  of  poisoning  her  son.  Others  were  of 
opinion  that  ^Er.  Lydgate's  passing  by  was  providential,  that 
he  was  wonderfully  clever  in  fevers,  and  that  Bulstrode  was  in 

VOL.    VII.  18 


274  MIDDLEMARCH. 

the  right  to  bring  him  forward.  Many  people  lelieved  that 
Lydgate's  coming  to  the  town  at  all  was  really  due  to  Bul- 
strode ;  and  Mrs.  Taft,  who  was  always  counting  stitches  and 
gathered  her  information  iu  misleading  fragments  caught  be- 
tween 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  iSIr.  Lydgate." 

"AVhy,  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  lad}^,  with  an  air  of  precision.  —  "  But 
as  to  Bulstrode  —  the  report  may  be  true  of  some  other  son." 


CHAPTEE  XXVIL 

"  Let  the  high  Muse  chant  loves  Olympian  : 
We  are  but  mortals,  and  must  siug  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  line  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  pro- 
duces the  flattering  illusion  of  a  concentric  arrangement,  its 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH.  275 

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  exam- 
ple. Kosaniond  had  a  Providence  of  her  ow^n  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  w^ould 
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  in- 
sistance  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,  ^Ir.  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  w^hich  had  been  prepared  for  her.     There  was  a 


276  MIDDLEMARCH. 

constant  understanding  between  him  and  Kosamond  on  these 
matters.  He  almost  always  saw  her  before  going  to  the  sick- 
room, 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  Eosamond  began  to  mingle  itself  with  his  in- 
terest 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  tliat  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  Avhich  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  ill- 
ness 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. 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH.  277 

She  never  left  Fred's  side  when  her  husband  was  not  in  the 
house,  and  thus  Kosamond  was  in  the  unusual  position  of 
being  much  alone.  Lydgate,  naturally,  never  thought  of  stay- 
ing 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  unpleas- 
ant 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  there- 
fore a  relief  when  neiglibors  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  any- 
thing deep  or  serious.  This  was  the  way  in  which  Rosamond 
and  Lydgate  slid  gracefully  into  ease,  and  made  their  inter- 
course lively  again.  Visitors  came  and  went  as  usual,  there 
was  once  more  music  in  the  drawing-room,  and  all  the  extra 
liospitality  of  i\tr.  Vincy's  mayoralty  returned.  Lydgate,  when- 
ever 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  establish- 
ment 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 : 


278  MIDDLEMARCH. 

she  was  sure  of  being  admired  by  some  one  worth  captivating, 
and  she  did  not  distinguish  flirtation  from  love,  either  in  her- 
self or  in  another.  She  seemed  to  be  sailing  with  a  fair  wind 
just  w^hither  she  would  go,  and  her  thoughts  were  much  occu- 
pied 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  differ- 
ent he  was  from  young  Plymdale  or  Mr.  Caius  Larcher  ! 
Those  young  men  had  not  a  notion  of  French,  and  could  speak 
on  no  subject  wdth  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  tlieir 
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.  Eosamond  was  proud  when 
he  entered  the  room,  and  when  he  approached  her  with  a  dis- 
tinguishing 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. 

Rut  Eosamond  was  not  one  of  those  helpless  girls  who  betray 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  279 

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  rumi- 
nation concerning  house-furniture  and  society  were  ever  dis- 
cernible 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  Eosamond 
never  showed  any  unbecoming  knowledge,  and  was  always 
that  combination  of  correct  sentiments,  music,  dancing,  draw- 
ing, 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,  slie  never  thought  of  money  except  as  something  nec- 
essary 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  finish- 
ing Mrs.  Lemon's  favorite  pupil,  who  by  general  consent  (Fred's 
exce])ted)  was  a  rare  compound  of  beaut}',  cleverness,  and 
amiability. 

Lydgate  found  it  more  and  more  agreeable  to  be  with  her, 
and  there  was  no  constraint  now,  there  was  a  delightful  inter- 
change 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  ^Ir.  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  wav 


280  xMlDDLEMARCH. 

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  con- 
trast ;  besides,  it  nourished  Kosamond  —  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  suc- 
cess 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  tete-a-tete  with  Eosamond.  He  had 
brought  the  last  "  Keepsake,"  the  gorgeous  watered-silk  pub- 
lication 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.  Eosamond  was  gracious,  and  Mr.  Ned  was  satis- 
fied 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  osteusible, 
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  Eosamond,  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. 


\YArnNG    FOR   DEATH.  281 

»  I  suspect  you  of  being  an  adroit  flatterer,"  said  Rosamond, 
feeling  sure  that  she  should  have  to  reject  this  young  gentle- 
man  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.  Rosa- 
mond 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  "  Keep- 
sake "  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,  seem- 
iug  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  Rosa- 
mond, keeping  her  amusement  duly  moderate.  Poor  young 
Plymdale  had  lingered  with  admiration  over  this  very  engrav- 
ing,  and  his  spirit  was  stirred. 


282  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  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  Eosamond,  looking  at  Lydgate  with  a  smile. 
"  I  suspect  you  know  nothing  about  Lady  Blessington  and 
L.  E.  L."  Eosamond  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  Eosamond, 
"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  Eosamond.  "  It  would 
be  worth  knowing  by  the  fact  that  Miss  Yinc}^  could  tell  it 
me." 

Young  Plymdale  soon  went  to  look  at  the  whist-playing, 
thinking  that  Lydgate  was  one  of  the  most  conceited,  unpleas- 
ant fellows  it  had  ever  been  his  ill- fortune  to  meet. 

"  How  rash  you  are  !  "  said  Eosamond,  inwardly  delighted. 
"Do  you  see  that  you  have  given  offence  ?" 

"What !  is  it  Mr.  Plymdale's  book  ?  I  am  sorry.  I  did  n'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  ?  " 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  283 

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  remain- 
ing 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  watch- 
ful 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  undis- 
turbed 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.  jNforeover,  he  was  begin- 
ning 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  ov^ertake  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  mes- 
sage calling  him  in  to  a  house  of  some  importance  where  Pea- 
cock 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. 


284  MIDDLEMARCH. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

"  1st  Gent.  All  times  are  good  to  seek  your  wedded  home 
Bringing  a  mutual  delight. 
2d  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  jour- 
ney, arrived  at  Lowicli  Manor  in  the  middle  of  January,  A 
light  snow  was  falling  as  they  descended  at  the  door,  and  in 
the  morning,  when  Dorothea  j)assed  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  tap- 
estry 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  dogs  seemed  an  incongruous  re- 
newal 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  gath- 
ered from  her  own,  a  sentient  commingled  innocence  which 
kept  its  loveliness  against  the  crystalline  purity  of  the  outdoor 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH.  285 

snow.  As  she  laid  the  cameo-cases  on  the  table  in  the  bow- 
window,  she  unconsciously  kept  her  hands  on  them,  immedi- 
ately absorbed  in  looking  out  on  the  still,  white  enclosure 
which  made  her  visible  world. 

Mr.  Casaubon,  who  had  risen  early  complaining  of  pal- 
pitation, 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  ex- 
citement of  bridal  felicit}^  and  keeping  up  the  sense  of  busy 
ineffectiveness,  as  of  a  dream  wdiicli  the  dreamer  begins  to  sus- 
pect. 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  hus- 
band's life  and  exalt  her  own  ?  Xever  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  gentle- 
woman's world,  where  everything  was  done  for  her  and  none 
asked  for  her  aid  —  where  the  sense  of  connection  with  a  mani- 
fold pregnant  existence  had  to  be  kept  up  painfully  as  an  in- 
ward 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  lib- 
erty :  it  had  not  even  filled  her  leisure  with  the  ruminant  joy 


286  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  shrunk- 
en 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  remem- 
brance, 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  re- 
membered 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  mini- 
ature of  Mr.  Casaubon's  aunt  Julia,  who  had  made  the  unfor- 
tunate 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  in- 
terpret. 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  ?  AVhat  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  mascu- 
line and  beamed  on  her  with  that  full  gaze  which  tells  her  on 
whom  it  falls  that  she  is  too  interesting  for  the  slightest  move- 
ment of  her  eyelid  to  pass  unnoticed  and  uninterpreted.  The 
vivid  presentation  came  like  a  pleasant  glow  to  Dorothea  :  she 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  287 

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.  Per- 
haps 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  tlie  dark  oak  staircase, 
there  was  Celia  coming  up,  and  below  there  was  Mr.  Brooke, 
exchanging  welcomes  and  congratulations  with  ]\Ir.  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.  "  Borne  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  3-0U,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Brooke,  observ- 
ing her  expression.  "  A  little  English  beef  and  mutton  will 
soon  make  a  difference.  It  was  all  very  well  to  look  pale,  sit- 
ting for  the  portrait  of  Aquinas,  you  know  —  we  got  your  letter 


288  MIDDLEMARCH. 

just  in  time.  But  Aquinas,  now — he  was  a  little  too  subtle, 
was  n't  he  ?     Does  anybody  read  Aquinas  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  indeed  an  author  adapted  to  superficial  minds," 
said  Mr.  Casaubon,  meeting  these  timely  questions  with  digni- 
fied 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,  3^ou  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  Eome  on  a  wedding  jour- 
ney ?  "  said  Celia,  with  her  ready  delicate  blush  which  Doro- 
thea 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  Eome. 

"  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  tMings  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. 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH.  289 

"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 
ver}^  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  conld  please  me.  My  unfortunate  para- 
doxes had  entirely  dried  up  that  source  of  comfort.  —  GoldSxMITh. 

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  conscious- 
ness within  him,  and  was  spiritually  a-hungered  like  the  rest 
of  us.     He  had  done  nothing  exceptional  in  marrying  —  noth- 

VOL     VIT.  19 


290  MIDDLEMARCH. 

ing  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  son- 
neteers 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  w^as  expected  to  manifest  a  power- 
ful 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  Provi- 
dence 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 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH.  291 

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,  (me 
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  opin- 
ion. In  conduct  these  ends  had  been  attained ;  but  the  diffi- 
culty 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  ac- 
quaintance 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  mem- 
ory. These  were  heavy  impressions  to  struggle  against,  and 
brought  that  melancholy  embitterment  wdiich  is  the  conse- 
quence of  all  excessive  claim  :  even  his  religious  faith  wavered 
with  his  wavering  trust  in  his  own  authorship,  and  the  conso- 
lations 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 


292  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  uneasi- 
ness. 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  domes- 
ticity the  more  did  the  sense  of  acquitting  himself  and  acting 
with  propriety  predominate  over  any  other  satisfaction.  Mar- 
riage, like  religion  and  erudition,  nay,  like  authorship  itself, 
was  fated  to  become  an  outward  requirement,  and  Edward 
Casaubon  was  bent  on  fulfilling  unimpeachably  all  require- 
ments. Even  drawing  Dorothea  into  use  in  his  study,  accord- 
ing to  his  own  intention  before  marriage,  was  an  effort  which 
he  was  always  tempted  to  defer,  and  but  for  her  pleading 
insistance  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  read- 
ing 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  newParergon,  a  small  monograph 
on  some  lately  traced  indications  concerning  the  Egyptian 
mysteries  whereby  certain  assertions  of  Warburton's  could  be 
corrected.  Eeferences  were  extensive  even  here,  but  not  alto- 
gether shoreless ;  and  sentences  were  actually  to  be  written  in 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  293 

the  shape  wherein  they  would  be  scanned  by  Brasenose  and  a 
less  formidable  posterity.  These  minor  monumental  produc- 
tions were  ahvays  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  w^as  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  vivos  nullo  cevo  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  w^ritten 
to  you  about." 

"You  can,  if  you  please,  read  the  letter,"  said  IMr.  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 


294  MIDDLEMARCH. 

such  distractions  as  have  been  hitherto  inevitable,  and  espe- 
cially from  guests  whose  desultory  vivacity  makes  their  pres- 
ence a  fatigue." 

There  had  been  no  clashing  of  temper  between  Dorothea 
and  her  husband  since  that  little  explosion  in  Eome,  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,  tliis 
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,  ner- 
vously. 

Decidedly,  this  woman  was  too  young  to  be  on  the  formid- 
able level  of  wifehood  —  unless  she  had  been  pale  and  feature- 
less and  taken  everything  for  granted. 

"1  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,  Doro- 
thea. 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 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  295 

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  hus- 
band'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  pronoun- 
cing the  once  "affable  archangel"  a  poor  creature. 

There  had  been  this  apparent  quiet  for  half  an  hour,  and 
Dorothea  had  not  looked  aAvay  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  end- 
less 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  violentl}^,  and  pres- 
ently Mr.  Casaubon  was  helped  to  the  couch :  he  did  not  faint, 


296  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  librar}^" 

"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  want  the  doctor  be- 
fore ;   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  un- 
commonly 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  won- 
derfully soon,  for  the  messenger,  who  w^as  Sir  James  Chettam's 
man  and  knew  Mr.  Lydgate,  met  him  leading  his  horse  along 
the  Lowick  road  and  giving  his  arm  to  ]\Iiss  Vincy. 

Celia,  in  the  drawing-room,  had  known  nothing  of  the 
trouble  till  Sir  James  told  her  of  it.  After  Dorothea's  ac- 
count, 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  w^ere  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. 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH.  297 

"  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  witli  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  chival- 
rous 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  ef- 
fect to  Dorothea.  He  could  remain  her  brotherly  friend, 
interpreting  her  actions  with  generous  trustfulness. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Qui  veut  delasser  hors  de  propos,  lasse.  — Pascal. 

Mr.  Casaubox  had  no  second  attack  of  equal  severity  with 
the  first,  and  in  a  few  days  began  to  recover  his  usual  condi- 
tion.    But  Lvdgate  seemed  to  think  the  case  worth  a  great 


298  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  hs  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  relaxa- 
tion. 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  antidpate  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  back- 
gammon 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  —  '  Boderick  Bandora,' 
'  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  noAV.  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  re- 
signedly, with  due  respect  to  his  wife's  uncle,  and  observed 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  299 

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  j\Irs.  Casaubon.  She  is  clever  enough  for  any- 
thing, is  my  niece.  Tell  her,  her  husband  wants  liveliness, 
diversion  :  put  her  on  amusing  tactics." 

Without  ^Ir.  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,  Doro- 
thea 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 


300  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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." 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  301 

"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  occupa- 
tions. With  a  happy  concurrence  of  circumstances,  there  is, 
as  I  said,  no  immediate  danger  from  that  affection  of  the 
lieart,  wdiich  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  sliould  be  neglected 
w^liich  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 
immobilit}-. 

"Oh,  that  would  not  do — that  would  be  worse  than  any- 
thing," 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." 

"T  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  him- 
self, 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 


302  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  pro- 
duced 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  hus- 
band; 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  caased  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  obliga- 
tions 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 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH.  303 

generous  friend.  To  expand  in  wordy  thanks  would  be  like 
saying,  "  I  am  honest."  But  AVill  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  effective- 
ness of  the  education  for  which  he  was  indebted,  and  by  ceas- 
ing 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  per- 
son. 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  beg- 
ging him  to  let  Will  know  that  Mr.  Casaubon  had  been  ill,  and 
that  his  health  would  not  allow  the  reception  of  any  visitors. 

Ko  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  fold- 
ings.    He  had  simpl}^  said  to  Dorothea  — 

"To  be  sure,  I  will  write,  my  dear.  He  's  a  very  clever 
young  follow  —  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." 


304  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  thejn.  It  expressed  re- 
grets and  pio  osed  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  that 
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  thej^  might  go  over  the  long- 
neglected  Italian  drawings  together  —  it  also  felt  such  an  in- 
terest in  a  young  man  who  was  starting  m  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  candi- 
date, 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. 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  305 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

"  How  will  you  know  the  pitch  of  that  great  bell 
Too  large  for  yon  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.  Casau- 
bon,  and  laid  some  emphasis  on  the  strong  feeling  she  ap- 
peared to  have  for  that  formal  studious  man  thirty  years 
older  than  herself. 

"Of  course  she  is  devoted  to  her  husband,"  said  Eosamond, 
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  melan- 
choly 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,  IMademoiselle  de  Montmorenci,"  said  Lyd- 
gate, just  bending  his  head  to  the  table  and  lifting  with  his 
fourth  finger  her  delicate  handkerchief  which  lay  at  the  mouth 
VOL.  vn.  20 


306  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  Middle  march,  could  not  continue 
indefinitely.  It  was  not  more  possible  to  find  social  isolation 
in  that  town  than  elsewhere,  and  two  people  persistently  flirt- 
ing could  by  no  means  escape  from  "  the  various  entangle- 
ments, weights,  blows,  clashings,  motions,  by  w^hich  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  wdiile  at  Stone  Court,  there 
being  no  other  way  of  at  once  gratifying  old  Featherstone 
and  keeping  watch  against  JMary  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  Eosamond,  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  in- 
timacy with  Mrs.  Plymdale.  They  had  nearly  the  same  pref- 
erences in  silks,  patterns  for  underclothing,  china-w^ire,  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  Eosamond. 

"Why  do  you  say  ^poor  Eosamond'?"  said  Mrs.  Plym- 
dale, a  round-eyed  sharp  little  woman,  like  a  tamed  falcon. 

"  She  is  so  pretty,  and  has  been  brought  up  in  such  thought- 
lessness. The  mother,  you  know,  had  always  that  levity  about 
her,  which  makes  me  anxious  for  the  children," 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  307 

"  Well,  Harriet,  if  I  am  to  speak  my  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Plym- 
dale,  with  emphasis,  "  I  must  say,  anybody  would  suppose  you 
and  ]\rr.  Bulstrode  would  be  delighted  with  what  has  happened, 
for  you  have  done  everything  to  put  Mr.  Lydgate  forward." 

"  Selina,  w^hat  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.  "  ]\[r.  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.  Blymdale,  who  had  never  before  given  all  her 
confidence  to  "Harriet"  on  this  subject.  "Xo  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  Eosamond 
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  sec  so  many  people  that  I  don't 
see.     Your  circle  is  rather  different  from  ours." 

"  W^ell,  but  your  own  niece  and  Mr.  Bulstrode's  great 
favorite  —  and  yours  too,  I  am   sure,  Harriet !     I   thought. 


308  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  impos- 
sible 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  roam- 
ing 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,  1  think," 
said  Rosamond,  inwardly  gratified. 


AVAITING   FOR   DEATH.  309 

"  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  in- 
tellectual 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  Kosamond,  yoiL  must  not  think  of  living  in  high 
style." 

Rosamond  looked  down  and  played  with  her  reticule.  She 
was  not  a  fiery  j^oung  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.  Lyd- 
gate :  there  is  some  understanding  between  you,  though  your 
father  does  n'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  w^ould  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  with- 
in 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- 


310  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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.  1 
have  already  refused  him.  If  I  loved,  I  should  love  at  once 
and  without  change,"  said  Eosamond,  with  a  great  sense  of 
being  a  romantic  lieroine,  and  playing  the  part  prettily. 

"  I  see  how  it  is,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bulstrode,  in  a  melan- 
choly voice,  rising  to  go.  "  You  have  allowed  your  affections 
to  be  engaged  without  return." 

''No,  indeed,  aunt,"  said  Eosamond,  with  emphasis. 

"Then  you  are  quite  confident  that  Mr.  Lydgate  has  a 
serious  attachment  to  you  ?  " 

Eosamond'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  Avorldly  and  indifferent  was  dis- 
posed 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  tete-a-tete  with  Lydgate,  in  which  she 
passed  from  inquiries  about  Fred  Vincy's  health,  and  expres- 
sions of  her  sincere  anxiety  for  her  brother's  large  family,  to 
general  remarks  on  the  dangers  which  lay  before  j^oung  peo- 
ple 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  circum- 
stances 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  oif  others.     I  think  it 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  811 

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  liand,  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  Mid- 
dlemarch  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 
ever  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  curtl}^  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  precau- 
tions in  time." 


312  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  Kosamond  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. 

Kosamond  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  Eosamond  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  supposi- 
tion was  that  her  aunt  Bui  strode  had  interfered  in  some  way 
to  hinder  Lj'dgate's  visits :  everything  was  better  than  a  spon- 
taneous 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 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH.  318 

ignorant  of  what  can  go  on  in  tlie  elegant  leisure  of  a  young 
lady's  mind. 

On  the  eleventh  day,  however,  Lydgate  when  leaving  Stone 
Court  Avas  requested  by  Mrs.  Yincy  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.  Yincy 
was  not  at  home,  and  leaving  the  message  with  Miss  Yinc}'. 
A  man  may,  from  various  motives,  decline  to  give  his  com- 
pany, but  perhaps  not  even  a  sage  would  be  gratified  that  no- 
body 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 
Kosamond  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.  lUilstrode's  hints  had  managed  to 
get  woven  like  slight  clinging  hairs  into  the  more  substantial 
web  of  his  thoughts. 

Miss  Yincy  was  alone,  and  blushed  so  deeply  when  Lydgate 
came  in  that  he  felt  a  corresponding  embarrassment,  and  in- 
stead 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.  Kosamond,  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 


314  MIDDLEMARCH. 

he  rose  lie  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 
Eosamond  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  tbem  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.  Kemember  that  the  ambi- 
tious 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  re- 
cesses within  him  which  had  a  miraculous  effect  in  raising  the 
power  of  passionate  love  lying  buried  there  in  no  sealed  sepul- 
chre, 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." 
Eosamond  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.  Eosa- 
mond was  not  angry,  but  she  moved  backward  a  little  in  timid 
happiness,  and  Lydgate  could  now  sit  near  her  and  speak  less 
nicompletely.  Eosamond  had  to  make  her  little  confession, 
and  he  poured  out  words  of  gratitude  and  tenderness  with  im- 
T^ulsive   lavishment.     In  half   an  hour  he  left  the  house   an 


WAITING    FOR   DEATH.  315 

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  ^Ir.  Vine}',  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  S])irits  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,  with- 
out 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  Eosamond's  engagement  was  asked  for,  he  gave  it  with  as- 
tonishing 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  '11  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  motlier 
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  bed- 


316  MIDDLEMARCH. 

ridden.  Naturally  :  for  when  "  poor  Peter  "  had  occupied  his 
arm-chair  in  the  wainscoted  parlor,  no  assiduous  beetles  for 
Avhom  the  cook  prepares  boiling  water  could  have  been  less 
welcome  on  a  hearth  which  they  had  reasons  for  preferring, 
than  those  persons  whose  Fcatherstone  blood  was  ill-nour- 
ished, not  from  penuriousness  on  their  part,  but  from  povertj^ 
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  over- 
look 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  did  n't  alter  his  will,  he  might  have  money  by 
him.  At  any  rate  some  blood-relations  should  be  on  the  prem- 
ises and  on  the  watch  against  those  who  were  hardly  relations 
at  all.  Such  things  had  been  known  as  forged  wills  and  dis- 
puted Avills,  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"  hel])less ! 
Somebody  should  be  on  the  watch.  But  in  this  conclusion 
they  were  at  one  with  Solomon  and  Jane  ;  also,  some  nephews^ 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  317 

nieces,  and  cousins,  arguing  with  still  greater  subtilty  as  to 
what  might  be  done  by  a  man  able  to  ''  will  away  "  his  prop- 
erty 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  noth- 
ing 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  IMary  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  un- 
pleasant task  of  telling  them  so.  As  manager  of  the  house- 
hold 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  ^h:  Feather- 
stone was  laid  u}). 

^'  Oh,  my  dear,  you  must  do  things  handsomely  where  there  's 
last  illness  and  a  property.  God  knows,  /  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  keej)  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 


318  MIDDLEMARCH. 

not  to  boast  of,  though  it  was  much  better  than  swindling 
either  on  exchange  or  turf,  but  which  did  not  require  his  pres- 
ence 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  compara- 
tive 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  com- 
pany. 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  detec- 
tive 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 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  319 

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  have  n't  got  half  such  line  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  pre- 
ferred 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  ever}^  day  for  hours,  without  other  calculable  occupa- 
tion 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  wdiite 
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. 


320  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  han- 
dle a  club  in  case  of  closer  fighting,  and  looked  hard  at  Solo- 
mon'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,"  be- 
gan 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"  —  bat  here 
her  voice  broke  under  the  touching  thought  which   she  was 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  321 

attributing  to  her  speechless  brother ;  the  mention  of  our- 
selves being  naturally  affecting. 

"  Xo,  I  shan't,"  said  old  Teatherstone,  contradictiously.  "  I 
shan't  think  of  any  of  you.  I  Ve  made  my  will,  I  tell  you,  I  We 
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,  ^Irs.  Waule.     Don't  you  come  again." 

"  I  shall  be  down-stairs,  Brotlier,  wlietlier  or  no,"  said  Solo- 
mon. "I  shall  do  77if/  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  pros- 
pered 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 

VOL.   VII.  21 


322  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  w^atch  in  the  wainscoted  parlor  was  sometimes 
varied  by  the  presence  of  other  guests  from  far  or  near.  ^N'ow 
that  Peter  Eeatherstone  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  sud- 
denly, 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  rea- 
sonably be  sorry  for  those  wdio  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 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  323 

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  ex- 
tended over  twenty  years  from  the  time  of  his  apprenticeship 
ac  fifteen,  and  was  likely  to  yield  a  knowledge  of  no  surrep- 
titious 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  am- 
ateur of  superior  phrases,  and  never  used  poor  language  with- 
out immediately  correcting  himself  —  which  was  fortunate,  as 
he  was  rather  loud,  and  given  to  predominate,  standing  or 
walking  about  frequently,  pulling  down  his  waistcoat  wnth  the 
air  of  a  man  who  is  very  much  of  his  own  opinion,  trimming 
himself  rapidly  with  his  fore-finger,  and  marking  each  new  se- 
ries 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  wdiich  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  understand- 
ing, 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  ques- 
tions 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  Eobert,"  if  introduced  to  hira, 
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 


S24  MIDDLEMARCH. 

into  the  parlor  at  half-jjast  eleven,  after  having  had  the  excep- 
tional 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  w^e  call  a  figure  of  speech  — 
speech  at  a  high  figure,  as  one  may  say."  The  eloquent  auc- 
tioneer smiled  at  his  own  ingenuity. 

"  I  should  n'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,  j^ou  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. 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  325 

"  What,  Blue-Coat  land  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Waule,  again.  "  Ob, 
Mr.  Trumbull,  you  never  can  mean  to  say  that.  It  would  be 
flying  in  the  face  of  the  Almighty  that 's  prospered  him." 

W^hile  Mrs.  Waule  was  speaking,  Mr.  Borthrop  Trumbull 
walked  away  from  the  fireplace  towards  the  window,  patrol- 
ling 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  IStist,  by  the  author  of  Waverley.'  "  Then  turn- 
ing tlie  page,  he  began  sonorously  — "  The  course  of  four 
centuries  has  wellnigh  elapsed  siuce  the  series  of  events  which 
are  related  in  the  following  chapters  took  place  on  the  Conti- 
nent." 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.  W^aule's  question  had  gone  by 
safely,  while  she  and  Solomon,  watching  ^Ir.  Trumbull's  move- 
ments, were  thinking  that  liigh  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  i)ublic  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 


326  MIDDLEMARCH. 

in  that  quality,  I  know.  There  is  some  gratification  to  a 
gentleman  "  —  here  Mr.  Trumbull's  voice  conveyed  an  emo- 
tional 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  publi- 
cation, 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  ivith  Mr.  Borthrop  Trumbull :  they  al- 
ways commenced,  both  in  private  life  and  on  his  handbills.) 
^'  You  are  a  reader,  I  see.  Do  you  subscribe  to  our  Middle- 
march  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  Mu- 
rillo;  Eubens,  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  awa}^  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.'' 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH.  327 

"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  was  n't  to  be  trusted  to  give  drops." 

"Auctioneers  talk  wild,"  said  Solomon.  "Kot  but  what 
Trumbull  has  made  money." 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

Close  up  liis  eyes  and  draw  the  curtain  close ; 
And  let  us  all  to  meditation. 

2  He;iry  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 


828  MIDDLEMARCH. 

stillness  and  the  subdued  light.  The  red  hre  with  its  gently 
audible  movement  seemed  like  a  solemn  existence  calmly  in- 
dependent of  the  petty  passions,  the  imbecile  desires,  the 
straining  after  worthless  uncertainties,  which  were  daily  mov- 
ing 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  satis- 
faction, 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  ridicu- 
lous 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  con- 
vinced, though  she  had  no  other  grounds  than  her  close  ob- 
servation 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  lior  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 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  329 

with  life,  and  watches  its  own  powers  with  interest.     Mary- 
had  plenty  of  merriment  witliin. 

Her  thought  was  not  veined  by  any  solemnity  or  pathos 
about  the  old  man  on  the  bed  :  such  sentiments  are  easier  to  af- 
fect 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  ^Ir.  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  faith- 
fully :  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  once  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  Mar}^,  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  ?  " 

"  Xot  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 


330  MTDDLEMARCH. 

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  every- 
thing. 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  toucli  j^our  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  bon}^  left  hand  at  emptying  the 
tin  box  before  him. 

'^  Miss}^,"  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. 


Mary  Garth  refusks  Mr.  Featiferstone. 


WAITING   FOR   DEATH.  331 

*'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,  hop- 
ing 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  Yincy." 

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  '11  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 


332  MIDDLEMARCH. 

wanting  to  do  as  lie  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  remem- 
brance 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. 


WAITING   FOR  DEATH. 


333 


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  move- 
ment 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  energeti- 
cally. In  a  very  little  while  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt 
that  VqIgv  Featherstone  was  dead,  with  his  right  hand  clasp- 
ing the  keys,  and  his  left  hand  lying  on  the  heap  of  notes  and 
gold. 


BOOK    IV. 

THEEE   LOVE   PROBLEMS. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

«'  1st.  Gent.  Such  men  as  this  are  feathers,  chips,  and  straws, 
Carry  no  weight,  no  force. 
2d  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  Middleniarch,  May 
was  not  always  warm  and  snnny,  and  on  this  particular  morn- 
ing a  chill  wind  was  blowing  the  blossoms  from  the  surround- 
ing 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  waitiug  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  fun- 
eral "  beyond  his  betters."  This  was  true ;  for  old  Feather- 
stone  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  before- 
hand. 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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  335 

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  elbowed 
in  early  life  by  unabashed  vices,  is  apt  to  retire  into  extreme 
privacy,  so  that  it  is  more  easily  believed  in  by  those  wdio 
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  alto- 
gether cheered  (in  a  tearful  manner)  by  this  sign  that  a  brother 
who  disliked  seeing  them  while  he  was  living  had  been  pros- 
pectively 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  them- 
selves, did  not  escape  the  fellowship  of  illusion.  In  writing 
the  programme  for  his  burial  he  certainly  did  not  make  clear 
to  liimself  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,  wdth  the  richest  scarfs  and  hatbands,  and  even 


336  MIDDLEMARCH. 

the  uncler-bearers  had  trappings  of  woe  which  w^ere  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  Feather- 
stone,  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  lieu  on  the  land  in  the  shape  of  tithe,  also  as  the  deliv- 
erer 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.  Cad- 
wallader 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  neces- 
sary to  the  system  of  things.  There  Avould  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  IMrs.  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. 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  337 

"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  ser- 
mons, 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. 

Th5  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  habit- 
iml  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  INFizraim. 

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  vis- 
ion of  St.  Peter's  at  Rome  was  inwoven  with  moods  of  despon- 
dency. 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-under- 
stood 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  hus- 
VOL.  VII.  22 


338  MIDDLEMAKCH. 

band'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,"  turn- 
ing 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 


?" 


"  Xo,  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  Casau- 
bon over  his  books.  I  told  him  it  would  n't  do  :  I  said,  ^  This 
will  never  do,  you  know  :  think  of  your  wife,  Casaubon.'  And 
he  promised  me  to  come  up.  I  did  n'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- 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  339 

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.  Cad- 
wallader,  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,  stand-, 
ing  behind  Mrs.  Cadwallader  and  leaning  forward  over  her 


340  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  sud- 
den paleness  as  she  looked  up  immediately  at  her  uncle,  while 
Mr.  Casaubon  looked  at  her. 

"He  came  with  me,  you  know  ;  he  is  ni}^  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  Doro- 
thea 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  Doro- 
thea's glance  at  her  husband  that  there  was  some  alarm  in  her 
mind. 

"A  very  nice  young  fellow  —  Casaubon  has  done  everything 


I 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  341 

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 
punctumy  and  that  sort  of  thing  —  gives  subjects  a  kind  of  turn. 
I  invited  liim  some  time  ago  when  you  were  ill,  Casaubon ; 
Dorothea  said  you  could  n'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  iMr.  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-knowl- 
edge. P)ut  he  wished  to  repress  outward  signs,  and  only  Doro- 
thea 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.  "  \Yhat 
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 


342  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  '11  fetch  him  in  now,  eh,  Casaubon  ?  "  said  Mr.  Brooke. 
"  He  would  n't  come  in  till  I  had  announced  him,  you  know. 
And  we  '11  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,  trans- 
parency, everything  of  that  sort.  I  went  into  that  a  great 
deal  at  one  time.     However,  I  '11  go  and  fetch  Ladislaw." 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

Non,  je  ne  comprends  pas  de  plus  charmant  plaisir 

Que  de  voir  d'hcritiers  une  troupe  affli,o;ee, 

Le  maintien  interdit,  et  la  mine  allongee, 

Lire  un  long  testament  ou  pales,  e'tonnes, 

On  leur  laisse  un  bonsoir  avec  un  pied  de  nez. 

Pour  voir  au  natural  leur  tristesse  profonde, 

Je  reviendrais,  je  erois,  expres  de  I'autre  monde. 

Regnard  :  Le.  Lejataire  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  think  that  so  many  forms 
feeding  on  the  same  store  of  fodder  were  eminently  super- 
fluous, as  tending  to  diminish  the  rations.  (I  fear  the  part 
played  by  the  vultures  on  that  occasion  would  be  too  painful 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  343 

for  art  to  represent,  those  birds  being  disadvantageously 
naked  about  the  gullet,  and  apparently  without  rites  and 
ceremonies.) 

Tlie  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. 
fJealousy  of  the  Yincys  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  iVIary  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  b}^  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. 


344  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  Why,  Trumbull  himself  is  pretty  sure  of  five  hundred  — 
that  you  may  depend,  —  I  should  n'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  unchange- 
ableness  of  expression.  Here,  clearly,  was  a  new  legatee ; 
else  why  was  he  bidden  as  a  mourner  ?  Here  were  new  pos- 
sibilities, raising  a  new  uncertainty,  which  almost  checked  re- 
mark 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  ex- 
amined the  stranger  Vv^itli  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  Kigg,  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 


THREE   LOVE   PEOBLEMS.  345 

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  trim- 
ming 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  broth- 
er 's  done,  Mr.  Trumbull,"  said  Mrs.  AVaule,  in  the  lowest  of 
her  woolly  tones,  while  she  turned  her  crape-shadow^ed  bonnet 
towards  ]\Ir.  Trumbull's  ear. 

''My  good  lady,  whatever  was  told  me  was  told  in  con- 
fidence," said  the  auctioneer,  putting  his  hand  up  to  screen 
that  secret. 

"  Them  who  've  made  sure  of  their  good-luck  may  be  dis- 
appointed 3'et,"  ^[rs.  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  was  n'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  unexception- 
able 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  teas  covetious,  Jane,"  she  replied  ;  "  but  I  have  six 
children  and  have  buried  three,  and  I  did  n't  marry  into  money. 
The  eldest,  that  sits  there,  is  but  nineteen  —  so  1  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.  Viiicy  had  glanced  at  the  passive  face  of 
Mr.  Rigg,  and  had  taken  out  his  snuff-box  and  tapped  it,  but 


346  MIDDLEMARCH. 

had  put  it  back  again  unopened  as  an  indulgence  which, 
however  clarifying  to  the  judgment,  was  unsuited  to  the 
occasion.  "  I  should  n't  wonder  if  Featherstone  had  better 
feelings  than  any  of  us  gave  him  credit  for,"  he  observed,  in 
the  ear  of  his  wife.  "  Ihis  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." 

^'Everj^thing  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  hira 
to  change  seats  with  her,  so  that  he  got  into  a  shadowy  corner. 
Fred  was  feeling  as  good-naturedly  as  possible  towards  every- 
body, including  Eigg ;  and  having  some  relenting  towards  all 
these  people  who  w^ere  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  Avho  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  everybod}^,  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  concern- 
ing the  King,  and  of  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  who  was  a  sailor 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  347 

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  Avould 
have  a  certain  validity,  and  that  there  might  be  such  an  inter- 
lacement 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  tliis  moment  was  ]\Lary  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  excej)t  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  un- 
known 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 


348  MIDDLEMARCH. 

with  his  spectacles — "a  codicil  to  this  latter  will,  bearing 
date  March  1,  1828." 

"Dear,  dear!"  said  sister  Martha,  not  meaning  to  be  audi- 
ble, 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  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,  preoccu- 
pied with  more  important  i)roblems,  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  otlier  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. 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  349 

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  hap- 
piest 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  !  0  expectations  founded  on  the  favor 
of  '^  close "  old  gentlemen  !  0  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  w^as  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  consid- 
ered 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." 


350  MIDDLEMARCH. 

Mary  Garth  was  feeling  that  what  they  had  yet  to  hear 
were  not  the  final  wishes.  The  second  will  revoked  every- 
thing 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  Feather- 
stone's  Aims-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  Al- 
mighty. 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  expres- 
sion 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  Trum- 
bull, "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  rea- 
son for  woiidering  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, 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  351 

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  should  n't  have  drawn  me  from  Brassing.  I  '11  put 
a  white  hat  and  drab  coat  on  to-morrow." 

"Dear,  dear,"  wept  Mrs.  Cranch,  "aud  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  '11  do  him  no  good  where  he's  gone,  that 's  my  belief," 
said  Solomon,  with  a  bitterness  which  was  remarkably  gen- 
uine, 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  —  broth- 
ers 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  '11  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 


352  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  Feather- 
stones  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  him- 
self capable  of  much  more  stinging  wit  than  this,  but  he  re- 
flected that  there  was  no  use  in  offending  the  new  proprietor 
of  Stone  Court,  until  you  were  certain  that  he  was  quite  with- 
out 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  ques- 
tions 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.  Bigg  in  conversation  :  there 
w^as  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  dis- 
passionate enough  to  feel  curiosity. 

Mr.  Yincy,  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  com- 
pany 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 


THREE   LOVE   PliOBLEMS.  353 

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  7nust  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,  jMary  ?  " 

"  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  fore- 
boding 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 
particularit}^,  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 
VOL.  VII.  23 


354  MIDDLEMAECH. 

habits  and  ugly  consequences  are  brought  into  view,  the  reader 
may  have  the  relief  of  regarding  them  as  not  more  than  figura- 
tively 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  Eeform  Bill,  and  Peter  Featherstone,  you  perceive,  was 
dead  and  buried  some  months  before  Lord  Grey  came  into 
office. 


CHAPTEK  XXXVI. 


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  Philof as. 

Mr.  Vincy  went  home  from  the  reading  of  the  will  with 
his  point  of  view  considerably  changed  in  relation  to  many 
subjects.  He  w^as  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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  365 

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  tak«n  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  gener- 
all)^  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. 


356  MIDDLEMAKCH. 

''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  every- 
where, 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  Wil- 
loughby's.  There  are  relations  in  that  family  quite  as  high 
as  Mr.  Lyd gate'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  was  n't  at  home  ;  but  Rosa- 
mond told  me  you  had  n't  a  word  to  say  against  the  engage- 
ment. 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  ;  every- 
body 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  '11  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,  tliat  's 
all.  I  expect  I  shall  have  to  put  down  my  horses  soon.  You  'd 
better  tell  Rosy  what  I  say." 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  357 

This  was  a  not  infrequent  procedure  with  Mr.  Viucy  —  to 
be  rash  in  jovial  assent,  and  on  becoming  subsequently  con- 
scious that  he  had  been  rasli,  to  employ  others  in  making  the 
offensive  retractation.  However,  Mrs.  Vincy,  who  never  will- 
ingly opposed  her  husband,  lost  no  time  the  next  morning  in 
letting  Eosamond  know  what  he  had  said.  Eosamond,  ex- 
amining 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  Eosa- 
mond, quite  calmly.  ''  He  has  always  said  that  he  wished  me 
to  marry  the  man  I  loved.  And  I  shall  marry  jNIr.  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,  yonr  papa  says  he  will  give  no  moiie}'.  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." 


358  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  par- 
ticularly 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  some- 
times 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  en- 
gagement 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  indis^wsed  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  pre- 
ferred 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  satisfac- 
tion. 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 


THREE   LOVE   PKOBLEMS.  359 

Gate,  and  a  love-making  not  at  all  dependent  on  money- 
advances  from  fatliers-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  finger- 
tips, 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  com- 
pleteness, 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  Kosamond, 
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.  Fare- 
brother.  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  pros- 
pects ? "  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 


360  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  does  n'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  Eosamond.  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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  361 

use  of  liis  gifts  for  God's  purposes  which  is  taught  us  by  the 
divine  government  under  each  dispensation." 

Mrs.  Bu] strode  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  pre- 
pared to  accept  all  the  consequences  which  he  believed  him- 
self 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.  Mar- 
riage, of  course,  must  be  prepared  for  in  the  usual  way.  A 
house  must  be  taken  instead  of  the  rooms  he  at  present  occu- 
pied ;  -and  Lydgate,  having  heard  Eosamond  speak  with  ad- 
miration 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  famil- 
iarized him  with  all  grades  of  poverty,  and  he  cared  much  for 
those  who  suffered  hardships.  He  would  have  behaved  per- 
fectly 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  ten- 
dency 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 


862  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  common- 
ness, and  half  from  that  naivete  which  belonged  to  preoccupa- 
tion 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  mone}^  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. 
Earebrother,  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  Avants  to  work  steadily.  He  has  every- 
thing 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  —  Eosamond,  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  w^ith  the  wine  of  love  in  his  veins,  to 
bo  obliged  to  mingle  so  often  with  the  fam.ily  party  at  the 


THKEE   LOVE   PKOBLEMS.  363 

Vincys',  and  to  enter  so  much  into  Middlemarch  gossip,  pro- 
tracted good  cheer,  whist-playing,  and  general  futilit}^  He 
had  to  be  deferential  when  i\[r.  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  un- 
streaked  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  T  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  —  " 


364  MIDDLEMARCH. 

Eosamond  hesitated,  and  her  cheeks  were  gathering  a  slight 
flush.  Lydgate  had  never  seen  her  in  trouble  since  the  morn- 
ing 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  engage- 
ment," Eosamond  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  Eosa- 
mond, 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  engage- 
ment 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  every- 
thing 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  insist- 
ance.  "  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  Eosa- 
mond, 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  Eosamond  was  tormenting  him  prettily,  and  half  fearing 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  365 

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  God- 
win 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  b}^  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  dis- 
comfort 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 


366  MIDDLEMARCH. 

soul  beyond  utterance,  half  nymph,  half  child,  in  those  deli- 
cate 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.  Eosamond  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  accom- 
plished creature  who  venerated  his  high  musings  and  momen- 
tous 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,  there- 
fore, and  ready  to  carry  out  behests  which  came  from  beyond 
that  limit.  It  was  plainer  now  than  ever  that  his  notion  of 
remaining  much  longer  a  bachelor  had  been  a  mistake  :  mar- 
riage 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  men- 
tioned his  purchase  with  some  descriptive  touches.  "Just 
what  Kosy  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.) 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  367 

Of  course  it  was  unnecessary  to  defer  the  mention  of  any- 
thing to  mamma,  who  did  not  readily  take  views  that  were  not 
cheerful,  and  being  a  happy  wife  herself,  had  hardly  any  feel- 
ing but  pride  in  her  daughter's  marriage.  But  Eosamond  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  3'Ou  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  disap- 
pointment 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 


868  MIDDLEMARCH. 

who  was  not  a  perfect  geutlemaii.  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  Eosamond  was  certain  that  she  had  gained 
her  point. 

Mr.  Vincy's  answer  consisted  chiefly  in  a  demand  that  Lyd- 
gate  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.  How- 
ever, it  seemed  to  make  everything  comfortable  about  Rosa- 
mond'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,  re- 
strained 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  pay- 
ment easy.  He  was  not  going  to  do  anything  extravagant,  but 
the  requisite  things  must  be  bought,  and  it  would  be  bad  econ- 
omy to  buy  them  of  a  poor  quality.  All  these  matters  were 
by  the  l)ye.  Lydgate  foresaw  that  science  and  his  profession 
were  the  objects  he  should  alone  pursue  enthusiastically  ;  but 


I 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  369 

he  could  not  imagine  himself  pursuing  them  in  such  a  home  as 
Wrench  had  —  the  doors  all  open,  the  oil-cloth  worn,  the  chil- 
dren 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  sha  wl ;  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  Quallingliam ;  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." 

L3algate  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  content- 
ment in  the  prospect  of  being  able  to  estimate  them  contemptu- 
ously on  her  own  account. 

VOL.  VII.  24 


370  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  hand- 
some.    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  de- 
sirable that  Lydgate  should  by-and-by  get  some  first-rate  posi- 
tion 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 
v.'ould  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  :  es- 
pecially on  the  innate  submissiveness  of  the  goose  as  beauti- 
fully corresponding  to  the  strength  of  the  gander. 


I 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  S71 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

Thrice  happy  she  that  is  so  well  assured 

Unto  herself,  and  settled  so  in  heart, 

That  neither  will  for  better  be  allured 

Kc  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  dotli  from  it  depart, 

No  aught  for  fairer  weather's  false  delight. 

Such  self-assurance  need  not  fear  the  spight 

Of  grudging  foes  ;  ue  favour  seek  of  friends ; 

But  in  the  stay  of  her  own  stedfast  might 

Neitlier  to  one  lierself  nor  other  bends. 

Most  happy  she  that  most  assured  doth  rest, 
But  lie  most  happy  Avho  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  ?  P>uyers  of  the  Middle- 
march  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  Liberal- 
ism with  a  toleration  of  Jesuitry  and  Baal ;  but  they  were  ill- 


872  MIDDLEMARCH. 

satisfied  with  the  "Trumpet,"  which  —  since  its  blasts  against 
Kome,  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  toler- 
ance, 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  Tip- 
ton, 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  Eeform." 

"  Let  Brooke  reform  his  rent-rolL  He  's  a  cursed  old  screw, 
and  the  buildings  all  over  his  estate  are  going  to  rack.  I  sup- 
pose 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  '11  begin  with  flourishing  about  the  Rights  of  Man  and  end 
with  murdering  a  wench.     That's  the  style." 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  373 

"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  can- 
not blind  myself  to  the  consideration  that  the  non-representa- 
tion of  large  towns  —  " 

"  Large  towns  be  damned  !  "  said  Mr.  Hawle}',  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  politi- 
cal —  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  "  l^ioneer "  had  been  secretly 
bought  even  before  Will  Ladislaw's  arrival,  the  expected 
opportunity  having  offered  itself  in  the  readiness  of  the  pro- 
prietor to  part  with  a  valuable  property  which  did  not  pay ; 
and  in  the  interval  since  ]\Ir.  Brooke  had  written  his  invita- 
tion, 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  eifectiveness  of  treatment. 

"  He  seems  to  me  a  kind  of  Shelley,  you  know,"  Mr.  Brooke 


374  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  —  in- 
deed, we  were  talking  a  great  deal  together  last  night.  But 
he  has  the  same  sort  of  enthusiasm  for  liberty,  freedom,  eman- 
cipation—  a  fine  thing  under  guidance  —  under  guidance,  you 
know.  T  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  our- 
selves. 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  checks 
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  remem- 
brance) 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  pres- 
ent —  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  flourish- 
ing 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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  375 

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  w^hether  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  him- 
self and  others.  The  simple  truth  was  that  nothing  then  in- 
vited 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  Casau- 
bon, 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  com- 
panionship with  one  who  was  cleverer  than  herself,  yet  seemed 
ready  to  be  swayed  by  her.  Poor  Dorothea  before  her  mar- 
riage had  never  found  much  room  in  other  minds  for  what  she 
cared  most  to  say  ;  and  she  had  not,  as  w^e  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 


376  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  benehcently  by  mak- 
ing 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  pleas- 
ure 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  im- 
patient 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,   siv,"  said  Pratt,  a 


THREE    LOVE   PROBLEMS.  377 

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  liim  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 
befoie  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  m.  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  coukl  not  stay  to  ask  himself,  why  not  ?  ''  I  wanted  to 
talk  about  things,  as  we  did  in  Kome.  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  m  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  with- 
out fear  to  the  one  person  whom  she  had  found  receptive  ;  for 
in  looking  backward  through  sadness  she  exaggerated  a  past 
solace. 


378  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  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  w^orthy  to  be  perfectly  loved.  I  think  his  own  feel- 
ings 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  Eome," 
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  Wil],  with  irrepres- 
sible quickness.  But  through  certain  sensibilities  Dorothea 
was  as  quick  as  he,  and  seeing  her  face  change,  he  added,  im- 
mediately, "  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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  379 

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,  m  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  I\[r.  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 


380  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  w^as  straugeiy  quiet — not  immediately  indig- 
nant, 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  per- 
ception ;  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  tract  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  rumi- 
natingly  she  sa.id,  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  mesal- 
liance, though  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  against  her  hus- 
band except  that  he  was  a  Polish  refugee  who  gave  lessons 
for  his  bread." 

"I  v/ish  I  knew  all  about  her  I  "  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  alwa^^s 


THREE   LOVE  PROBLEMS.  381 

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  fel- 
low 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. 

"Ko,"  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  rebel- 
lious ;  I  mean,  to  Mr.  Casaubon's  wishes.  You  must  remem- 
ber that  you  have  not  done  what  he  thought  best  for  you. 
And  if  he  dislikes  you  —  you  were  speaking  of  dislike  a  little 


382  MIDDLEMARCH. 

while  ago  —  but  I  slioiikl  rather  say,  if  he  has  shown  any  pain- 
ful 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  trav- 
elling 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  pro- 
poses that  I  should  stay  in  this  neighborhood.  He  has  bought 
one  of  the  Middlemarcli  newspapers,  and  he  wishes  me  to  con- 
duct 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  some- 
thing 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  Eome.  There 
was  not  the  shadow  of  a  reason  in  her  mind  at  the  moment 
why  she  should  not  say  so. 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  383 

"Then  I  will  stay,"  said  Ladislaw,  shaking  his  head  back- 
ward, 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  hus- 
band 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  with- 
out thinking  of  anything  else  than  my  own  feeling,  which  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  real  question.  But  it  now  occurs  to 
me  —  perhaps  INIr.  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  scared  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  Com- 
mon, 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.  Casau- 
bon." 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  for- 
ever ray-shorn  in  her  eyes. 

"I  wish  you  could  have  stayed,"  said  Dorothea,  with  a 
touch  of  mourn  fulness,  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.  Casau- 
bon'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  encoun- 
tering Mr.  Casaubon's  carriage,  which,  however,  did  not  appear 
at  the  gate  until  four  o'clock.     That  Avas  an  unpropitious  hour 


384  MIDDLEMARCH. 

lor  coming  home :  it  w?.s  too  early  to  gain  the  moral  support 
under  ennui  of  dressing  his  persou  for  dinner,  and  too  late  to 
undress  his  mind  of  the  day's  frivolous  ceremony  and  affairs, 
so  as  to  be  prej^ared  for  a  good  plunge  into  the  serious  busi- 
ness of  study.  On  such  occasions  he  usually  threw  himself 
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  acquaint- 
ance, Dr.  Spanning,  to-day,  and  of  being  praised  by  one  who  is 
himself  a  worthy  recipient  of  praise.  He  spoke  very  hand- 
somely 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  hap- 
pened 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 .  men- 
tioned 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 


THREE    LOVE   PROBLEMS.  385 

asked  Mr.  Ladislaw  to  stay  in  this  neigliborhood  and  conduct 
the  pai:»er  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  intpiired  about,  but  she  only  became  a  little  more 
serious,  and  her  eyes  did  not  swerve. 

"  Ko,"  she  answered  immediately,  "  he  did  not  say  that  he 
came  to  ask  your  opinion.  But  when  he  mentioned  the  pro- 
posal, he  of  course  expected  me  to  tell  3'ou  of  it." 

IVIr.  Casaubon  was  silent. 

"  I  feared  that  you  might  feel  some  objection.  But  cer- 
tainly 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  re- 
curred 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  stretclied)  has  on  j'our 
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  natm-al 
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 
voi>.  v[i.  25 


386  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  cogni- 
zant 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  reflec- 
tions 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  in 
any  wise  conspicuous  in  this  vicinity  in  a  status  not  only  much  be- 
neath 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, 

"  Edw^ard  Casaubon." 


Meanwhile  Dorothea's  mind  was  innocently  at  work  tow^ards 
the  further  embitterment  of  her  husband  ;  dwelling,  with  a 
sympathy  that  grew  to  agitation,  on  w^hat  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  w^estern  fields  beyond  the  avenue 
of  elms,  the  bare  room  had  gathered  within  it  those  memories 
of  an  inward  life  which  fill  the  air  as  w^ith  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  powder.  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 


THREE   LOVE   PEOBLEMS.  387 

a  living  face  that  she  knew,  helping  to  concentrate  her  feel- 
ings. What  a  wrong,  to  cut  off  the  girl  from  the  family  pro- 
tection 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  cer- 
tain 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  aristo- 
cratic 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  re- 
sponsibility ?  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  disap- 
proved 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  posses- 
sion of  a  rightful  income  which  should  be  paid  by  her  husband 


388  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  dajdight,  waking  her  from  her  previous  stupidity  and  in- 
curious 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  divi- 
sion 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  lier  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  agi- 
tating 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  j\Ir. 
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  — 


THREE   LOVE    PROBLEMS.  389 

"  Dorothea,  since  you  are  up,  will  you  light  a  caudle  ?  " 

"  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." 

"  ]\Iay  I  talk  to  you  a  little  instead  ?  "  said  Dorothea. 

"  Certainly." 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  money  all  day  —  that  I  have  al- 
ways 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  con- 
nections." 

"  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  3^ou  on  this 
subject  ?  "  said  Mr.  Casaubon,  with  a  certain  biting  quickness 
not  habitual  to  him. 


390  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"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 
beneht  by  that  '  more '  not  being  done." 

There  was  a  perceptible  pa,use  before  Mr.  Casaubon  re- 
plied, 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  as- 
sumed 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  re- 
vision, 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  him- 
self 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  in- 
ward cry  for  help  to  bear  this  nightmare  of  a  life  in  which 
every  energy  was  arrested  by  dread.  But  nothing  else  hap- 
pened, except  that  they  both  remained  a  long  while  sleepless, 
without  speaking  again. 

The  next  day,  Mr.  Casaubon  received  the  following  answer 
from  Will  Ladislaw  :  — 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS  391 

"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  obli- 
gation 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  considera- 
tions. 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  re- 
strain 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  dis- 
gust and  suspicion  than  he.  Young  Ladislaw^,  he  was  sure, 
meant  to  defy  and  annoy  him,  meant  to  win  Dorothea's  conti- 
dence  and  sow  her  mind  with  disrespect,  and  perhaps  aversion, 
towards  her  husband.  Some  motive  beneath  the  surface  had 
been  needed  to  account  for  WilPs  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  favor- 


392  MIDDLEMARCH. 

ably  and  be  influenced  by  what  he  said.  His  own  proud  reti- 
cence 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  remon- 
strance 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  ur- 
gency Mr.  Brooke  was  as  likely  as  not,  after  meeting  all  repre- 
sentations 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  communi- 
cating 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  sup- 
l)ose  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 
Avas  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. 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  393 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIT. 

C'est  beaucoup  que  le  jugement  des  hommes  sur  les  actions  humaines ; 
tot  ou  tarcl  il  devient  etficace.  —  Guizot. 

Sir  James  Chettam  could  not  look  with  an 3^  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  Avant,  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 
oft"  her  friend's  tongue.  "It  is  frightful  —  this  taking  to  buy- 
ing whistles  and  blowing  them  in  everybody's  hearing.  Lying 
in  bed  all  clay  and  playing  at  dominoes,  like  poor  Lord  Plessy, 
would  be  more  private  and  bearable." 

"  T  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 
INIr.  Cadwallader.  "  I  saw  Farebi'other  yesterday  —  he  's  Whig- 
gish  himself,  hoists  Brougham  and  Useful  Knowledge;  that's 
the  worst  I  know  of  him  ;  —  and  he  says  that  Brooke  is  get- 
ting 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. 


394  MIDDLEMARCH. 

What  Brooke  trusts  to,  is  that  they  are  going  to  turn  out 
Oliver  because  he  is  a  Peelite.  But  Hawley  tells  ine  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  changeable- 
ness  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  '11  turn  him  round  :  I  think  the  nomination  may  be 
staved  off." 

"  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Cadwallader,  nodding.  "The  indepen- 
dent member  has  n'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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  395 

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 
does  n'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 
did  n'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  noth- 
ing, what  can  I  do  ?  " 


396  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"Oh,  iny  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  Ladis- 
law  will  get  tired  of  each  other ;  Ladislaw  will  take  wing ; 
Brooke  ^vill  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  wdth  wide  words  like  Ex23enditure  :  I  would  n't 
talk  of  phlebotomy,  I  would  empty  a  pot  of  leeches  upon  him. 
What  we  good  stingy  people  don't  like,  is  having  our  six- 
pences 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  Love- 
good  is  hardly  up  to  the  mark.  But  Garth  would  not  under- 
take 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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  397 

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  does  n'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.  Xow,  you  ply  him  with  the  '  Trumpet,'  Humphrey  ; 
and  I  will  put  the  leeches  on  him.  W^hat  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 
wnsh  people  would  behave  like  gentlemen,"  said  the  good 
baronet,  feeling  that  this  was  a  simple  and  comprehensive 
programme  for  social  well-being. 


398  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  Here  you  all  are,  eh  ?  "  said  Mr.  BrooKe,  shuffling  round 
and  shaking  hands.  "  I  was  going  up  to  the  Hall  by-and-b}^, 
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  iMr.  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.  Retro- 
gressive, 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  ivho  is  retro- 
gressive 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  corrup)tion,  and  keeps  his  farms 
at  rack-rent:  ivho  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  ivould 
give  any  number  of  representatives  ivho  ivill  p>ay  for  their  seats 
out  of  their  own  pockets  :  ichat  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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  399 

his  house  look  a  little  less  like  an  Irish  cottiei^s.  But  we  all 
know  the  wag's  definition  of  a  philanthropist:  a  man  ivhose 
charity  increases  directly  as  the  square  of  the  distance.  And  so 
on.  All  the  rest  is  to  show  what  sort  of  legislator  a  philan- 
thropist 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  had  n'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, 
was  n't  his  name  ?  —  spent  ten  thousand  pounds  and  failed 
because  he  did  not  bribe  enou2:h.     What  a  bitter  reflection  for 


f " 


a  man  i 

"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 


400  MIDDLEMARCH. 

drunk  to  the  poll.  But  they  are  not  going  to  have  it  their 
own  way  in  future  —  not  in  future,  you  know.  Mid  die  march 
is  a  little  backward,  I  admit  —  the  freemen  are  a  little  back- 
ward. But  we  shall  educate  them  —  we  shall  bring  them  ou, 
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  Eector.  "  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,  per- 
secution, martyrdom,  and  that  kind  of  thing.  They  always 
happen  to  the  best  men,  you  know.  But  what  is  that  in 
Horace? — fiat  justitia,  mat  .  .  .  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. 


THREE  LOVE  PROBLEMS.  401 

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.     AVhat  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  hlanche  about  gates  and 
repairs  :  that 's  my  view  of  the  political  situation,"  said  the 
Kector,  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  land- 
lord who  has  distressed  his  tenants  for  arrears  as  little  as  I 
have.  I  let  the  old  tenants  stay  on.  I  'm  uncommonly  eas}", 
let  me  tell  3'ou — 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  did  n'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  speechify- 
ing 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 
VOL.  VII.  26 


402  MIDDLEMARCH. 

that  he  loses  money  by  bad  management,  and  then  we  should 
all  have  pulled  together.  If  you  put  him  a-horseback  on  poli- 
ticSj  I  warn  you  of  the  consequences.  It  w^as  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  tliat,  and  say  so  too, 

And  forget  the  He  and  IShe  ; 

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  Von  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  her- 
self 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  "  docu- 
ments "  about  hanging  sheep-stealers,  was  exemplifying  the 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  403 

jjower  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  resi- 
dence 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. 

"  W^ell,  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. 


404  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  Why,  yes,  my  dear,  it  was  quite  youT  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  does  n't  do  to  be  run  away 
with.  We  must  keep  the  reins.  I  have  never  let  myself  be 
run  away  with ;  I  alwa3^s  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,  color- 
ing 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  choris- 
ter 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  Dovvnes,  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  draw- 
ing-room seemed  to  me  like  a  wicked  attempt  to  find  delight 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  405 

in  wliat  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  per- 
petual struggle  of  energy  with  fear.  For  the  moment,  Will's 
admiration  was  accompanied  with  a  chilling  sense  of  remote- 
ness. 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  conscious- 
ness 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,  Ladislavv  ?  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,  ele- 
vates a  nation  —  evioUlt  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  '11  come,  I  '11  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 


406  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  look- 
ing 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  atten- 
tive to  the  feelings  of  dogs,  and  very  polite  if  she  had  to  de- 
cline 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  jeal- 
ousy 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.     Obli- 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  407 

gation  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  alto- 
gether in  the  wrong,  on  more  grounds  than  Will  had  men- 
tioned. 

"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  melanchol}^  meditation. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  shall  hardly  ever  see  you  now,"  said  Will,  in  a 
tone  of  almost  boyish  complaint. 

"Xo,"  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  ex- 
pression. "  I  mean,  for  myself.  Except  that  I  should  like 
not  to  have  so  much  more  than  my  share  without  doing  any- 
thing for  others.  But  I  have  a  belief  of  my  own,  and  it  com- 
forts 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 


408  MIDULEMARCH. 

something  else  geogTapliical.  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  wdien  I  see  it,"  said 
Will.  "  But  I  am  a  rebel :  I  don't  feel  bound,  as  you  do,  to 
submit  to  wdiat  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  renew^ed  the  sub- 
ject 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  w^ere  walking 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  409 

out  together.  He  was  pretty  quick,  aud  knocked  it  ou  the 
oeck." 

"  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  hypoc?'iVe  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  1  came  to  think  of  it,  I 
could  n'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  does  n't  do  to  reason  about 
things ;  and  law  is  hnv.  But  1  got  Johnson  to  be  quiet,  and  I 
hushed  the  matter  up.  1  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  ad- 
mirable 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.  Dag- 
ley's  homestead  never  before  looked  so  dismal  to  Mr.  Brooke 
as  it  did  to-day,  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, 
mii{ht  have  been  delighted  with  this  homestead  called  Free- 


■■&' 


410  MIDDLEMARCH. 

man'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  moul- 
dering garden  wall  with  hollyhocks  peeping  over  it  was  a  per- 
fect 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  labor- 
ers 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  depres- 
sion of  the  agricultural  interest,  with  the  sad  lack  of  farming 
capita],  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  week- 
day 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  Vv^ere  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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  411 

drink,  which  last  Dagley  interpreted  as  plenty  of  table  ale 
well  followed  up  by  rum-and-water.  These  liquors  have  so 
far  truth  in  thern  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  disturb- 
ing 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  land- 
lord 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  '11 
just  look  after  him,  will  you,  and  give  him  a  reprimand,  you 
know  ?  " 

"  No,  I  woon't :  I  '11  be  dee'd  if  I  '11  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 


412  MIDDLEMARCH. 

mean  beating,  you  know/'  turned  to  walk  to  the  house.  But 
Dagley,  only  the  more  inclined  to  '^  have  his  say  "  with  a  gen- 
tleman who  walked  away  from  him,  followed  at  once,  with 
Tag  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  pre- 
paring 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  yott)-  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 
wuU  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. 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  413 

But  Dagley  immediately  fronted  him,  and  Fag  at  his  heels 
growled  low,  as  his  master's  voice  grew  louder  and  more  in- 
sulting, 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  '11  hev  to  scuttle  off.  An'  there  's  them  i'  Middle- 
march  knows  what  the  Rinform  is  —  an'  as  knows  who  '11 
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  L  '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'  i:)retty  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  ^Ir.  Brooke  to  escape.  He  walked  out  of  the  yard 
as  quickly  as  he  could,  in  some  amazement  at  the  novelt}^  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  won- 
der at  the  midnight  darkness  of  Mr.  Dagley ;  but  nothing  was 
easier  in  those  times  than  for  an  hereditary  farmer  of  his 


414  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  intellec- 
tual 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  Sun- 
day 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  liis  utmost  sense. 
These  perfect  in  their  little  parts, 

Whose  work  is  all  their  prize  — 
Without  them  how  could  laws,  or  arts, 

Or  tOAvered  cities  rise  ?  " 

In"  watching  effects,  if  only  of  an  electric  battery,  it  is  often 
necessary  to  change  our  place  and  examine  a  particular  mix- 
ture or  group  at  some  distance  from  the  point  where  the  move- 
ment we  are  interested  in  was  set  up.    The  group  I  am  moving 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  415 

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  disappoint- 
ment 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  de- 
bate, 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  Eosamond  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. 


416  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  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  famil}^  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  knowl- 
edge 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  Avould  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 


THREE  LOVE  PROBLEMS.  417 

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  I"  to  a  canter- 
ing measure,  which  he  beat  out  with  his  fist  on  Mary's  arm. 

But  Mrs.  Garth's  eyes  were  now  drawn  towards  her  hus- 
band, 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  ]\Ir.  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,  ana  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,  does  n't  he,  Susan  ? "  said  Caleb, 
turning   his   eyes  upward  to  his  wife,  who  raised  her  hand 

VOL.  VII.  27 


418  MIDDLEMARCH. 

from  his  shoulder  to  his  ear,  while  she  rested  her  chin  on  his 
head.  "  Brooke  did  n'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,  think- 
ing 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  — 

"  Xow,  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  to- 
gether." 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  trium- 
phant 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 — 


THREE    LOVE   PROBLEMS.  419 

"  It 's  a  thousand  pities  Christy  did  n'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  agree- 
ments with  the  tenants,  and  I  shall  draw  up  a  rotation  of 
crops.  And  I  '11  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  get- 
ting 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  nauie  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  Lyd- 
gate.     He  used  to  the  full  the  clergyman's  privilege  of  dis- 


420  MIDDLEMAKCH. 

regarding  the  Middleniarch  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  daj^s  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  v/as  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 
Pred'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.  Bat  yester- 
day 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  difli- 
cult  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  does  n'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  u[)  the  boys  well 
and  to  keep  IMary  at  home." 

"  What  is  the  treasure-trove  ?  "  said  Mr.  Farebrother. 

"  I  'm  going  to  be  agent  for  two  estates,  Freshitt  and  Tip- 
ton ;   and  perhaps  for  a  pretty  little  bit  of  land  in  Lowick 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  421 

besides :  it 's  all  the  same  family  counection,  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  littlcj  and  spread  his  arms  on  the  elbows  of  his  chair  — 
"that  IVe  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  onllie  injury  he  had  done  ycu 
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  i)ass,  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  recon- 
cile 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  any- 
thing 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,  accord- 
ing to  Mrs.  Vincy 's  phrase,  she  worked  for  her  bread.) 


422  MTDDLEMARCH. 

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.  Eeally,  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  iii  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  Lett}-  with 
her. 

"  Oh,  we  must  forgive  young  people  when  they  're  sorry," 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  423 

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  '11  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  wliat  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  could  n'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  prop- 
erty and  bioken  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  does  n'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,  mis- 
taken —  though  no  man  ought  to  make  a  claim  on  such 
feeling." 


424  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  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  for- 
get 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  actnal  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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  425 

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  w^ork." 

"  On  the  other  hand,  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  yoxi  are  not 
going  away  to  work.  My  mother,  I  am  sure,  will  be  all  the 
happier  if  you  wall  come  to  see  her  at  the  vicarage  :  you  know 
she  is  fond  of  having  3'oung  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  ]\[ary.  "  Every- 
thing 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 


426  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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." 

"Ko,"  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. 

"  AYhat  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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  427 

himself.  They  all  think  us  beneath  them.  And  if  the  pro 
posal  came  from  you,  I  am  sure  :\rrs.  Vincy  would  say  that  we 
wanted  Fred  for  ^Lary." 

"  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  i)lan  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  peoi)le  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  ])inch  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  indul- 
gence was  at  his  command. 

His  wife  held  down  her  knitting  and  looked  attentive. 

"  Why,  that  Rigg,  or  Rigg  Featherstone,  was  one.  But  Bul- 
strode  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. 


428  MlDDLExMARCH. 

"  Deuce  knows,"  said  Caleb,  who  never  referred  the  knowl- 
edge of  discreditable  doings  to  any  higher  power  than  the 
deuce.  "  But  Bulstrode  has  long  been  wanting  to  get  a  hand- 
some bit  of  land  under  his  fingers  —  that  I  know.  And  it 's  a 
difficult  matter  to  get,  in  this  part  of  the  countr}^" 

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. 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS. 


CHAPTER   XLL 

By  swaggerino;  could  I  never  thrive, 
For  the  rain  it  raiueth  every  day. 


429 


Tioetjth  Night. 


The  transactions  referred  to  by  Caleb  Garth  as  having  gone 
forward  between  Mr.  Bulstrode  and  Mr.  Joshua  Rigg  Feather- 
stone  concerning  the  land  attached  to  Stone  Court,  had  oc- 
casioned 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  appar- 
ently 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  exist- 
ence. Socially  speaking,  Joshua  Rigg  would  have  been  gen- 
erally pronounced  a  superfluity.     But  those  who  like  Peter 


430  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  resem- 
blance to  the  mother,  in  whose  sex  frog-features,  accompanied 
with  fresh-colored  cheeks  and  a  well-rounded  figure,  are  com- 
patible 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.  Eigg  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  imper- 
turbable, 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,  wiien  Mr.  Eigg  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. 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  431 

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  some- 
what worn  joinings  of  his  clothes,  and  the  air  of  a  swaggerer, 
v/ho  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  witti- 
cism of  calling  that  celebrated  principal  Ba-Lamb.  Such  were 
the  appearance  and  meutal  flavor  of  Mr.  Raffles,  both  of  which 
seemed  to  have  a  stale  odor  of  travellers'  rooms  in  the  com- 
mercial 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  comfort- 
able while  you  live,"  returned  Rigg,  in  his  cool  high  voice. 
"  What  I  give  her,  you  '11  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  wildcats — 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,  hy  Jove  !  " 


432  MIDDLEMARCH. 

"  Have  you  done  ?  "  said  Mr.  Rigg,  quietly,  without  looking 
away  from  the  window. 

"Yes,  /'ve  done,"  said  Eaffles,  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  Eigg  pronounced  the  last  words  he  turned  round  and 
looked  at  Raffles  with  his  prominent  frozen  eyes.  The  con- 
trast was  as  striking  as  it  could  have  been  eighteen  years 
before,  when  Rigg  was  a  most  un engaging  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.  ^ot 
at  all.  He  made  a  grimace  which  was  habitual  with  him 
whenever  lie  was  "  out "  in  a  game  ;  then  subsided  into  a 
laugh,  and  drew  a  brandy-flask  from  liis  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  '11  go.  Honor  bright !  I  '11  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  '11 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  433 

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  non- 
plussed. "  I  'ni  very  fond  of  you  ;  bij  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  him- 
self by  his  movement  with  the  flask  that  it  had  become  dan- 
gerously 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  gri- 
mace 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 ; 
VOL.  VII,  28 


434  MIDDLEMARCH. 

and  there  lie  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  occa- 
sions kept  up  the  sense  of  having  been  educated  at  an  acad- 
emy, 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  Bidstrode,  but  Raffles  w^as  not 
likely  to  disturb  it  from  its  present  useful  position. 


CHAPTER   XLIL 

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 


THREE  LOVE   PROBLEMS.  435 

this  experience,  and  perhaps  it  is  onl}^  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  con- 
fession 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  Ladis- 
law'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  rela- 
tion 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 


436  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  rebel- 
lion ;  a  remark  from  her  which  he  had  not  in  any  way  antici- 
pated 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.  Casau- 
bon, I  think  it  quite  ordinary.  Will  not  a  tiny  speck  very 
close  to  our  vision  blot  out  the  glor}^  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  un- 
mixedly  adorable.  He  suspected  this,  however,  as  he  sus- 
pected other  things,  without  confessing  it,  and  like  the  rest 
of  us,  felt  how  soothing  it  would  have  been  to  have  a  compan- 
ion who  would  never  find  it  out. 


THREE    LOVE   PROBLEMS.  437 

This  sore  susceptibility  in  relation  to  Dorothea  was  thor- 
oughly prepared  belore  Will  Ladislaw  had  returned  to  Lowick, 
and  what  had  occurred  since  then  had  brought  ]\Ir.  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  predomi- 
nating 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  vm- 
just  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  re- 
bellious 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  tete-a-tete  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  mix- 
ture of  more  odious  foreboding  into  her  husband's  mind. 

And  there  was  the  shock  lately  given  to  his  health  nlways 
sadly  present  with  him.  He  was  certainly  much  revived  ;  he 
had  recovered  all  his  usual  power  of  work :  the  illness  might 


438  MIDDLEMARCH. 

have  been  mere  fatigue,  and  there  miglit  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  &  Com- 
pany; 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  agree- 
able 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  pre- 
vision 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  earthlj^  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.  Casau- 
bon 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  con- 
trary, 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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  439 

principle  than  transient  caprice,  and  wlio  has  a  personal  ani- 
mosity 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  uneas- 
iness as  to  what  he  may  attempt  through  indirect  influence. 
This  man  h?s  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  any  tiling  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  im- 
moderate 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  scio- 
lism ever  dissociated  from  laxity  ?  I  utterly  distrust  his  mor- 
als, 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  inevitabl}^  dwelt  so  much  on  the  probabilities  of  his 
own  life  that  the  longing  to  get  the  nearest  possible  calcu- 
lation 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  tak- 
ing my  usual  exercise." 


440  MIDDLEMARCH. 

When  Lydgate  entered  the  Yew-tree  Walk  he  saw  Mr.  Casau- 
bon  slowly  receding  with  his  hands  behind  him  according  to 
his  habit,  and  his  head  bent  forward.  It  was  a  lovely  after- 
noon ;  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  po- 
lite 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  un- 
pleasant 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  cir- 
cumscription 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 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  441 

many  situations  more  sublimely  tragic  than  the  struggle  of 
the  soui  with  the  demand  to  renounce  a  work  which  nas  been 
all  the  signilicance  of  its  life  —  a  significance  which  is  to  van- 
ish 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  dis- 
aster to  enter  into  the  pathos  of  a  lot  where  everything  is  be- 
low 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  scrupu- 
lous care,  were  those  of  a  fatal  disease.  But  were  it  so, 
Mr.  Lydgate,  I  should  desire  to  know  the  truth  without  res- 
ervation, 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  Lyd- 
gate ;  "  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  emi- 
nently 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  stetho- 
scope, 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 


442  MIDDLEMARCH. 

death  from  this  disease  is  often  sudden.  At  the  same  time, 
no  such  result  can  be  predicted.  Your  condition  iriay  be  con- 
sistent with  a  tolerably  comfortable  life  for  another  fifteen 
years,  or  even  more.  I  could  add  no  information  to  this  be- 
yond anatomical  or  medical  details,  which  would  leave  expec- 
tation at  precisely  the  same  point."  Lydgate's  instinct  was 
line  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  mo- 
ment'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  j^ew- 
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  conscious- 
ness "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 


THREE   LOVE   PKOBLEMS.  443 

does  not  change  its  lifelong  bias,  but  carries  it  onward  in  im- 
agination to  the  other  side  of  death,  gazing  backward  —  per- 
haps 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 
Avhat  we  strive  to  gratify,  thougvli  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  pas- 
sionate 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.  lUit  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  ad- 
vancing. Then  slie  went  towards  him,  and  might  have  repre- 
sented 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 


444  MIDDLEMARCH. 

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  wliat  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  ven- 
ture 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  ami — that  he  should  treat 
mo  so?  He  never  knows  what  is  in  ray  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.     N"ow  she  said 


THREE   LOVE   PROBLEMS.  445 

bitterly,  ''  It  is  his  fault,  not  mine."  In  the  jar  of  her  whole 
being.  Pity  was  overthrown.  Was  it  lier  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,  tlien,  Tantripp." 

"  Oh,  madam,  let  me  bring  you  a  little  something  ?  '• 

"No;  I  am  not  well.  Get  everything  ready  in  my  dressing- 
room,  but  pra}^  do  not  disturb  me  again." 

Dorothea  sat  almost  motionless  in  her  meditative  struggle, 
while  the  evening  slowly  deepened  into  night.  But  the  strug- 
gle 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  hus- 
band—  her  conviction  that  he  had  been  asking  about  the 
possible  arrest  of  all  his  work,  and  that  the  answer  must  have 


446  MIDDLEMAltCH. 

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  sor- 
rows 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  incur- 
ring 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  foot- 
steps 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. 


University  Press :  John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


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