Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive in 2010 witii funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/middlemarchstudy21elio MIDDLE MARCH STUDY OF PEOVIXCIAL LIFE BY GEOEGE ELIOT VOL. IL AVILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS EDINBURGH AND LONDON MDCCCLXXII ^X5 CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME. PAGE BOOK III. WAITING FOR DEATH, . 1 " IV. THKEE LOVE PROBLEMS, , l77 MIDDLEMARCH BOOK III. WAITING FOR DEATH BOOK III. . WAITING FOE DEATH. CHAPTER XXIII. • Your horses of the Sun," he said, " And first-rate whip Apollo ! Whate'er they be, I'll eat my head. But I will beat them hollow." Fred Yincy, we have seen, had a debt on his mind, and though no such immaterial burthen could depress that buoyant-hearted young gentle- man for many hours together, there were circum- stances connected with this debt which made the thought of it unusually importunate. The creditor was Mr Bambridge, a horse-dealer of the neigh- bourhood, whose company was much sought in Middlemarch by young men understood to be " addicted to pleasure." During the vacations Fred had naturally required more amusements 4 MIDDLEMAECH. than lie had ready money for, and Mr Bambridge had been accomniodating 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 wdth his own signature. Three months later he had renewed this bill with the signature of Caleb Garth. On both occasions Fred had felt confident that he should meet the bill himself, having ample funds at disposal in his own hopefulness. You will hardly demand that his confidence should have a basis in exter- nal facts ; such confidence, we know, is something less coarse and materialistic : it is a comfortable disposition leading us to expect that the wisdom of providence or the folly of our friends, the mys- teries of luck or the still greater mystery of our high individual value in the universe, will bring about agreeable issues, such as are consistent with our good taste in costume, and our general pre- ference for the best style of thing. Fred felt sure that he should have a present from his uncle, that BOOK III. — WAITING FOE DEATH. 5 he sliould have a run of luck, that by dint of " swapping " he should gradually metamorphose a horse worth forty pounds into a horse that would fetch a hundred at any moment — "judgment" being always equivalent to an unspecified sum in hard cash. And in any case, even supposing negations which only a morbid disti-ust could imagine, Fred had always (at that time) his father's pocket as a last resource, so that his assets of hopefulness had a sort of gorgeous super- fluity about them. Of what might be the capa- city of his father's pocket, Fred had only a vague notion: was not trade elastic? And would not the deficiencies of one year be made up for by the surplus of another ? The Vincys lived in an easy profuse way, not with any new ostentation, but according to the family habits and traditions, so that the children had no standard of economy, and the elder ones retained some of their infantine notion that their father might pay for anything if he would. Mr Vincy himself had expensive Middlemarch habits — spent money on coursing, on his cellar, and on dinner-giving, while mamma had those running accounts with tradespeople, which give a cheerful sense of getting everything one wants without any question of payment. But it was in the nature of fathers, Fred knew, to 6 MIDDLEMAECH. bully one about expenses : there was always a little storm over his extravagance if he had to disclose a debt, and Fred disliked bad weather within doors. He was too filial to be disrespect- ful to his father, and he bore the thunder with the certainty that it was transient; but in the mean time it was disagreeable to see his mother cry, and also to be obliged to look sulky instead of having fun ; for Fred was so good-tempered that if he looked glum under scolding, it was chiefly for propriety's sake. The easier course plainly, was to renew the bill with a friend's signature. Why not ? With the superfluous securities of hope at his command, there was no reason why he should not have increased other people's liabilities to any extent, but for the fact that men whose names were good for anything were usually pessimists, indisposed to believe that the universal order of things would necessarily be agreeable to an agree- able young gentleman. With a favour 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 always a certain number who are BOOK m.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 7 dismissed as but moderately eager until the others have refused ; and it happened that Fred checked off all his friends but one, on the ground that applying to them would be disagreeable; being implicitly convinced that he at least (whatever might be maintained about mankind generally) had a right to be free from anything disagreeable. That he should ever fall into a thoroughly unplea- sant 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 in- tuitions 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 ^Ir Featherstone's double marriage (the first to Mr Garth's sister, and the second to Mrs Yincy's) had led to an acquaintance which was carried on between the children rather than the parents: the children drank tea together out of their toy 8 MIDDLEMAKCII. tea-cups, 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, mak- ing her his wife with a brass ring which he had cut from an umbrella. Through all the stages of his education he had kept his affection for the Garths, and his habit of going to their house as a second home, though any intercourse between them and the elders of his family had long ceased. Even when Caleb Garth was prosperous, the Vincys were on condescending terms with him and his wife, for there were nice distinctions of rank in Middlemarch ; and though old manufac- turers could not any more than dukes be connected with none but equals, they were conscious of an inherent social superiority which was defined with great nicety in practice, though hardly expressible theoretically. Since then Mr Garth had failed in the building business, which he had unfortunately added to his other avocations of surveyor, valuer, and agent, had conducted that business for a time entirely for the benefit of his assignees, and had been living narrowly, exerting himself to the ut- most 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 honourable exertions had won him due esteem; but in no part of the world is genteel visiting BOOK III. — WAITING FOE DEATH. 9 founded on esteem, in the absence of suitable furniture and complete dinner - service. LIrs Vincy bad 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 Lind- ley Murray and Mangnall's Questions was some- thing 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 become more frequent, the increasing ardour of his affec- tion for Mary inclining him the more towards those who belonged to her. Mr Garth had a small of&ce in the town, and to this Fred went with his request. He obtained it without much difficulty, for a large amount of painful experience had not sufficed to make Caleb Garth cautious about his own affairs, or distrust- ful of his fellow-men when they had not proved 10 MIDDLEMARCH. themselves untrustworthy ; and he had the high- est opinion of Fred, was " sure the lad ^yould 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 argu- ment. He was one of those rare men who are rigid to themselves and indulgent to others. He had a certain shame about his neighbours' errors, and never spoke of them willingly ; hence he was not likely to divert his mind from the best mode of hardening timber and other ingenious devices in order to preconceive those errors. If he had to blame any one, it was necessary for him to move all the papers within his reach, or describe various diagrams with his stick, or make calculations with the odd money in his pocket, before he could begin ; and he would rather do other men's work than find fault with their doing. I fear he was a bad disciplinarian. When Fred stated the circumstances of his debt, his wish to meet it without troubling his father, and the certainty that the money would be forth- coming so as to cause no one any inconvenience, Caleb pushed his spectacles upward, listened, looked into his favourite's clear young eyes, and believed him, not distinguishing confidence about the future from veracity about the past ; but he BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 11 felt that it was an occasion for a friendly hint as to conduct, and that before giving his signature he must give a rather strong admonition. Accord- ingly, he took the paper and lowered his spectacles, measured the space at his command, reached his pen and examined it, dipped it in the ink and examined it again, then pushed the paper a little way from him, lifted up his spectacles again, showed a deepened depression in the outer angle of his bushy eyebrows, which gave his face a peculiar mildness (pardon these details for once — you would have learned to love them if you had known Caleb Garth), and said in a comfortable tone, " It was a misfortune, eh, that breaking the horse's knees ? And then, these exchanges, they don't answer when you have 'cute jockies to deal with. You'll be wiser another time, my boy." Whereupon Caleb drew down his spectacles, and proceeded to write his signature with the care which he always gave to that performance ; for whatever he did in the way of business he did well. He contemplated the large well-propor- tioned letters and final flourish, with his head a trifle on one side for an instant, then handed it to Fred, said " Good-bye," and returned forthwith to his absorption in a plan for Sir James Chettam's new farm-buildings. 12 MIDDLEMARCH. 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 con- scious, Mrs Garth remained ignorant of the affair. Since it occurred, a change had come over Fred's sky, which altered his view of the distance, and was the reason why his uncle Featherstone's pre- sent of money was of importance enough to make his colour come and go, first with a too definite expectation, and afterwards with a proportionate disappointment. His failure in passing his ex- amination, 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 sw^orn 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-humoured 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 BOOK III.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 13 when a youthful nobleman steals jewellery we call the act kleptomania, speak of it with a philo- sophical smile, and never think of his being sent to the house of correction as if he were a ragged boy who had stolen turnips. In fact, tacit expectations of what would be done for him by Uncle Featherstone determined the angle at which most people viewed Fred Vincy in Middlemarch ; and in his own consciousness, what Uncle Feather- stone would do for him in an emergency, or what he would do simply as an incorporated luck, formed always an immeasurable depth of aerial perspec- tive. But that present of bank-notes, once made, was measurable, and being applied to the amount of the debt, showed a deficit which had still to be filled up either by Fred's "judgment" or by luck in some other shape. For that little episode of the alleged borrowing, in which he had made his father the agent in getting the Bulstrode 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 hav- ing 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 14 MroDLEMAPtCH. cases the complete revelation always produces the impression of a previous duplicity. Now Fred piqued himself on keeping clear of lies, and even fibs ; he often shrugged his shoulders and made a significant grimace at what he called Rosamond's fibs (it is only brothers who can associate such ideas with a lovely girl) ; and rather than incur the accusation of falsehood he would even incur some trouble and self-restraint. It was under strong inward pressure of this kind that Fred had taken the wise step of depositing the eighty pounds with his mother. It was a pity that he had not at once given them to Mr Garth ; but he meant to make the sum complete with another sixty, and with a view to this, he had kept twenty pounds in his own pocket as a sort of seed-corn, which, planted by judgment and watered by luck, might yield more than threefold — a very poor rate of mul- tiplication 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 gamb- ling which has no alcoholic' intensity, but is carried on with the healtliiest chyle-fed blood, keeping BOOK m. — WAITING FOL DEATH. 15 up a joyous imaginative activity whicli 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 steeplechase ; 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 seduc- tive green plot — all of it at least which had not been dispersed by the roadside — and Fred found himself close upon the term of payment with no money at command beyond the eighty pounds which he had deposited with his mother. The broken-winded horse which he rode represented a present which had been made to him a long while ago by his uncle Featherstone : his father always allowed him to keep a horse, Mr Vincy's own habits making him regard this as a reasonable demand even for a son who was rather exasperating. This horse, then, was Fred's property, and in his anxiety to meet the imminent bill he determined to sacri- fice a possession without which life would certainly 16 MIDDLEMAECH. be wortli little. He made the resolution with a sense of heroism — heroism forced on him by the dread of breaking his word to Mr Garth, by his love for Mary and awe of her opinion. He would start for Houndsley horse-fair wdiich was to be held the next morning, and — simply sell his horse, bringing back the money by coach ? — Well, the horse w^ould hardly fetch more than thirty pounds, and there w^as no knowing what might happen : it would be folly to balk himself of luck before- hand. 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 reason- able that he should not equip himself with the powder and shot for bringing it down. He would ride to Houndsley w^ith Bambridge and with Hor- rock " the vet/' and w^ithout asking them any- thing expressly, he should virtually get the benefit of their opinion. Before he set out, Ered got the eighty pounds from his mother. Most of those who saw Fred riding out of Middlemarch in company with Bambridge and Horrock, on his way of course to Houndsley horse- fair, thought that young Vincy was pleasure - seeking as usual ; and but for an unwonted con- sciousness of grave matters on hand, he himself BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 17 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 interest- ing fact which even the love of horse-flesh would not wholly' account for without that mysterious influence of Naming which determines so much of mortal choice. Under any other name than " plea- sure" the society of Messieurs Bambridge and Horrock must certainly have been regarded as monotonous ; and to arrive with them at Hound- sley on a drizzling afternoon, to get down at the Eed Lion in a street shaded with coal-dust, and dine in a room furnished with a dirt-enamelled map of the county, a bad portrait of an anonymous horse in a stable. His ^Majesty George the Fourth with legs and cravat, and various leaden spittoons, might have seemed a hard business, but for the sustaining power of nomenclature which deter- mined that the pursuit of these things was " gay." In Mr Horrock there was certainly an appa- rent unfathomableness which ofi'ered play to the imagination. Costume, at a glance, gave him VOL. II. B 18 MIDDLEMARCH. 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 suscep- tible mind, and, when accompanied by adequate silence, likely to create the reputation of an invincible understanding, an infinite fund of humour — too dry to flow, and probably in a state of immovable crust, — and a critical judgment which, if you could ever be fortunate enough to know it, would be the thing and no other. It is a physiognomy seen in all vocations, but per- haps it has never been more powerful over Ihe youth of England than in a judge of horses. Mr Horrock, at a question from Fred about his horse's fetlock, turned sideways in his saddle, and watched the horse's action for the space of three minutes, then turned forward, twitched his own bridle, and remained silent with a profile neither more nor less sceptical than it had been. The part thus played in dialogue by Mr Horrock was terribly effective. A mixture of passions was BOOK III.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 19 excited in Fred — a mad desire to tlirash Horrock's opinion into utterance, restrained 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 ap- peared 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 un- deniably a prosperous man, bore his drinking better than others bore their moderation, and, on the whole, flourished like the green bay-tree. But his range of conversation was limited, and like the fine old tune, " Drops of brandy," gave you after a while a sense of returning upon itself in a way that might make weak heads dizzy. But a slight infusion of Mr Bambridge was felt to give tone and character to several circles in Lliddlemarch ; 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 20 MIDDLEMAKCH. which seemed to prove that blood asserted its pre- eminence even among blacklegs ; but the minute retentiveness of his memory was chiefly shown about the horses he had himself bought and sold ; the number of miles they would trot you in no time without turning a hair being, after the lapse of years, still a subject of passionate asseveration, in which he would assist the imagination of his hearers by solemnly swearing that they never saw anything like it. In short, Mr Bambridge was a man of pleasure and a gay companion. Fred was subtle, and did not tell his friends that he was going to Houndsley bent on selling his horse : he wished to get indirectly at their genuine opinion of its value, not being aware that a genuine opinion was the last thing likely to be extracted from such eminent critics. It was not Mr Bambridge's weakness to be a gratuitous flatterer. He had never before been so much struck with the fact that this unfortunate bay was a roarer to a degree which required the roundest word for perdition to give you any idea of it. " You made a bad hand at swapping when you went to anybody but me, Vincy. Why, you never threw your leg across a finer horse than that chesnut, and you gave him for this brute. If you set him cantering, he goes on like twenty BOOK III. — ^VAITING FOR DEATH. 21 sawyers. I never heard but one worse roarer in my life, and that was a roan : it belonged to Pegwell, the corn-factor ; he used to drive him in his gig seven years ago, and he wanted me to take him, but I said, ' Thank you, Peg, I don't deal in wind-instruments." That was what I said. It went the round of the country, that joke did. But, what the heU! 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 ]\Ir Bambridge, em- phatically. "There wasn't a penny to choose between 'em." Fred spurred his horse, and they trotted on a little way. When they slackened again, Mr Bam- bridge said — " Not but what the roan was a better trotter than yours." " I'm quite satisfied with his paces, I know," said Fred, who required all the consciousness of being in gay company to support him ; " I say, his trot is an uncommonly clean one, eh, Horrock ? " Mr Horrock looked before him with as complete a neutrality as if he had been a portrait by a great master. Fred gave up the fallacious hope of getting a 22 MIDDLEMAECH. genuine opinion ; but on reflection lie saw that Bambridge's depreciation and Horrock's silence were both virtually encouraging, and indicated that they thought better of the horse than they chose to say. That very evening, indeed, before the fair had set in, Fred thought he saw a favourable opening for disposing advantageously of his horse, but an opening which made him congratulate himself on his foresight in bringing with him his eighty pounds. A young farmer, acquainted with Mr Bambridge, came into the Eed Lion, and entered into conversation about parting with a hunter, which he introduced at once as Diamond, implying that it was a public character. For himself he only wanted a useful hack, which would draw upon occasion ; being about to marry and to give up hunting. The hunter was in a friend's stable at some little distance ; there was still time for gentlemen to see it before dark. The friend's stable had to be reached through a back street where you might as easily have been pois- oned without expense of drugs as in any grim street of that unsanitary period. Fred was not for- tified against disgust by brandy, as his companions were, but the hope of having at last seen the horse that would enable hiui to make money w^as exhil- BOOK III. — "^'AITING FOR DEATH. 23 arating enougli to lead him over tlie 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 cir- cumstances, 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 colour of the horse was a dappled grey, and Fred happened to know that Lord Medlicote's man was on the look-out for just such a horse. After all his running down, Bambridge let it out in the course of the evening, when the farmer was absent, that he had seen worse horses go for eighty pounds. Of course he contradicted himself twenty times over, but when you know what is likely to be true you can test a man's admissions. And Fred could not but reckon his own judgment of a horse as worth something. The farmer had paused over Fred's respectable though broken - winded steed long 24 MIDDLEMAECH. enough to show that he thought it worth con- sideration, and it seemed probable that he would take it, with five-and-twenty pounds in addition, as the equivalent of Diamond. In that case Fred, when he had parted with his new horse for at least eighty pounds, would be fifty - five pounds in pocket by the transaction, and would have a hun- dred 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 liis clothes in the morning, he saw so clearly the importance of not losing this rare chance, that if Bambridge and Horrock had both dissuaded him, he would not have been deluded into a direct interpretation of their purpose: he would have been aware that those deep hands held something else than a young fellow^'s interest. With regard to horses, distrust was your only clue. But scep- ticism, as we know, can never be thoroughly applied, else life would come to a standstill : something we must believe in and do, and what- ever 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 BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 25 dappled grey, at the price of liis old liorse and thirty pounds in addition — only five pounds more than he had expected to give. But he felt a little worried and wearied, perhaps with mental debate, and without waiting for the further gaieties of the horse-fair, he set out alone on his fourteen miles' journey, meaning to take it very quietly and keep his horse fresh. 26 CHAPTEE XXIV. ** The ofifender's sorrow brings but small relief To him who wears the strong offence's cross." —Shakespeare: Sonnets. I AM sorry to say that only the third day after the propitious events at Houndsley Fred Vincy had fallen into worse spirits than he had known in his life before. Not that he had been disappointed as to the possible market for his horse, but that before the bargain could be concluded with Lord 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 kicking, had just missed killing the groom, and had ended in laming himself severely by catching his leg in a rope that overhung the stable-board. There was no more redress for this than for the discovery of bad temper after marriage — which of course old com- panions were aware of before the ceremony. For BOOK III.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 27 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 fift}^ pounds, that there was no chance of his getting any more at present, and that the bill for a hundred and sixty would be presented in five days. Even if he had applied to his father on the plea that Mr Garth should be saved from loss, Fred felt smartingly that his father would angrily refuse to rescue Mr Garth from the consequence of what he would call encouraging extravagance and deceit. He was so utterly downcast that he could frame no other project than to go straight to Mr Garth and tell him the sad truth, carrying with him the fifty pounds, and getting that sum at least safely out of his own hands. His father, being at the ware- house, did not yet know of the accident: when he did, he would storm about the vicious brute being brought into his stable ; and before meeting that lesser annoyance Fred wanted to get away with all his courage to face the greater. He took his father's nag, for he had made up his mind that when he had told Mr Garth, he would ride to Stone Court and confess all to Mary. In fact, it is probable that but for Mary's existence and Fred's love for her, his conscience would have been much less active both in previously urging 28 MIDDLEMARCH. the debt on his thought and in impelling him not to spare himself after his usual fashion by defer- ring an unpleasant task, but to act as directly and simply as he could. Even much stronger mortals than Fred Yincy hold half their rectitude in the mind of the being they love best. '' The theatre of all my actions is fallen," said an antique per- sonage when his chief friend was dead ; and they are fortunate who get a theatre where the audience demands their best. Certainly it would have made a considerable difference to Fred at that time if Mary Garth had had no decided notions as to what was admirable in character. Mr Garth was not at the office, and Fred rode on to his house, which was a little way outside the town — a homely place with an orchard in front of it, a rambling, old-fashioned, half-timbered building, which before the town had spread had been a farmhouse, 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 BOOK ni. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 29 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 con- fession before Mrs Garth, of whom he was rather more in awe than of her husband. Not that she was inclined to sarcasm and to impulsive sallies, as Mary was. In her present matronly age at least, Mrs Garth never committed her- self 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 inalterable, and submits to it without murmuring. Adoring her husband's virtues, she had very early made up her mind to his inca- pacity of minding his own interests, and had met the consequences cheerfully. She had been magnanimous enough to renounce all pride in teapots or children's frilling, and had never poured any pathetic confidences into the ears of her feminine neighbours concerning !Mr Garth's want of prudence and the sums he might have had if he had been like other men. Hence these fair neighbours thought her either proud or eccen- tric, 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- 30 MIDDLEMARCH. lately instructed than most matrons in Middle- march, and — where is the blameless woman? — apt to be a little severe towards her own sex, which in her opinion was framed to be entirely subordinate. On the other hand, she was dispro- portionately indulgent towards the failings of men, and was often heard to say that these were natural. Also, it must be admitted that Mrs Garth was a trifle too emphatic in her resistance to what she held to be follies : the passage from governess into housewife had wrought itseK a little too strongly into her consciousness, and she rarely forgot that while her grammar and accent were above the town standard, she wore a plain cap, cooked the family dinner, and darned all the stockings. She had sometimes taken pupils in a peripatetic fashion, making them follow her about in the kitchen with their book or slate. She thought it good for them to see that she could make an excellent lather while she corrected their blunders " without look- ing," — that a woman with her sleeves tucked up above her elbows might know all about the Sub- junctive Mood or the Torrid Zone — that, in short, she might possess " education" and other good things ending in " tion," and worthy to be pro- nounced emphatically, without being a useless doll. When she made remarks to this edifying BOOK III. — WAITING FOE DEATH. 31 effect, she had a firm little frown on her brow, which yet did not hinder her face from looking benevolent, and her words which came forth like a procession were uttered in a fervid agreeable contralto. Certainly, the exemplary Mrs Garth had her droll aspects, but her character sustained her oddities, as a very fine wine sustains a flavour of skin. Towards Fred Vincy she had a motherly feeling, and had always been disposed to excuse his errors, though she would probably not have excused Mary for engaging herself to him, her daughter being included in that more rigorous judgment which she applied to her own sex. But this very fact of her exceptional indulgence towards him made it the harder to Fred that he must now inevitably sink in her opinion. And the 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 caiTying on several occupations at once there — making her pies at the well-scoured deal table on one side of that airy room, observing Sally's movements at the oven and dough-tub through an open door, and giving lessons to her youngest boy and girl, who 32 MIDDLEMARCH. 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 indi- cated an intermittent wash of small things also going on. Mrs Garth, with her sleeves turned above her elbows, deftly handling her pastry — applying her rolling-pin and giving ornamental pinches, while she expounded with grammatical fervour what were the right views about the concord of verbs and pronouns with " nouns of multitude or signi- fying many," was a sight agreeably amusing. She was of the same curly-haired, square-faced type as Mary, but handsomer, with more delicacy of fea- ture, a pale skin, a solid matronly figure, and a remarkable firmness of glance. In her snowy- frilled cap she reminded one of that delightful Frenchwoman whom we have all seen marketing, basket on arm. Looking at the mother, you might hope that the daughter would become like her, which is a prospective advantage equal to a dowry — the mother too often standing behind the daugh- ter like a malignant prophecy — "Such as I am, she will shortly be." " Now let us go through that once more," said Mrs Garth, pinching an apple-puff which seemed to distract Ben, an energetic young male v ith a BOOK III.— WAITING FOK DEATH. 33 heavy brow, from due attention to the lesson. ** ' Not without regard to the import of the word as conveying unity or plurality of idea ' — tell me again what that means, Ben." (Mrs Garth, like more celebrated educators, had her favourite ancient paths, and in a general wreck of society would have tried to hold her *Lindley Murray' above the waves.) "Oh — it means — you must think what you mean," said Ben, rather peevishly. " I hate gram- mar. What's the use of it ? " " To teach you to speak and write correctly, so that you can be understood," said Mrs Garth, with severe precision. " Should you like to speak as old Job does ? " " Yes," said Ben, stoutly ; " it's funnier. He -vsays, ' Yo goo ' — that's just as good as ' You go.' " "But he says, 'A ship's in the garden,' instead of ' a sheep,'" said Letty, with an air of superiority. " You might think he meant a ship off the sea." " No, you mightn't, if you weren't silly," said Ben. " How could a ship off the sea come there ?" " These things belong only to pronunciation, which is the least part of grammar," said Mrs Garth. "That apple-peel is to be eaten by the pigs, Ben ; if you eat it, I must give them your piece of pasty. Job has only to speak about VOL. II. c 34 MIDDLEMAECII. very plain things. How do you think you would write or speak about anything more difficult, if you knew no more of grammar than he does? You would use wTong 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 V "I shouldn't care, I should leave off," said Ben, with a sense that this was an agreeable issue where grammar was concerned. " I see you are getting tired and stupid, Ben," said Mrs Garth, accustomed to these obstructive arguments from her male offspring. Having fin- ished her pies, she moved towards the clothes- horse, and said, " Come here and tell me the story I told you on Wednesday, about Cincinnatus." " I know ! he was a farmer," said Ben. "Now, Ben, he was a Eoman — let one tell," said Letty, using her elbow contentiously. " You silly thing, he was a lioman farmer, and he was ploughing." "Yes, but before that — that didn't come first — people wanted him," said Letty. " Well, but you must say what sort of a man he was first," insisted Ben. "He was a wise man, like my father, and that made the people want his advice. And he was a brave man, and could BOOK III. — ^VAIT1^'G FOR DEATH. 35 figlit. And so could my father — couldu't lie, mother ? " " Now, Ben, let me tell the story straight on, as mother told it us," said Letty, frowning. " Please, mother, tell Ben not to speak." " Letty, I am ashamed of you," said her mother, wringing out the caps from the tub. " 'When your brother began, you ought to have waited to see if he could not tell the story. How rude you look, pushing and frowning, as if you wanted to conquer with your elbows ! Cincinnatus, I am sure, would have been sorry to see his daughter behave so." (Mrs Garth delivered this awful sentence with much majesty of enunciation, and Letty felt that between repressed volubility and general dis- esteem, that of the Eomans inclusive, life was already a painful affair.) " Now, Ben." "Well— oh — well — why, there was a great deal of fighting, and they were all blockheads, and — I can't tell it just how you told it — but they wanted a man to be captain and king and everything " ''Dictator, now," said Letty, with injured looks, and not without a wish to make her mother repent. " Very well, dictator ! " said Ben, contemptu- ously. "But that isn't a good word: he didn't tell them to write on slates," " Come, come, Ben, you are not so ignorant as 36 MIDDLEMAKCH. that," said Mrs Garth, carefully serious. " Hark, there is a knock at the door ! Eun, Letty, and open it." The knock was Fred's; and when Letty said that her father was not in yet, but that her mother was in the kitchen, Fred had no alternative. He could not depart from his usual practice of going to see Mrs Garth in the kitchen if she happened to be at work there. He put his arm round Letty' s neck silently, and led her into the kitchen without his usual jokes and caresses. Mrs Garth was surprised to see Fred at this hour, but surprise was not a feeling that she was given to express, and she only said, quietly con- tinuing 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 BOOK III. — WAITING FOE DEATH. 37 be doue this morning. Do you mind staying with me, while I finish my matters here ? " " But we needn't go on about Cincinnatus, need we ? " said Ben, who had taken Fred's whip out of his hand, and was trying its efficiency on the cat. " No, go out now. But put that whip down. How very mean of you to whip poor old Tortoise ! Pray take the ^^hip from him, Fred." " Come, old boy, give it me," said Fred, putting out his hand. " Will you let me ride on your horse to-day ? " said Ben, rendering up the whip, with an air of not being obliged to do it. "Not to-day — another time. I am not riding my own horse." " Shall you see Mary to-day ? " " Yes, I think so," said Fred, with an unpleasant twinge. " Tell her to come home soon, and play at for- feits, and make fun." " Enough, enough, Ben ! run away," said Mrs Garth, seeing that Fred was teased. " Are Letty and Ben your only pupils now, ^Mrs Garth ? " said Fred, when the children were gone and it was needful to say something that would pass the time. lie was not yet sure whether he 33 MIDDLEMARCH. sliould wait for Mr Gartli, or use any good op- portunity 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 IMrs 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, pull- ing out the edging on a cajj-border. " And Caleb thinks that Alfred will turn out a distinguished engineer : he wants to give the boy a good chance. There he is ! I hear him coming in. "We will go to him in the parlour, shall we ? " When they entered the parlour Caleb had thrown down his hat and was seated at his desk. *' What, Fred my boy ? " he said, in a tone of mild surprise, holding his pen still undipped. " You are here betimes." But missing the usual expression of cheerful greeting in Fred's face, he BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 39 immediately added, " Is there any thing 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 unfortu- nate ; I have only got these fifty pounds towards the hundred and sixty." While Fred was speaking, he had taken out the notes and laid them on the desk before Mr Garth. He had burst forth at once with the plain fact, feeling boyishly miserable and without verbal resources. ]\Irs Garth was mutely astonished, and looked at her husband for an explanation. Caleb blushed, and after a little pause said — " Oh, I didn't tell you, Susan : I put my name to fi bill for Fred ; it was for a hundred and sixty pounds. He made sure he could meet it him- self." There was an evident change in Mrs Garth's face, but it was like a change below the surface of water which remains smooth. She fixed her eyes on Fred, saying — "I suppose you have asked your father for the rest of the money and he has refused you." 40 MIDDLEMAECH. " No," said Fred, biting his lip, and speaking with more difificulty ; " but I know it will be of no use to ask him ; and unless it were of use, I should not like to mention Mr Garth's name in the matter." "It has come at an unfortunate time," said Caleb, in his hesitating way, looking down at the notes and nervously fingering the paper, " Christ- mas upon us — I'm rather hard up just now. You see, I have to cut out everything like a tailor with short measure. What can we do, Susan ? I shall want every farthing we have in the bank. It's a hundred and ten pounds, the deuce take it!" " I must give you the ninety-two pounds that I have put b)^ 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 BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 41 by bitter remarks or explosions. But she had made Fred feel for the first time something like the tooth of remorse. Curiously enough, his paiu in the affair beforehand had consisted almost entirely in the sense that he must seem dishonour- able, and sink in the opinion of the Garths : he had not occupied himself with the inconvenience and possible injury that his breach might occa- sion them, for this exercise of the imagination on other people's needs is not common with hopeful young gentlemen. Indeed w^e are most of us brought up in the notion that the highest motive for not doing a wrong is something irrespective of the beings who would suffer the wrong. But at this moment he suddenly saw himself as a piti- ful rascal who was robbing two women of their savings. " I shall certainly pay it all, Mrs Garth — ulti- mately," he stammered out. " Yes, ultimately," said Mrs Garth, who having a special dislike to fine words on ugly occasions, could not now repress an epigram. "But boys cannot well be apprenticed ultimately : they should be apprenticed at fifteen." She had never been so little inclined to make excuses for Fred. "I was the most in the Avrong, Susan," said Caleb. "Fred made sure of finding the money. 42 MIDDLEMAECH. But I'd no business to be fingering bills. I sup- pose you Lave looked all round and tried all honest means ? " lie added, fixing his merciful grey eyes on Fred. Caleb was too delicate to specify Mr Featherstone. " Yes, I have tried everything — I really have. I should have had a hundred and thirty pounds ready but for a misfortune with a horse which I was about to sell. My uncle liad 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 you into his debts. I BOOK III. — WAITIXG FOK DEATH. 43 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 afiford to lose." " I was a fool, Susan.'' "That you w^ere," said the wife, nodding and smiling. " But I should not have gone to publish it in the market-place. AVhy 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 waistband 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 ver}' \vell that I had scraped it together ; and it is you who will have to suffer, for you must teach the boy yourself. You must give up your bad habits. Some men take to drinking, and you have taken to working without pay. You must indulge yourself a little less in that. And you must ride over to Mary, and ask the child what money she has." Caleb had pushed his chair back, and was lean- ing forward, shaking his head slowly, and fitting his finger-tips together with much nicety. 44 MIDDLEMARCfl. "Poor Mary!" he said. "Susan," he went on in a lowered tone, " I'm afraid she may be fond of Fred." " Oh no ! She always laughs at him ; and he is not likely to think of her in any other than a brotherly way." Caleb made no rejoinder, but presently lowered his spectacles, drew up his chair to the desk, and said, "Deuce take the bill — I wish it was at Hanover ! These things are a sad interruption to business ! " The first part of this speech comprised his whole store of maledictory expression, and was uttered with a slight snarl easy to imagine. But it would be difficult to convey to those who never heard him utter the word " business," the peculiar tone of fervid veneration, of religious regard, in which he wrapped it, as a consecrated symbol is wrapped in its gold-fringed linen. Caleb Garth often shook his head in meditation on the value, the indispensable might of that myriad-headed, myriad-handed labour by which the social body is fed, clothed, and housed. It had laid hold of his imagination in boyhood. The echoes of the great hammer where roof or keel were a-making, the signal-shouts of the workmen, the roar of the furnace, the thunder and plash of the BOOK HI.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 45 engine, were a sublime music to him ; the felling and lading of timber, and the huge trunk vibrating star-like in the distance along the highway, the crane at work on the wharf, the piled-up produce in warehouses, the precision and variety of mus- cular 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 pliilosophy for him without the aid of phil- osophers, a religion without the aid of theology. His early ambition had been to have as effective a share as possible in this sublime labour, which was peculiarly dignified by him with the name of " business ;" and though he had only been a short time under a surveyor, and had been chiefly his own teacher, he knew more of land, building, and mining than most of the special men in the county. His classification of human employments was rather crude, and, like the categories of more cele- brated men, would not be acceptable in these advanced times. He divided them into " business, politics, preaching, learning, and amusement." He liad 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 46 MIDDLEMARCH. himself liave liked to be of any rank in which he had not such close contact with " business " as to get often honourably 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 un- dertakings : 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 sys- tems, like any number of firmaments, if they did not obviously interfere with the best land-drainage, solid building, correct measuring, and judicious boring (for coal). In fact, he had a reverential soul with a strong practical intelligence. But he could not manage finance : he knew values well, but he had no keenness of imasrination for mone- tary 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 BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 47 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. 48 CHAPTER XXV. Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care. But for another gives its ease, And builds a heaven in hell's despair. Love seeketh only self to please, To biud another to its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a hell ia heaven's despite." — W. Blake : Songs of Experience. Fred Vincy wanted to arrive at Stone Court when Mary could not expect him, and when his uncle was not down-stairs : in that case she might be sitting alone in the wainscoated parlour. He left his horse in the 3^ard to avoid making a noise on the gravel in front, and entered the parlour with- out other notice than the noise of the door-handle. Mary was in her usual corner, laughing over Mrs Piozzi's recollections of Johnson, and looked up with the fun still in her face. It gradually faded as she saw Fred approach her without speaking, and stand before her with his elbow on the mantel- BOOK III.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 49 piece, looking ill. She too was silent, only raising her eyes to him inquiringly. "Mary," he began, "I am a good-for-nothing blackguard." " I should think one of those epithets would do at a time," said Mary, trying to smile, but feeling alarmed. " I know you will never think well of me any more. You will think me a liar. You will think me dishonest. You will think I didn't care for you, or your father and mother. You always do make the worst of me, I know." " I cannot deny that I shall think all that of you, Fred, if you give me good reasons. But please to tell me at once what you have done. I would rather know the painful truth than imagine it." " I owed money — a hundred and sixty pounds. I asked your father to put his name to a bill. I thought it would not signify to him. I made sure of paying the money myself, and I have tried as hard as I could. And now, I have been so im- lucky — a horse has turned out badly — I can only pay fifty pounds. And I can't ask my father for the money : he would not give me a farthing. And my uncle gave me a hundred a little while ago. So what can I do ? And now your father VOL. II. D 50 MIDDLEMARCII. 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 conse- quences at home becoming present to her. He too remained silent for some moments, feeling more miserable than ever. "I wouldn't have hurt you so for the world, Mary," he said at last. " You can never forgive me." "What does it matter wdiether I forgive you ? " said Mary, passionately. '•' Would that make it any better for my mother to lose the money she has been earning by lessons for four years, that she might send Alfred to Mr Hanmer's ? Should you think all that pleasant enough if I forgave you?" " Say what you like, Mary. I deserve it all." "I don't want to say anything," said Mary, more quietly ; '' my anger is of no use." She dried her eyes, threw aside her book, rose and fetched her sewing. Fred followed her with his eyes, hoping that BOOK III. —WAITING FOR DEATH. 51 they would meet hers, and in that way find access for his imploring penitence. But no ! Mary could easily avoid looking upward. " I do care about your mother's money going," he said, when she was seated again and sewing quickly. *' I wanted to ask you, ]\Iary — don't you think that LIr Featherstone — if you were to tell him — tell him, I mean, about apprenticing Alfred — would advance the money ? " *' ^ly family is not fond of begging, Fred. We would rather work for our money. Besides, you say that Mr Featherstone has lately given you a hundred pounds. He rarely makes presents ; he has never made presents to us. I am sure my father will not ask him for anything ; and even if I chose to beg of him, it would be of no use." " I am so miserable, Mary — if you knew how miserable I am, you would be sorry for me." " There are other things to be more sorry for than that. But selfish people always think their own discomfort of more importance than anything else in the world : I see enough of that every day." " It is hardly fair to call me selfish. If you knew what things other young men do, you would think me a good way off the worst." *' I know that people who spend a great deal of 52 MIDDLEMARCH. money on themselves without knowing how they shall pay, must be selfish. They are always thinking of what they can get for themselves, and not of what other people may lose." " Any man may be unfortunate, Mary, and find himself unable to pay when he meant it. There is not a better man in the world than your father, and yet he got into trouble." " How dare you make any comparison between my father and you, Fred ? " said Mary, in a deep tone of indignation. " He never got into trouble by thinking of his own idle pleasures, but because he was always thinking of the work he was doing for other people. And he has fared hard, and worked hard to make good everybody's loss." " And you think that I shall never try to make good anything, Mary. It is not generous to believe the worst of a man. When you have got any power over him, I think you might try and use it to make him better ; but that is what you never do. However, I'm going," Fred ended, languidly. " I shall never speak to you about anything again. I'm very sorry for all the trouble I've caused that's all." Mary had dropped her work out of her hand and looked up. There is often something maternal even in a girlish love, and Mary's hard experience BOOK III.— ^VAITING FOR DEATH. 53 had wrought her nature to an impressibility very different from that hard slight thing which we call girlishness. At Fred's last words she felt an in- stantaneous pang, something like what a mother feels at the imagined sobs or cries of her naughty truant child, which may lose itself and get harm. And when, looking up, her eyes met his dull de- spairing glance, her pity for him surmounted her anger and all her other anxieties. " Oh, Fred, how ill you look ! Sit down a mo- ment. 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 with- out knowing very well what they were, but saying them in a half-soothing half-beseeching tone, and rising as if to go away to Mr Featherstone. Of course Fred felt as if the clouds had parted and a gleam had come : he moved and stood in her way. " Say one word, Mary, and I will do anything. Say you will not think the worst of me— will not give me up altogether." " As if it were any pleasure to me to think ill of you," said Mary, in a mournful tone. " As if it were not very painful to me to see you an idle frivolous creature. How can you bear to be so 54 MIDDLEMAECH. contemptible, when others are working and striv- ing, and there are so many things to be done — how can you bear to be fit for nothing in the world that is useful? And with so much good in your disposition, Fred, — you might be worth a great deal." " I will try to be anything you like, Mary, if you will say that you love me/' *'I should be ashamed to say that I loved a man who must always be hanging on others, and reckoning on what they would do for him. What will you be when you are forty ? Like Mr Bowyer, I suppose — ^just as idle, living in Mrs Beck's front parlour — fat and shabby, hoping somebody will invite you to dinner — spending your morning in learning a comic song — oh no! learning a tune on the flute.'* Mary's lips had begun to curl with a smile as soon as she had asked that question about Fred's future (young souls are mobile), and before she ended, her face had its full illumination of fun. To him it was like the cessation of an ache that Mary could laugh at him, and with a passive sort of smile he tried to reach her hand ; but she slip- ped away quickly towards the door and said, " I shall tell uncle. You must see him for a moment or two." BOOK TIL — ^WAITING FOR DEATH. 55 Fred secretly felt that his future was guaran- teed against the fulfilment of j\Iary'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 recognise the change in his position. All this passed through his mind some- what 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 Feather- stone. The old man, on the other hand, felt him- self 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 busi- ness better than he did. But Mary had felt sure that her parents would want to see her, and if her 56 MIDDLEMARCH. father had not come, she would have obtained leave to go home for an hour or two the next day. After discussing prices during tea with Mr Feather- stone, Caleb rose to bid him good-bye, and said, " I want to speak to you, Mary/' She took a candle into another large parlour, where there was no fire, and setting down the feeble light on the dark mahogany table, turned round to her father, and putting her arms round his neck kissed him with childish kisses which he delighted in, — the expression of his large brows softening as the expression of a great beautiful dog softens when it is caressed. Mary was his favourite child, and whatever Susan might say, and riglit as she was on all other subjects, Caleb thought it natural that Fred or any one else should think Mary more loveable 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 1 how can that be ? You see, Fve been a bit of a fool again, arid 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 BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 57 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 will have some savings." *'0h 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 reti- cule 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 dis- tressed." " I'm afraid Fred is not to be trusted, Mary," said the father, with hesitating tenderness. " He means better than he acts, perhaps. But I should think it a pity for anybody's happiness to be wrapped up in liim, and so would your mother." 58 MIDDLEMAECH. " And so should I, father," said Mary, not look- ing up, but putting the back of her father's hand against her cheek. " I don't want to pry, my dear. But I was afraid there might be something between you and Fred, and I wanted to caution you. You see, Mary" — here Caleb's voice became more tender; he had been pushing his hat about on the table and look- ing at it, but finally he turned his e3^es 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 felther'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'm thinking of is — what it must be for a wife when she's never sure of her husband, when he hasn't got a principle in him to make him more afraid of doing the wrong thing by others than of getting his own toes pinched. That's the long and the short of it, Mary. Young folks may get fond of each other before they know what life is, and they may think it all holiday if they can only get togethet ; but it soon turns into working- day, my dear. However, you have more sense BOOK m. — WAITING FOE DEATH. 69 than most, and you haven't been kept in cotton- wool : there may be no occasion for me to say this, but a father trembles for his daughter, and you are all by yourself here." "Don't fear for me, father," said Mary, gravely meeting her father's eyes ; " Fred has always been very good to me ; he is kind-hearted and affec- tionate, 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." "Father!" said Mary, in her deepest tone of remonstrance. " Take pocketfuls of love besides to them all at home," was her last word before he closed the outer door on himself. " I suppose your father wanted your earnings," said old ]\Ir 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 be^t part of myself, sir," said ^lary, coldly. 60 MIDDLEMAECH. Mr Featlierstone grunted: lie could not deny that an ordinary sort of girl like her might be expected to be useful, so he thought of another rejoinder, disagreeable enough to be always apro- pos. "If Fred Vincy comes to-morrow, now, don't you keep him chattering : let him come up to me." 61 CHAPTEE XXVI. " He beats me and I rail at him : worthy satisfaction ! would it were otherwise— that I could beat him while he railed at me." — Troilug and Cressida. But Fred did not go to Stone Court the next day, for reasons that were quite peremptory. From those visits to unsanitary Houndsley streets in search of Diamond, he had brought back not only a bad bargain in horse-flesh, but the further mis- fortune of some ailment which for a day or two had seemed mere depression and headache, but which got so much worse when he returned from his visit to Stone Court that, going into the dining- room, he threw himself on the sofa, and in answer to his mother's anxious question, said, " I feel very ill : I think you must send for Wrench." Wrench came but did not apprehend anything serious, spoke of a " slight derangement," and did not speak of coming again on the morrow. He had a due value for the Vincys' house, but the 62 MIDDLEMARCH. wariest men are apt to be a little dulled by routine, and on worried mornings will sometimes go through their business with the zest of the daily bell-ringer. Mr Wrench was a small, neat, bilious man, with a well-dressed wig : he had a laborious practice, an irascible temper, a lym- phatic wife and seven children ; and he was already rather late before setting out on a four- miles drive to meet Dr Minchin on the other side of Tipton, the decease of Hicks, a rural practitioner, having increased Middlemarch practice in that direction. Great statesmen err, and why not small medical men ? Mr Wrench did not neglect sending the usual white parcels, which this time had black and drastic contents. Their effect was not alleviating to poor Fred, who, however, un- willing 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 break- fast, but succeeded in nothing but in sitting and shivering by the fire. Mr Wrench was again sent for, but was gone on his rounds, and Mrs Vincy seeing her darling's changed looks and general misery, began to cry and said she would send for Dr Sprague. "Oh, nonsense, mother ! It's nothing," said Fred, putting out his hot dry hand to her, "I shall BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 63 soon be all right. I must have taken cold in that nasty damp ride." "Mamma!" said Eosamond, who was seated near the window (the dining-room windows looked on that highly respectable street called Lowick Gate), " there is Mr Lydgate, stopping to speak to some one. If I were you I would call him in. He has cured Ellen Bulstrode. They say he cures every one." Mrs Vincy sprang to the window and opened it in an instant, thinking only of Fred and not of medical etiquette. Lydgate was only two yards off on the other side of some iron palisading, and turned round at the sudden sound of the sash, before she called to him. In two minutes he was in the room, and Eosamond went out, after wait- ing just long enough to show a pretty anxiety conflicting with her sense of what was becoming. Lydgate had to hear a narrative in which Mrs Vincy 's mind insisted with remarkable instinct on every point of minor importance, especially on what Mr Wrench had said and had not said about coming again. That there might be an awkward affair with Wrench, Lydgate saw at once ; but the case was serious enough to make him dismiss that consideration : he was convinced that Fred was in the pink-skinned stage of typhoid fever, and that 64 MIDDLEMARCH. he had taken just the wrong medicines. He must go to bed immediately, must have a regular nurse, and various appliances and precautions must be used, about which Lydgate was particular. Poor Mrs Vincy's terror at these indications of danger found vent in such words as came most easily. She thought it " very ill usage on the part of Mr Wrench, who had attended their house so many years in preference to Mr Peacock, though Mr Peacock was equally a friend. Why Mr Wrench should neglect her children more than others, she could not for the life of her understand. He had not neglected Mrs Larcher's when they had the measles, nor indeed would Mrs Vincy have wished that he should. And if anything should happen ..." Here poor Mrs Vincy's spirit quite broke down, and her Niobe- throat and good-humoured face were sadly convulsed. This was in the hall out of Pred's hearing, but Eosamond had opened the drawing-room door, and now came forward anxi- ously. Lydgate apologised 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 im- mediately to the druggist's and have a prescrip- tion made up in order to lose no time, but he BOOK III. —WAITING FOE DEATH. 65 would write to Mr Wrencli 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 any- body who may come or not. I bear nobody ill- will, thank God, and Mr AVrench saved me in the pleurisy, but he'd better have let me die — if — if " " I will meet Mr Wrench here, then, shall I V* said Lydgate, really believing that Wrench was not well prepared to deal wisely with a case of this kind. " Pray make that arrangement, Mr Lydgate," said Eosamond, coming to her mother's aid, and supporting her arm to lead her away. When Mr Vincy came home he was very angry with Wrench, and did not care if he never came into his house again. Lydgate should go on now, whether Wrench liked it or not. It was no joke to have fever in the house. Everybody must be sent to now, not to come to dinner on Thursday. And Pritchard needn't get up any wine : brandy was the best thing against infection. " I shall drink brandy," added Mr Vincy, emphatically — as much as to say, this was not an occasion for firing with blank - cartridges. " He's an uncommonly VOL. II. E 66 MIDDLEMAECH. unfortunate lad, is Fred. He'd need have some luck by-and-by to make up for all this — else I don't know who'd have an eldest son." " Don't say so, Vincy," said the mother, with a quivering lip, " if you don't want him to be taken from me." " It will worret you to death, Lucy; that I can see," said Mr Vincy, more mildly. "However, Wrench shall know what I think of the matter." (What Mr Vincy thought confusedly was, that the fever might somehow have been hindered if Wrench had shown the proper solicitude about his — the Mayor's — family.) "I'm the last man to give in to the cry about new doctors or new parsons, either — whether they're Bulstrode's men or not. But Wrench shall know what I think, take it as he will." Wrench did not take it at all well. Lydgate was as polite as he could be in his offhand way, but politeness in a man who has placed you at a disadvantage is only an additional exasperation, especially if he happens to have been an object of dislike beforehand. Country practitioners used to be an irritable species, susceptible on the point of honour ; 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 some- BOOK III.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 67 what tried on the occasion. He had to hear Mrs Yincy 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 hoy might have heen stretched a corpse ! " Mr Vincy, who had heen keeping up a sharp fire on the enemy Infection, and was a good deal heated in consequence, started up when he heard Wrench come in, and went into the hall to let liim know what he thought. " I'll tell you what, Wrench, this is heyond a joke," said the Mayor, who of late had had to rebuke offenders with an official air, and now broadened himself by putting his thumbs in his armholes. — "To let fever get unawares into a house like this. There are some things that ought to be actionable, and are not so — that's my opinion." But irrational reproaches were easier to bear than the sense of being instructed, or rather the sense that a younger man, like Lydgate, inwardly considered him in need of instruction, for " in point of fact," Mr Wrench afterwards said, Lydgate paraded flighty, foreign notions, which would not wear. He swallowed his ire for the moment, but he afterwards wrote to decline further attendance 68 MIDDLEMARCH. in the case. The house might be a good one, but Mr Wrench was not going to truckle to anybody on a professional matter. He reflected, with much probability on his side, that Lydgate would by- and-by be caught tripping too, and that his un- gentlemanly attempts to discredit the sale of drugs by his professional brethren would by-and-by re- coil on himself. He threw out biting remarks on Lydgate's tricks, worthy only of a quack, to get himself a factitious reputation with credulous people. That cant about cures was never got up by sound practitioners. This was a point on which Lydgate smarted as much as Wrench could desire. To be puffed by ignorance was not only humiliating, but perilous, and not more enviable than the reputation of the weather-prophet. He was impatient of the fool- ish expectations amidst which all work must be carried on, and likely enough to damage himself as much as Mr Wrench could wish, by an unpro- fessional openness. However, Lydgate was installed as medical at- tendant on the Vincys, and the event was a sub- ject of general conversation in Middlemarch. Some said, that the Vincys had behaved scandal- ously, that Mr Vincy had threatened Wrench, and that Mrs Vincy had accused him of poisoning BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 69 her son. Others were of opinion that Mr Lyd- gate's passing by was providential, that he was wonderfully clever in fevers, and that Bulstrode was in the right to bring him forward. Many people believed that Lydgate's coming to the town at all was really due to Bulstrode ; and Mrs Taft, who was always counting stitches and gathered her information in misleading fragments caught between the rows of her knitting, had got it into her head that Mr Lydgate was a natural son of Bulstrode's, a fact which seemed to justify her suspicions of evangelical laymen. She one day communicated this piece of know- ledge to Mrs Farebrother, who did not fail to tell her son of it, observing — " I should not be surprised at anything in Bul- strode, but I should be soriy to think it of Mr Lydgate." " Why, mother," said Mr Farebrother, after an explosive laugh, " you know very weU that Lyd- gate is of a good family in the JSTorth. He never heard of Bulstrode before he came here." " That is satisfactory so far as Mr Lydgate is concerned, Camden," said the old lady, with an air of precision. "But as to Bulstrode — the report may be true of some other sen." 70 CHAPTEK XXVII. " Let the high Muse chant loves Olympian : We are hut mortals, and must sing of man.' An eminent philosopher among my friends, who can dignify even your ugly furniture by lifting it into the serene light of science, has shown me this pregnant little fact. Your pier-glass or extensive surface of polished steel made to be rubbed by a housemaid, wiU. be minutely and mul- titudinously scratched in all directions ; but place now against it a lighted candle as a centre of illumination, and lo ! the scratches will seem to arrange themselves in a fine series of concentric circles round that little sun. It is demonstrable that the scratches are going everywhere impar- tially, and it is only your candle which produces the flattering illusion of a concentric arrangement, its light falling with an exclusive optical selection. These things are a parable. The scratches are events, and the candle is the egoism of any person BOOK ITI. — WAITING FOE DEATH. 71 now absent — of Miss Vincy, for example. Eosa- mond had a Providence of her own who had kindly made her more charming than other girls, and who seemed to have arranged Fred's illness and ]\Ir Wrench's mistake in order to bring her and Lydgate within effective proximity. It would have been to contravene these arrangements if Eosamond had consented to go away to Stone Court or elsewhere, as her parents wished her to do, especially since Mr Lydgate thought the precau- tion needless. Therefore, while Miss Morgan and the children were sent away to a farmhouse the morning after Fred's illness had declared itself, Eosamond refused to leave papa and mamma. Poor mamma indeed was an object to touch any creature born of woman ; and Mr Vincy, who doated on his wife, was more alarmed on her account than on Fred's. But for his insistance 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 : 72 MIDDLEMARCH. her one low cry was to Lydgate. She would follow him out of the room and put her hand on his arm moaning out, " Save my boy." Once she pleaded, " He has always been good to me, Mr Lydgate : he never had a hard word for his mother," — as if poor Fred's suffering were an accusation against him. All the deepest fibres of the mother's memory were stirred, and the young man whose voice took a gentler tone when he spoke to her, was one with the babe whom she had loved, with a love new to her, before he was born. *' I have good hope, Mrs Vincy," Lydgate would say. " Come down with me and let us talk about the food." In that way he led her to the parlour where Kosamond was, and made a change for her, surprising her into taking some tea or broth which had been prepared for her. There w^as a constant understanding between him and Eosa- mond on these matters. He almost always saw her before going to the sick-room, and she ap- pealed 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 wonder- ful that the idea of seeing Eosamond began to mingle itself with his interest in the case. Espe- cially when the critical stage was passed, and he began to feel confident of Fred's recovery. In the BOOK III. — WAITING FOE DEATH. 73 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 con- scious of it, so that Mrs Yincy felt as if after all the illness had made a festival for her ten- derness. Both father and mother held it an added reason for good spirits, when old Mr Featherstone sent messages by Lydgate, saying that Fred must make haste and get well, as be, Peter Featherstone, could not do without him, and missed his \dsits sadly. The old man himself was getting bedridden. Mrs Yincy told these messages to Fred when he could listen, and he turned towards her his delicate, pinched face, from which all the thick blond hair had been cut away, and in which the eyes seemed to have got larger, yearning for some word about Mary — wondering what she felt about his illness. No word passed his lips ; but "to hear with eyes belongs to love's rare wit," and the mother in tlie fulness of her heart not only divined Fred's hmg- 74 MIDDLEMAHCH. ing, but felt ready for any sacrifice iu order to satisfy him. " If I can only see my boy strong again/' she said, in her loving folly ; " and who knows ? — per- haps master of Stone Court ! and he can many anybody he likes then." "Not if they won't have me, mother," said Fred. The illness had made him childish, and tears came as he spoke. "Oh, take a bit of jelly, my dear," said Mrs Vincy, secretly incredulous of any such refusal. She never left Fred's side when her husband was not in the house, and thus Eosamond was in the unusual position of being much alone. Lyd- gate, naturally, never thought of staying long with her, yet it seemed that the brief impersonal con- versations 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 conscious- ness unpleasant, and one day looked down, or anywhere, like an ill-worked puppet. But this turned out badly : the next day, Eosamond looked down, and the consequence was that when their eyes met again, both were more conscious than BOOK III. — "WAITING FOU DE.\TII. 75 before. There was no help for this in science, and as Lydgate did not want to flirt, there seemed to be no help for it in folly. It was therefore a relief when neighbours no longer considered the house in quarantine, and when the chances of seeing Eosamond alone were very much reduced. But that intimacy of mutual embarrassment, in which each feels that the other is feeling some- thin^, havino: 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 behaviour can hardly become easy unless it frankly recognises a mutual fascination — which of course need not mean anything deep or serious. This was the way in which Eosamond and Lydgate slid gracefully into ease, and made their intercourse lively again. Visitors came and went as usual, there was once more music in the drawing-room, and all the extra hospitality of Mr Vincy's mayoralty returned. Lydgate, whenever lie could, took his seat by Eosamond'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 /6 MIDDLEMARCH. was agreeable, and did not interfere with graver pursuits. Flirtation, after all, was not necessarily a singeing process. Eosamond, for her part, had never enjoyed the days so much in her life before : she was sure of being admired by some one worth captivating, and she did not distinguish flirtation from love, either in herself or in another. She seemed to be sailing with a fair wind just whither she would go, and her thoughts were much occu- pied with a handsome house in Lowick Gate which she hoped w^ould 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 favourite 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 defi- ciency in him. How different he was from young Plymdale or Mr Caius Larcher! Those young men had not a notion of French, and could speak on no subject with striking knowledge, except BOOK III.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 77 perhaps the dyeing aud carr3n.ng trades, which of course they were ashamed to mention ; they were Middlemarch gentry, elated with their silver- headed whips and satin stocks, but embarrassed in their manners, and timidly jocose : even Fred was above them, having at least the accent and manner of a university man. Whereas Lydgate was always listened to, bore himself with the care- less politeness of conscious superiority, and seemed to have the right clothes on by a certain natural affinity, without ever having to think about them. Kosamond was proud when he entered the room, and when he approached her with a distinguish- ing 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 con- sisted in. But Kosamond was not one of those helpless girls who betray themselves unawares, and whose behaviour is awkwardly driven by their impulses, instead of being steered by wary grace and pro- 78 MIDDLEMARCH. priety. Do you imagine that her rapid forecast and rumination concerning house-furniture and society were ever discernible in her conversation, even with her mamma? On the contrary, she would have expressed the prettiest surprise and disapprobation if she had heard that another young lady had been detected in that immodest prema- tureness — 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, drawing, elegant note-writing, private album for extracted verse, and perfect blond loveliness, which made the irresistible woman for the doomed man of that date. Think no unfair evil of her, pray : she had no wicked plots, nothing sordid or mer- cenary ; in fact, she never thought of money ex- cept as something necessary which other people would always provide. She was not in the habit of devising falsehoods, and if her statements were no direct clue to fact, why, they were not in- tended in that light — they were among her ele- gant accomplishments, intended to please. Na- ture had inspired many arts in finishing Mrs Lemon's favourite pupil, who by general consent (Fred's excepted) was a rare compound of beauty, cleverness, and amiability. BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 70 Lydgate found it more and more agreeable to be with her, and there was no constraint now, there was a delightful interchange of influence in their eyes, and what they said had that superfluity of meaning for them, which is observable with some sense of flatness by a third person ; still, they had no interviews or asides from which a third person need have been excluded. In fact, they flirted ; and Lydgate was secure in the belief that they did nothing else. If a man could not love and be wise, surely he could flirt and be wise at the same time ? EeaUy, the men in Middlemarch, except Mr Farebrother, were great bores, and Lydgate did not care about commercial politics or cards : what was he to do for relaxation ? He was often in- vited to the Bulstrodes' ; but the girls there were hardly out of the schoolroom ; and Mrs Bulstrode's naive way of conciliating piety and worldliness, the nothingness of this life and the desirability of cut glass, the consciousness at once of filthy rags and the best damask, was not a sufficient relief from the weight of her husband's invariable seri- ousness. The Vincys' house, with all its faults, ^vas the pleasanter by contrast ; besides, it nour- ished Eosamond — sweet to look at as a half- opened blush-rose, and adorned with accomplish- ments for the refined amusement of man. 80 MIDDLEMARCH. But he made some enemies, other than medical, by his success with Miss Vincy. One evening he came into the drawing-room rather late, when several other visitors were there. The card-table had drawn off the elders, and Mr Ned Plymdale (one of the good matches in Middlemarch, though not one of its leading minds) was in tete-a-tete with Eosamond. He had brought the last ' Keep- sake,' the gorgeous watered-silk publication which marked modern progress at that time; and he con- sidered 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 satisfied that he had the very best thing in art and literature as a medium for " paying ad- dresses" — the very thing to please a nice girl. He had also reasons, deep rather than ostensible, for being satisfied with his own appearance. To superficial observers his chin had too vanishing an aspect, looking as if it were being gradually re- absorbed. And it did indeed cause him some diffi- culty about the fit of his satin stocks, for which chins were at that time useful. " I think the Honourable Mrs S. is something BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 81 like yon," 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. " I suspect you of being an adroit flatterer," said Eosamond, feeling sure that she should have to reject this young gentleman a second time. But now Lydgate came in ; the book was closed before he reached Rosamond's corner, and as he took his seat with easy confidence on the other side of her, young Plymdale's jaw feU like a barometer towards the cheerless side of change. Eosamond 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 liad 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." VOL. II. p 82 MIDDLEMAECH. " Poor fellow !" said Eosamond, 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 draw- ing the ' Keepsake' towards him and opening it, gave a short scornful laugh and tossed up his chin, as if in wonderment at human folly. "What are you laughing at so profanely?" said Eosamond, with bland neutrality. "I wonder which would turn out to be the silliest — the engravings or the writing here," said Lydgate, in his most convinced tone, while he turned over the pages quickly, seeming to see all through the book in no time, and showing his large white hands to much advantage, as Eosa- mond 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 Eosamond, keeping her amusement duly moderate. Poor young Plymdale had lingered with admiration over this very engraving, and his spirit was stirred. BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 83 " 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 84 MIDDLEMAECH. smart, but smiling with exasperating confidence at Eosamond. " It would be worth knowing by the fact that Miss Vincy could tell it me." Young Plymdale soon went to look at the whist- playing, thinking that Lydgate was one of the most conceited, unpleasant fellows it had ever been his ill-fortune to meet. " How rash you are ! " said Eosamond, inwardly delighted. "Do you see that you have given offence ? " ''What— is it Mr Plymdale's book? I am sorry. I didn't think about it." " I shall begin to admit what you said of your- self when you first came here — that you are a bear, and want teaching by the birds." " Well, there is a bird who can teach me what she will. Don't I listen to her willingly?" To Eosamond it seemed as if she and Lydgate were as good as engaged. That they were some time to be engaged had long been an idea in her mind ; and ideas, we know, tend to a more solid kind of existence, the necessary materials being at hand. It is true, Lydgate had the counter-idea of remaining unengaged ; but this was a mere negative, a shadow cast by other resolves which themselves were capable of shrinking. Circum- BOOK III. — TP'AITIXG FOU DEATH. 85 stance was almost sure to be on the side of Eosa- mond's idea, which had a shaping activity and looked through watchful blue eyes, whereas Lyd- gate's lay blind and unconcerned as a jelly-fish which gets melted without knowing it. That evening when he went home, he looked at his phials to see how a process of maceration was going on, with undisturbed interest ; and he wrote out his daily notes with as much precision as usual. The reveries from which it was difficult for him to detach himself were ideal constructions of something else than Eosamond's virtues, and the primitive tissue was still his fair unknown. More- over, he was beginning to feel some zest for the growing though half-suppressed feud between him and the other medical men, which was likely to become more manifest, now that Eulstrode'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 Pea- cock's patients might be counterbalanced by the impression he had produced in other quarters. Only a few days later, when he had happened to overtake Eosamond on the Lowick Eoad and had got down from his horse to walk by her side until he had quite protected her from a passing drove. 86 MIDDLEMARCII. he had been stopped by a servant on horseback with a message calling him in to a house of some importance where Peacock had never attended; and it was the second instance of this kind. The servant was Sir James Chettam's, and the house was Lowick Manor. 87 CHAPTER XXVIII. 1st Gent. All times are good to seek your wedded home Bringing a mutual delight. 2d Gent. Why, truei 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." ^Ir and Mrs Casaubon, returning from their wed- ding journey, arrived at Lowick Manor in the middle of January. A light snow was falling as they descended at the door, and in the morning, when Dorothea passed from her dressing-room into the blue-green boudoir that we know of, she saw the long avenue of limes lifting their trunks from a white earth, and spreading white branches a.gainst the dun and motionless sky. The distant Hat shrank in uniform whiteness and low-hanging uniformity of cloud. The very furniture in the room seemed to have shrunk since she saw it before : the stag in the tapestry looked more 88 MIDDLEMARCH. 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 renewal of life and glow — like the figure of Dorothea herself as she entered carrying the red-leather cases containing the cameos for Celia. She was glowing from her morning toilette 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 differ- ing white of the fur which itself seemed to wind about her neck and cling down her blue-grey pelisse with a tenderness gathered from her own, a sentient commingled innocence which kept its loveliness against the crystalline purity of the out- door snow. As she laid the cameo-cases on the table in the bow-window, she unconsciously kept her hands on them, immediately absorbed in look- ing out on the still, white enclosure which made her visible world. Mr Casaubon, who had risen early complaining of palpitation, was in the library giving audience to his curate Mr Tucker. By-and-by Celia would come in her quality of bridesmaid as well as sister, BOOK IIL — WAITING FOE DEATH. 89 and tlirougli the next weeks there would be wed- ding visits received and given ; -all in continuance of that transitional life understood to correspond with the excitement of bridal felicity, and keeping up the sense of busy ineffectiveness, as of a dream which the dreamer begins to suspect. The duties of her married life, contemplated as so great be- forehand, seemed to be shrinking with the furni- ture and the white vapour-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 un- easy effort and alarmed with dim presentiment. 'Wlien would the days begin of that active wifely devotion which was to strengthen her husband's life and exalt her own? Xever perhaps, as she had preconceived them ; but somehow — still some- how. 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 vapour—there was the stifling oppres- sion of that gentlewoman's world, where every- tliing was done for her and none asked for her aid — where the sense of connection with a manifold 90 MIDDLEMAECH. pregnant existence had to be kept up painfully as an inward vision, instead of coming from without in claims that would have shaped her energies. — " What shall I do ? " " Whatever you please, my dear : " that had been her brief history since she had left off learning morning lessons and practis- ing silly rhythms on the hated piano. Marriage, which was to bring guidance into worthy and im- perative occupation, had not yet freed her from the gentlewoman's oppressive liberty : it had not even filled her leisure with the ruminant joy of unchecked tenderness. Her blooming full-pulsed youth stood there in a moral imprisonment which made itself one with the chill, colourless, narrowed landscape, with the shrunken furniture, the never^ read books, and the ghostly stag in a pale fantastic world that seemed to be vanishing from the day- light. In the first minutes when Dorothea looked out she felt nothing but the dreary oppression ; then came a keen remembrance, and turning away from the window she walked round the room. The ideas and hopes which were living in her mind when she first saw this room nearly three months before were present now only as memories : she judged them as we judge transient and departed things. All existence seemed to beat with a lower pulse than BOOK III. — WAITING FOU DEATH. 91 lier own, and her religious faith was a solitary cry, the struggle out of a nightmare in which every ob- ject was withering and shrinking away from her. Each remembered thing in the room was disen- chanted, 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 th« miniature of ]\Ir Casaubon's aunt Julia, who had made the unfortunate marriage — of Will Ladislaw's grandmother. Dorothea could fancy that it was alive now — the delicate woman's face which yet had a headstrong look, a peculiarity difficult to interpret. Was it only her friends who thousjht her marriage unfortunate ? or did she herself find it out to be a mistake, and taste the salt bitterness of her tears in the merciful silence of the night? What breadths of experi- ence 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 diffi- culty about marriage. Nay, the colours deepened, the lips and chin seemed to get larger, the hair and eyes seemed to be sending out light, the face was masculine and beamed on her with that full 92 MIDDLEMAECH. gaze which tells her on whom it falls that she is too interesting for the slightest movement of her eyelid to pass unnoticed and uninterpreted. The vivid presentation came like a pleasant glow to Dorothea : she felt herself smiling, and turning from the miniature sat down and looked up as if she were again talking to a figure in front of her. But the smile disappeared as she went on medi- tating, and at last she said aloud — " Oh, it was cruel to speak so I How sad — how di-eadful!" She rose quickly and went out of the room, hurrying along the corridor, with the irresistible impulse to go and see her husband and inquire if she could do anything for him. Perhaps Mr Tucker was gone and Mr Casaubon was alone in the library. She felt as if all her morning's gloom would vanish if she could see her husband glad because of her presence. But when she reached the head of the dark oak staircase, there was Celia coming up, and below there was Mr Brooke, exchanging welcomes and congratulations with Mr Casaubon. "Dodo!" said Celia, in her quiet staccato; then kissed her sister, whose arms encircled her, and said no more. I think they both cried a BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 93 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. "Eome has agreed with you, I see — happiness, frescoes, the antique — that sort of thing. Well, it's very pleasant to have you back again, and you under- stand 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 clue, but I saw it would carry me too far, and nothing might have 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 hus- band's face with some anxiety at the idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might be aware of signs which she had not noticed. "Nothing to alarm you, my dear," said Mr Brooke, observing her expression. "A little English beef and mutton will soon make a dif- ference. It was all very well to look pale, sitting for the portrait of Aquinas, you know — we got 94 mDDLEMARCII. your letter just in time. But Aquinas, now — he was a little too subtle, wasn't he ? Does any- body read Aquinas?" " He is not indeed an author adapted to super- ficial minds/' said Mr Casaubon, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience. "You would like coffee in your own room, uncle ? " said Dorothea, coming to the rescue. " Yes ; and you must go to Celia : she has great news to tell you, you know. I leave it all to her." The blue - green boudoir looked much more cheerful when Celia was seated there in a pelisse exactly like her sister's, surveying the cameos with a placid satisfaction, while the conversation passed on to other topics. " Do you think it nice to go to Eome on a w^ed- ding journey ? " said Celia, with her ready deli- cate blush which Dorothea was used to on the smallest occasions. " It would not suit all — not you, dear, for ex- ample," 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. BOOK III. — WAITING FOE DEATH. 95 And Lady Chettam says she went to Bath." Celia's colour changed again and again — seemed ** To come and go with tidings from the heart, As it a running messenger had been." It must mean more than Celia's blushing usually did. " Celia ! has something happened ? " said Doro- thea, 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 anx- iously. Celia's marriage seemed more serious than it used to do. " It was only three days ago," said Celia. " And Lady Chettam is very kind." " And you are very happy ? " "Yes. We are not going to be married yet. Because everything is to be got ready. And I don't want to be married so very soon, because I think it is nice to be engaged. And we shall be manied all our lives after." " I do believe you could not marry better, Kitty. 96 MIDDLEMAECH. Sir James is a good, honourable man," said Doro- thea, 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 w^ould be getting so learned,'' said Celia, regarding Mr Casaubon's learning as a kind of damp which might in due time saturate a neighbouring body. 97 CHAPTEE XXIX. " I found that no Renius in another could please me. My unfortunate paradoxes lyid entirely dried up that source of comfort."— Goldsmith. One morning, some weeks after her arrival at Lowick, Dorothea — hut 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 understandin^r heinsr 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 blink- ing eyes and white moles objectionable to Celia, and the want of muscular curve which was morally painful to Sir James, Mr Casaubon had an intense consciousness witJiin him, and was spiritually a-hungered like the rest of us. He had done nothing exceptional in marrying — nothing but what society sanctions, and considers an occasion for wreaths and bouquets. It had occurred to VOL. II. G 98 MIDDLEMARCH. him that he must not any longer defer his inten- tion 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 edu- cable 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 w^ould neglect no arrangement for her happiness: in return, he should receive family pleasures and leave behind him that copy of himself which seemed so urgently required of a man — to the sonneteers of the sixteenth century. Times had altered since then, and no sonneteer had insisted on Mr Casaubon's leaving a copy of himself; moreover, he had not yet succeeded in issuing copies of his mythological key ; but he had always intended to acquit himself by marriage, and the sense that he was fast leaving the years behind him, that the world was getting dimmer and that he felt lonely, was a reason to him for losing no more time in overtaking domestic delights before they too were left behind by the years. And when he had seen Dorothea he believed that he had found even more than he demanded : she might really be such a helpmate to him as would BOOK m.— WAITIXG rOR DEATH. 99 enable him to dispense with a hired secretary, an aid which Mr Casaubon had never yet employed and had a suspicious dread of. (Mr Casaubon was nervously conscious that he was expected to manifest a powerful mind.) Providence, in its kindness, had supplied him with the wife he needed. A wife, a modest young lady, with the purely appreciative, unambitious abihties of her sex, is sure to think her husband's mind powerful. Whether Providence had taken equal care of ^Miss Brooke in presenting her with Mr Casaubon was an idea which could hardly occur to him. Society never made the preposterous demand that a man should think as much about his own qualifications for making a charming girl happy as he thinks of hers for making himself happy. As if a man could choose not only his wife but his wife's hus- band ! Or as if he were bound to provide charms for his posterity in his own person ! — When Dorothea accepted him with effusion, that was only natural ; and Mr Casaubon believed that his happiness was going to begin. He had not had much foretaste of happiness in his previous life. To know intense joy without a strong bodily frame, one must have an enthusias- tic soul. Mr Casaubon had never had a strong bodily frame, and his soul was sensitive without 100 MIDDLEMARCH. 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 honour, according to the code ; he would be unimpeachable by any recognised opinion. In conduct these ends had been attained; but the difiiculty of making his Key to all Mythologies unimpeachable weighed like lead upon his mind ; and the pamphlets — or "Parerga" as he called them — by which he tested his public and deposited small monumental records of his march, were far from having been seen in all their significance. He suspected the Archdeacon of not having read them ; he was in painful doubt as to what was really thought of them by the leading minds of Brasenose, and bitterly convinced that his old acquaintance Carp had been the v/riter of that BOOK III. — WAITING FOE DEATH. 1 01 depreciatory recension wliicli was kept locked in a small drawer of Mr Casaubon's desk, and also in a dark closet of his verbal memory. These were heavy impressions to struggle against, and brought that melancholy embitterment which is the conse- quence of all excessive claim : even his religious faith wavered with his wavering trust in his own authorship, and the consolations of the Christian hope in immortality seemed to lean on the immor- tality of the still unwritten Key to all ]\Iytholo- gies. For my part I am very sorry for him. It is an uneasy lot at best, to be what we call highly taught and yet not to enjoy : to be present at this great spectacle of life and never to be liberated from a small hungry shivering self — never to be fully possessed by the glory we behold, never to have our consciousness rapturously transformed into the vividness of a thought, the ardour of a passion, the energy of an action, but always to be scholarly and uninspired, ambitious and timid, scrupulous and dim-sighted. Becoming a dean or even a bishop would make little difference, I fear, to Mr Casaubon's uneasiness. Doubtless some ancient Greek "has observed that behind the big mask and the speaking-trumpet, there must always be our poor little eyes peeping as usual and our timorous lips more or less under anxious control. 102 MIDDLEMAKCH. To this mental estate mapped out a quarter of a century before, to sensibilities thus fenced in, Mr Casaubon had thought of annexing happiness with a lovely young bride ; but even before marriage, as we have seen, he found himself under a new depression in the consciousness that the new bliss was not blissful to him. Inclination yearned back to its old, easier custom. And the deeper he went in domesticity the more did the sense of acquitting himself and acting with propriety predominate over any other satisfaction. Marriage, like religion and erudition, nay, like authorship itself, w^as fated to become an outward requirement, and Edward Casaubon was bent on fulfilling unim- peachably all requirements. Even drawing Doro- thea into use in his study, according to his own intention before marriage, was an effort which he was always tempted to defer, and but for her plead- ing 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 reading aloud or copying assigned her. The work had been easier to define because Mr Casaubon had adopted an immediate intention : there was to be a new Parergon, a small monograph on some lately-traced indications concerning the Egyptian mysteries BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DrATH. 103 whereby certain assertions of Warburton's could be corrected. Eeferences were extensive even here, but not altogether shoreless ; and sentences were actually to be written in the shape wherein they would be scanned by Brasenose and a less formidable posterity. These minor monumental productions were always exciting to Mr Casau- bon; digestion was made difficult by the inter- ference .of citations, or by the rivalry of dialectical phrases ringing against each other in his brain. And from the first there was to be a Latin dedica- tion about which everything was uncertain except that it was not to be addressed to Carp : it was a poisonous regret to Mr Casaubon that he had once addressed a dedication to Carp in which he had numbered that member of the animal kingdom among the viros nulli ccvo 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 librar}^ 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 ex- pecting Sir James. 10-1 MIDDLEMAECH. 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 sur- prise. ''But," she added, looking at Mr Casau- bon, " I can imagine what he has written to you about." *' You can, if j^ou please, read the letter," said Mr Casaubon, severely pointing to it with his pen, and not looking at her. " But I may as well say beforehand, that I must decline the proposal it contains to pay a visit here. I trust I may be excused for desiring an interval of complete freedom from such distractions as have been hitherto inevitable, and especially from guests whose desultory vivacity makes their presence a fatigue." There had been no clashing of temper between Dorothea and her husband since that little exjjlo- BOOK III. — WAITING FOE DEATH. 105 sion 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 dis- agreeable to her husband, this gratuitous defence of himself against selfish complaint on her part, was too sharp a sting to be meditated on until after it had been resented. Dorothea liad thought that she could have been patient with John ^Mil- ton, 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 newborn 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 tlie flash of her eyes. " Why do you attribute to me a wish for any- thing 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 Casau- bon, nervously. Decidedly, this woman was too young to be on toe MiDDLEMAilCIt. the formidable level of wifehood — unless she had been pale and featureless and taken everything for granted. "I think it was you who were first hasty in your false suppositions about my feeling," said Dorothea, in the same tone. The fire was not dissipated yet, and she thought it was ignoble in her husband not to apologise to her. " We will, if you please, say no more on this subject, Dorothea. I have neither leisure nor energy for this kind of debate." Here Mr Casaubon dipped his pen and made as if he would return to his writing, though his hand trembled so much that the words seemed to be written in an unknown character. There are answers which, in turning away wrath, only send it to the other end of the room, and to have a dis- cussion coolly waived when you feel that justice is all on your own side is even more exasperating in marriage than in philosophy. Dorothea left Ladislaw's two letters unread on her husband's writing-table and went to her own place, the scorn and indignation within her rejecting the reading of these letters, just as we hurl away any trash towards which we seem to have been sus- pected of mean cupidity. She did not in the least divine the subtle sources of her husband's bad BOOK 111. — WAITING TOU DEATH. 107 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 indig- nation there was a sense of superiority, but it went out for the present in firmness of stroke, and did not compress itself into an inward articulate voice pronouncing the once affable archangel a poor creature. There had been this apparent quiet for half an hour, and Dorothea had not looked away from her own table, when she heard the loud bang of a book on the floor, and turning quickly saw Mr Gasaubon on the library-steps clinging forward as if he were in some bodily distress. She started up and bounded towards him in an instant : he was evidently in great straits for breath. Jumping on a stool she got close to his elbow and said with her whole soul melted into tender alarm — *' Can you lean on me, dear ? " He was still for two or three minutes, which seemed endless to her, unable to speak or move, 108 MIDDLEMARCn. gasping for breath. When at last he descended the three steps and fell backward in the large chair which Dorothea had drawn close to the foot of the ladder, he no longer gasped but seemed helpless and about to faint. Dorothea rang the bell violently, and presently Mr Casaubon was helped to the couch: he did not faint, and was gradually reviving w^hen Sir James Chettam came in, having been met in the hall with the news that Mr Casaubon had " had a fit in the library." " Good God ! this is just what might have been expected," was his immediate thought. If his prophetic soul had been urged to particularise, 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 before ; but would it not be right to send for a physician ? "When Sir James entered the library, however, Mr Casaubon could make some signs of his usual politeness, and Dorothea, who in the reaction from her first terror had been kneeling and sobbing by his side, now rose and herself proposed that some one should ride off for a medical man. " I recommend you to send for Lydgate," said BOOK III.— WAITING FOE DEATH. 109 Sir James. " My mother has called him in, and she has found him uncommonly clever. She has had a poor opinion of the physicians since my father's death." Dorothea appealed to her husband, and he made a silent sign of approval. So Mr Xydgate was sent for and he came wonderfully soon, for the messenger, who was Sir James Chettam's man and knew Mr Lydgate, met him leading his horse along the Lowick road and giving his arm to Miss Vincy. Celia, in the drawing-room, had known nothing of the trouble till Sir James told her of it. After Dorothea's account, he no longer considered the illness a fit, but still something " of that nature." " Poor dear Dodo — how dreadful ! " said Celia, feeling as much grieved as her own perfect happi- ness would allow. Her little hands were clasped, and enclosed by Sir James's as a bud is enfolded by a liberal calyx. " It is very shocking that JMr Casaubon should be ill ; but I never did like him. And I think he is not half fond enough of Doro- thea ; 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. 110 MIDDLEMAECH. '^ Yes. But poor Dodo never did do what other people do, and I think she never will." " She is a noble creature," said the loyal-hearted Sir James. He had just had a fresh impression of this kind, as he had seen Dorothea stretching her tender arm under her husband's neck and looking at him with unspeakable sorrow. He did not know how much penitence there was in the sorrow. '' Yes," said Celia, thinking it was very well for Sir James to say so, but he would not have been comfortable with Dodo. " Shall I go to her ? Could I help her, do you think ? " " I think it would be well for you just to go and see her before Lydgate comes,". said Sir James, magnanimously. '' Only don't stay long." While Celia was gone, he walked np and down remembering what he had originally felt about' Dorothea's engagement, and feeling a revival of his distrust at Mr Brooke's indifference. If Cad- wallader — if every one else had regarded the affair as he, Sir James, had done, the marriage might liave 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 BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. Ill he had a chivalrous nature (was not the disinter- ested service of woman among the ideal glories of old chivalry ?) : his disregarded love had not turned to bitterness ; its death had made sweet odours — floating memories that clung with a con- secrating effect to Dorothea. He could remain her brotherly friend, interpreting her actions with generous trustfulness. 112 CHAPTEE XXX. " Qui vcut delasser hors de propos, lasse."— Pascal Mr Casaubon had no second attack of equal severity with the first, and in a few days began to recover his usual condition. But Lydgate seeraed to think the case worth a great deal of attention. He not only used his stethoscope (which had not become a matter of course in practice at that time), but sat quietly by his patient and watched him. To Mr Casaubon's questions about himself, he replied that the source of the illness was the common error of intellectual men — a too eager and monotonous application : the remedy was, to be satisfied with moderate work, and to seek variety of relaxation. Mr Brooke, who sat by on one oc- casion, suggested that Mr Casaubon should go fish- ing, as Cadwallader did, and have a turning-room, make toys, table-legs, and that kind of thing. *' In short you recommend me to anticipate the arrival of my second childhood/' said poor Mr BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 113 Casaubon, witli 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, "amuse- ment is rather an unsatisfactory prescription. It is something like telling people to keep up their spirits. Perhaps I had better say, that you must submit to be mildly bored rather than to go on working." *'Yes, yes," said Mr Brooke. "Get Dorothea to play backgammon with you in the evenings. And shuttlecock, now — I don't know a finer game than shuttlecock for the daytime. I remember it all the fashion. To be sure, your eyes might not stand that, Casaubon. But you must unbend, you know. Why, you might take to some light study : conchology, now : I always think that must be a light study. Or get Dorothea to read you light things, Smollett — 'Eoderick Eandom/ * Humphrey Clinker :' they are a little broad, but she may read anything now she's married, you know. I remember they made me laugh un- commonly — there's a droll bit about a postilion's breeches. AVe have no such humour now. I have gone through all these things, but they might be rather new to you." VOL. II. H 114 MIDDLEMARCH. " As new as eating thistles," would have been an answer to represent Mr Casaubon's feelings. But he only bowed resignedly, with due respect to his wife's uncle, and observed that doubtless the works he mentioned had " served as a resource to a certain order of minds." " You see," said the able magistrate to Lydgate, when they were outside the door, " Casaubon has been a little narrow : it leaves him rather at a loss when you forbid him his particular work, which I believe is something very deep indeed — in the line of research, you know. I would never give way to that ; I was always versatile. But a clergyman is tied a little tight. If they would make him a bishop, now ! — he did a very good pamphlet for Peel. He would have more move- ment then, more show ; he might get a little flesh. But I recommend you to talk to Mrs Casaubon. She is clever enough for anything, is my niece. Tell her, her husband wants liveli- ness, diversion : put her on amusing tactics." Without Mr Brooke's advice, Lydgate had de- termined 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 BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 115 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 pro- bable future, but he certainly thought also that it would be interesting to talk confidentially with her. A medical man likes to make psychologica. observations, and sometimes in the pursuit of such studies is too easily tempted into momentous prophecy ^vhich life and death easily set at nought. Lydgate had often been satirical on tliis 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 glow- ing from their struggle with the March wind. "When Lydgate begged to speak with her alone, Dorothea opened the library door which hap- pened to be the nearest, thinking of nothing at the moment but what he might have to say about Mr Casaubon. It was the first time she had entered this room since her husband had been taken ill, and the servant had chosen not to open the shutters. But tliere was light enough to read by from tlie narrow upper panes of the windows. 116 MIDDLEMARCH. "You will not mind this sombre liglit," 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 pro- nounce 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 BOOK III.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 117 gloves, witli au instinctive discarding of formality where a gi-eat question of destiny was concerned ""Wliat 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 Lyd« gate paused she said in a low voice, " You mean, if we are very careful." "Yes — careful against mental agitation of all kinds, and against excessive application." " He would be miserable, if he had to give up his work," said Dorothea, with a quick prevision of that wretchedness. " I am aware of that. The only course is to try by all means, direct and indirect, to moderate and vary his occupations. AVith a happy con- currence of circumstances, there is, as I said, no immediate danger from that affection of the heart which I believe to have been the cause of his late attack. On the other hand, it is possible that the disease may develop itself more rapidly : 118 MIDDLEMAECH. ib is one of those cases in whicli death is some- times sudden. Nothing should be neglected "svhich 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 Eome, I think." The memories which made this resource utterly hopeless were a new current that shook Dorothea out of her pallid immobility. " Oh, that would not do-— ^that would be worse than anything," she said with a more childlike despondency, while the tears rolled down. " No* thing 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 won- dering about her marriage. Women just like Dorothea had not entered into his traditions. " It was right of you to tell me. I thank you for telling me the truth." " I wish you to understand that I shall not say anything to enlighten Mr Casaubon himself. 1 BCOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 119 tliink it desirable for him to know nothing more than that he must not overwork himself, and must observe certain rules. Anxiety of any kind would be precisely the most unfavourable con- dition for him." Lydgate rose, and Dorothea mechanically rose at the same time, unclasping her cloak and throw- ing it off as if it stifled her. He was bowing and quitting Iier, 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 labouring all his life and looking forward. He minds about nothing else. And I mind about nothing else—" For years after Lydgate remembered the im- pression produced in him by this involuntary appeal — this cry from soul to soul, without other consciousness than their moving with kindred natures in the same embroiled medium, the same troublous fitfully - illuminated life. But what could he say now except that he should sec Mr Casaubon again to-morrow ? When he was gone, Dorothea's tears gushed forth, and relieved her stifling oppression. Then 120 MIDDLEMARCH. she dried her eyes, reminded that her distress must not be betrayed to her husband ; and looked round the room thinking that she must order the servant to attend to it as usual, since Mr Casau- bon might now at any moment wisli 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 re- membered, there were young Ladislaw's letters, the one addressed to her still unopened. The associations of these letters had been made the more painful by that sudden attack of illness which she felt that the agitation caused by her anger might have helped to bring on : it would be time enough to read them when they were again thrust upon her, and she had had no inclination to fetch them from the library. But now it occurred to her that they should be put out of her husband's sight : whatever might have been the sources of his an- noyance 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 Eome, and began by saying that his obligations to Mr Casaubon were too deep for all thanks not to seem impertinent It was BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 121 plain that if he were not grateful, he must be tlie poorest-spirited rascal who had ever found a gen- erous friend. To expand in wordy thanks would be like saying, *' I am honest." Lut AVill had come to perceive that his defects — defects 'svhich Mr Casaubon had himself often pointed to — needed for their correction that more strenuous position which his relative's generosity had hitherto pre- vented from being inevitable. He trusted that he should make the best return, if return were pos- sible, by showing the effectiveness of the education for wliich he was indebted, and by ceasing in future to need any diversion towards himself of funds on which others might have a better claim. He was coming to England, to try his fortune, as many other young men were obliged to do whose only capital was in their brains. His friend Xau- mann had desired him to take charge of the " Dis- pute" — the picture painted for Mr Casaubon, with whose permission, and INFrs Casaubon's, "Will would convey it to Lowick in person. A letter addressed to the Poste Eestante in Paris within the fortnight would hinder him, if necessary, from arrivincf at an inconvenient moment. He en- closed a letter to Mrs Casaubon in which he continued a discussion about art, begun with her in Pome. 122 MIDDLEMAECII. Opening her own letter Dorothea saw tliat 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 out- l)ouring of his young vivacity which it was im- possible to read just now. She had immediately to consider what was to be done about the other letter: there "was still time perhaps to prevent Will from coming to Lowick. Dorothea ended by giving the letter to her uncle, who was still in the house, and begging him to let Will know that Mr Casaubon had been ill, and that his health would not allow the reception of any visitors. No one more ready than Mr Brooke to write a letter : his only difficulty was to write a short one, and his ideas in this case expanded over the three large pages and the inward foldings. He had simply said to Dorothea — " To be sure, I will -svrite, my dear. He's a very clever young fellow—this young Ladislaw — I daresay will be a rising young man. It's a good letter — marks his sense of things, you know. How- ever, I will tell him about Casaubon." But the end of Mr Brooke's pen was a thinking organ, evolving sentences, especially of a benevolent kind, before the rest of his mind could Avell over- take them. It expressed regrets and proposed BOOK III.— WAITING FOR DEATtt. 123 remedies, wliicli, 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 neighbourhood just at that time, in order that IMr Brooke might make his acquaintance more fully, and that they might go over the long-neglected Italian drawings together — it also felt such an interest in a young man who was starting in life with a stock of ideas — that by the end of the second page it had persuaded Mr Brooke to invite young Ladislaw, since he could not be received at Lowick, to come to Tipton Grange. "Why not? They could find a great many things to do together, and this was a period of peculiar growth — the political horizon was ex- panding, and — in short Mr Brooke's pen went off into a little speech which it had lately reported for that imperfectly-edited organ the 'Middlemarch Pioneer.' While Mr Brooke was sealing this letter, he felt elated with an influx of dim projects : — a young man capable of putting ideas into form, the * Pioneer ' purchased to clear the pathway for a new candidate, documents utilised — who knew \vhat might come of it all ? Since Celia was going to marry immediately, it would be very pleasant 124 MIDDLEMAECH. 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 en- gaged with her husband and — in fact these things were of no importance to her. CHAPTER XXXI. How will you know the pitch of that great bell Tob large for you to stir? Let but a flute Play 'neatli the line-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 Yincy of Mrs Casaubon, and laid some emphasis on tlie strong feeling slie appeared to Lave 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 tliinking at the same time that it was not so very melanclioly to be mistress of Lowick Manor witli a husband likely to die soon. " Do you tliink her very handsome ? " " She certainly is handsome, but I have not thought about it," said Lydgate. 126 MIDDLEMAHCII. " I suppose it would be unprofessional," said Eosamond, dimpling. " But liow 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 tlian in Middlemarch," said Eosa- mond. " And at least you go through wide corri- dors and have the scent of rose-leaves everywhere." " That is true, Mademoiselle de Montmorenci," said Lydgate, just bending his head to the table and lifting with his fourth finger her delicate hand- kerchief which lay at the mouth of her reticule, as if to enjoy its scent, while he looked at her with a smile. But this agreeable holiday freedom with which Lydgate hovered about the flower of Middle- march, could not continue indefinitely. It was not more possible to find social isolation in that town than elsewhere, and two people persistently flirting could by no means escape from "the various entanglements, weights, blows, clashings, motions, by which things severally go on." Whatever Miss Vincy did must bo remarked, BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. ]27 and she was perhaps the more conspicuous to admirers and critics because just now ^Irs Vincy, after some struggle, had gone with Fred to stay a little while at Stone Court, there being no other way of at once gratifying old Featherstone and keeping wateli against Mary Garth, who appeared a less tolerable daughter-in-law in proportion as Fred's illness disappeared. Aunt Bulstrode, for example, came a little oftener into Lowick Gate to see 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. ISTow Mrs Bulstrode had a long - standing intimacy with Mrs Plymdale. They had nearly the same preferences in silks, patterns for underclothing, china-ware, and clergy- men ; they confided their little troubles of healtli and household management to each other, and various little points of superiority on Mrs Bul- strode's side, namely, more decided seriousness, more admiration for mind, and a house outside the town, sometimes served to give colour 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 128 AIIDDLEMAKCH. Plymdale happened to say that she could not stay longer, because she ^vas going to see poor Eosa- mond. " Why do you say ' poor Rosamond ' ? " said Mrs Plymdale, a round-eyed sharp little woman, like a tamed falcon. " She is so pretty, and has been brought up in such thoughtlessness. The mother, you know, had always that levity about her, which makes me anxious for the children." " Well, Harriet, if I am to speak my mind," said Mrs Plymdale, with emphasis, " I must say, anybody would suppose you and Mr Bulstrode would be delighted with what has happened, for you have done everything to put Mr Lydgate forward." " Selina, what do you mean ? " said JNfrs Bul- strode, 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, BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 129 with a little emphasis in her turn. "Mr Bul- strode 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 unex- ceptionable." ''I was not speaking in a religious sense, Harriet. I spoke as a mother." " Selina, I am sure you have never heard me say anything against a niece of mine marrying your son." " Oh, it is pride in Miss Vincy — I am sure it is nothing else," said Mrs Plymdale, who had never before given all her confidence to " Harriet " on this subject. "No young man in Middlemarch was good enough for her : I have heard her mother say as much. That is not a Christian spirit, I think. But now, from all I hear, she has found a man as proud as herself." "You don't mean that there is anything be- tween 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 see so VOL. II. I 130 MIDDLEMAECIT. many people tliat I don't see. Your circle is rather different from ours." " Well, but your own niece and Mr Bulstrode's great favourite — and yours too, I am sure, Har- riet 1 I thougM, 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 under- stand 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 hand- somely dressed, but she noticed with a little more regret than usual that Eosamond, 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. Eosamond felt sure that her aunt had something particular to say, and they sat BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 131 down near each other. Nevertheless, the quilling inside Eosamond's bonnet was so charming that it was impossible not to desire the same kind of thing for Kate, and Mrs Bulstrode's eyes, which were rather fine, rolled round that ample quiUed circuit, while she spoke. " I have just heard something about you that has surprised me very much, Eosamond." " What is that, aunt ? " Eosamond's eyes also were roaming over her aunt's large embroidered collar. " I can hardly believe it — that you should be engaged without my knowing it — without your father's telling me." Here Mrs Bulstrode's eyes finally rested on Eosamond's, who blushed deeply, and said — " I am not engaged, aunt." " How is it that every one says so, then—that it is the town's talk ? " " The town's talk is of very little consequence, I think," said Eosamond, inw^ardly gratified. "Oh, my dear, be more thoughtful; don't despise your neighbours so. Eemember you are turned twenty-two now, and you will have no fortune : your father, I am sure, will not be able to spare you anything. Mr Lydgate is very intellectual and clever ; I know there is an attraction in that. 132 MIDDLEMARCIT. 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 Eosamond, you must not think of living in high style." Eosamond looked down and played with her reticule. She was not a fiery young lady and had no sharp answers, but she meant to live as she pleased. " Then it is really true ? " said Mrs Bulstrode, looking very earnestly at her niece. " You are thinking of Mr Lydgate : there is some under- standing between you, though your father doesn't know. Be open, my dear Eosamond : Mr Lydgate has really made you an offer?" Poor Eosamond's feelings were very unpleasant. She had been quite easy as to Lydgate's feeling and intention, but now when her aunt put this BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 133 question she did not like being unable to say Yes. Her pride was hurt, but her habitual control of manner helped her. "Pray excuse me, aunt. I would rather not speak on the subject." "You would not give your heart to a man without a decided prospect, I trust, my dear. And think of the two excellent offers I know of that jow 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-looking ; and an only son ; and a large business of that kind is better than a profession. Not that marrying is everything. I would have you seek first the kingdom of God. But a girl should keep her heart within her own power." " I should never give it to Mr Ned Plymdale, if it were. I have already refused him. If I loved, I should love at once and without change," said Eosamond, with a great sense of being a romantic heroine, and playing the part prettily. " I see how it is, my dear," said Mrs Bulstrode, in a melancholy voice, rising to go. "You have allowed your affections to be engaged without return." 134 MIDDLEMARCII. " No, indeed, aunt," said Eosamond, with em- phasis. " 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 worldly and indifferent was disposed to do what his wife bade him, and she now, without telling her reasons, desired him on the next opportunity to find out in conversation with Mr Lydgate whether he had any intention of marrying soon. The result was a decided negative. Mr Bulstrode, on being cross-questioned, showed that Lydgate had spoken as no man would who had any attachment that could issue in matrimony. Mrs Bulstrode now felt that she had a serious duty before her, and she soon managed to arrange a tete-db'tite with Lydgate, in which she passed from inquiries about Pred Vincy's health, and ex- pressions of her sincere anxiety for her brother's large family, to general remarks on the dangers which lay before young people with regard to their settlement in life. Young men were often wdld and disappointing, making little return for the money spent on them, and a girl was exposed to BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 135 many circumstances which might interfere with her prospects. " Especially when she has great attractions, and her parents see much company/' said Mrs Bulstrode. *' Gentlemen pay her attention, and engross her all to themselves, for the mere pleasure of the moment, and that drives off others. I think it is a heavy responsibility, Mr Lydgate, to inter- fere with the prospects of any girl." Here Mrs Bulstrode fixed her eyes on him, with an un- mistakable purpose of warning, if not of rebuke. "Clearly," said Lydgate, looking at her — per- haps even staring a little in return. "On the other hand, a man must be a great coxcomb to go about with a notion that he must not pay attention to a young lady lest she should fall in love with him, or lest others should think she must." "Oh, Mr Lydgate, you know well what your advantages are. You know that our young men here cannot cope with you. Where you frequent a house it may militate very much against a girl's making a desirable settlement in life, and prevent her from accepting offers even if they are made." Lj^dgate was less flattered by his advantage over the Middlemarch Orlandos than he was annoyed by the perception of Mrs Bulstrode's meaning. She felt that she had spoken as impressively as 136 MIDDLEMARCH. it was necessary to do, and that in using the superior word " militate " she had thrown a noble drapery over a mass of particulars which were still evident enough. Lydgate was fuming a little, pushed his hair back with one hand, felt curiously in his waist- coat-pocket with the other, and then stooped to beckon the tiny black spaniel, which had the insight to decline his hollow caresses. It would not have been decent to go away, because he had been dining with other guests, and had just taken tea. But Mrs Bulstrode, having no doubt that she had been understood, turned the conversation. Solomon's Proverbs, I think, have omitted to say, that as the sore palate findeth grit, so an uneasy consciousness heareth innuendoes. The next day Mr Farebrother, parting from Lydgate in the street, supposed that they should meet at Vincy's in the evening. Lydgate answered curtly, no — he had work to do — he must give up going out in the evening. " What, you are going to get lashed to the mast, eh, and are stopping your ears ? " said the Vicar. " Well, if you don't mean to be won by the sirens, you are right to take precautions in time.'* A few days before, Lydgate would have taken no notice of these words as anything more than BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 137 the Vicar's usual way of putting things. They seemed now to convey an innuendo whicli confirmed the impression that he had been making a fool of himself and behaving so as to be misunderstood : not, he believed, by Eosamond herself; she, he felt sure, took everything as lightly as he intended it. She had an exquisite tact and insight in re- lation to all points of manner ; but the people she lived among were blunderers and busybodies. However, the mistake should go no farther. He resolved — and kept his resolution — that he would not go to Mr Vincy's except on business. Rosamond became very unhappy. The uneasi- ness 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 whicli so cheaply wipes out the hopes of mortals. The world would have a new dreariness for her, as a wilderness that a magician's spells had turned for a little while into a garden. She felt that she was beginning to know the pang of disappointed love, and that no other man could be the occasion of such delightful aerial building as she had been enjoying for the last six months. Poor Rosamond lost her appetite and felt as for- lorn as Ariadne — as a charmiiig stngc Ariadne left 138 MIDDLEMARCH. Lehind with all lier 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 Eosamond did not think of committing any desperate act: she plaited her fair hair as beautifully as usual, and kept herself proudly calm. Her most cheerful supposition ^vas that her aunt Bulstrode had interfered in some w^ay to hinder Lydgate's visits: everything was better than a spontaneous indifference in him. Any one who imagines ten days too short a time — not for fall- ing into leanness, lightness, or other measurable effects of passion, but — for the whole spiritual circuit of alarmed conjecture and disappointment, is ignorant of what can go on in the elegant leisure of a young lady's mind. On the eleventh day, however, Lydgate when leaving Stone Court was requested by Mrs 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 BOOK lil. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 139 simple devices apparently did not occur to him, from whicli we may conclude that he had no strong objection to calling at the house at an hour when Mr Vincy was not at home, and leaving the message with Miss Vincy. A man may, from various motives, decline to give his company, but perhaps not even a sage would be gratified that nobody missed him. It would be a graceful, easy way of piecing on the new habits to the old, to liave 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 momentaiy specula- tions as to all the possible grounds for Mrs Bul- strode's hints had managed to get woven like slight clinging hairs into the more substantial web of his thoughts. Miss Vincy was alone, and blushed so deeply when Lydgate came in that he felt a correspond- ing embarrassment, and instead of any playful- ness, he began at once to speak of his reason for calling, and to beg her, almost formally, to deliver the message to her father. Eosamond who at tlie first moment felt as if her happiness were return- ing, was keenly hurt by Lydgate's manner; her blush had departed, and she assented coldly, without adding an unnecessary word, some trivial 140 MIDDLEMAECH. cliaiii-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 w^iip and could say nothing, Lydgate rose to go, and Eosamond, made nervous by her struggle between morti- fication and the wish not to betray it, dropped her chain as if startled, and rose too, mechani- cally. Lydgate instantaneously stooped to pick up the chain. When he rose he w^as 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 wdth a questioning flash. At this moment she was as natural as she had ever been when she was five years old : she felt that her tears had risen, and it was no use to try to do anything else than let them stay like water on a blue flower or let them fall over her cheeks, even as they would. That moment of naturalness was the crystallis- ing feather-touch : it shook flirtation into love. Eemember that the ambitious man who was looking at tliose Forget-me-nots under the water BOOK III. — WAITING FOll DEATH. 141 was very warm-hearted and rash. He did not know where the chain went ; an idea had thrilled through the recesses within him which had a miraculous effect in raising the power of pas- sionate love lying buried there in no sealed sepulchre, but under the lightest, easily-pierced mould. His words were quite abrupt and awk- ward; but the tone made them sound like an ardent, appealing avowal. " What is the matter ? you are distressed. Tull 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, com- pletely 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 protect- ingly — he was used to being gentle with the weak and suffering— and kissed each of tlie two large tears. Tliis was a strange way of arriving at an understanding, but it was a short way. Eosamond was not angry, but she moved back- ward a little in timid happiness, and Lydgate 142 MIDDLEMAECII. could now sit near her and speak less incom- pletely. Eosamond had to make her little con- fession, and he poured out words of gratitude and tenderness with impulsive lavishment. In half an hour he left the house an engaged man, whose soul was not his own, but the woman's to whom he had bound himself. He came again in the evening to speak with Mr Vincy, who, just returned from Stone Court, was feeling sure that it would not be long before he heard of Mr Featherstone's demise. The feli- citous word " demise," which had seasonably oc- curred to him, had raised his spirits even above their usual evening pitch. The right word is always a power, and communicates its definite- ness to our action. Considered as a demise, old Featherstone's death assumed a merely legal aspect, so that Mr Vincy could tap his snuff-box over it and be jovial, without even an intermittent affectation of solemnity; and Mr Vincy hated both solemnity and affectation. Who was ever awe-struck about a testator, or sang a hymn on the title to real property ? Mr Vincy was inclined to take a jovial view of all things that evening: he even observed to Lydgate that Fred had got the family constitution after all, and would soon be as fine a fellow as ever again ; and when his BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 143 approbation of Eosamond's engagement was asked for, he gave it with astonishing facility, passing at once to general remarks on the desirableness of matrimony for young men and maidens, and ap- parently deducing from the whole the appropriate- ness of a little more punch . 144 CHAPTER XXXII. They'll take suggestion as a cat laps milk." —Shakespeare: Tempest. The triumphant confidence of the Mayor founded on Mr Featherstone's insistent demand that Fred and his mother should not leave him, was a feeble emotion compared with all that was agitating the breasts of the old man's blood - relations, who naturally manifested more their sense of the family tie and were more visibly numerous now that he had become bedridden. Naturally: for when " poor Peter " had occupied his arm-chair in the wainscoated parlour, no assiduous beetles for whom the cook prepares boiling water could have been less welcome on a hearth which they had reasons for preferring, than those persons whose Featherstone blood was ill-nourished, not from penuriousness on their part, but from pov- erty. Brother Solomon and Sister Jane were rich, BOOK III.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 145 and tlie family candour and total abstinence from false politeness "vvith which they were always re- ceived seemed to them no argument that their brother in the solemn act of making his will would overlook the superior claims of wealth. Them- selves 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. Pro- babilities are as various as the faces to be seen at will in fretwork or paperhangings : every form is there, from Jupiter to Judy, if you only look with creative inclination. To the poorer and least favoured it seemed likely that since Peter had done nothing for them in his life, he would re- member 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 VOL. 11. K 146 :,ITDDLEMxVr.CII. thicker than water, and if he didn't alter his will, he might have money by him. At any rate some blood-relations should be on the premises and on the watch against those who were hardly relations at all. Such things had been known as forged wills and disputed wills, which seemed to have the golden-hazy advantage of somehow enabling non-legatees to live out of them. Again, those who were no blood-relations might be caught making away with things — and poor Peter " lying there " helpless ! Somebody should be on the watch. But in this conclusion they were at one with Solomon and Jane ; also, some nephews, nieces, and cousins, arguing with still greater subtilty as to what might be done by a man able to *'will away" his property and give himself large treats of oddity, felt in a handsome sort of way that there was a family interest to be at- tended to, and thought of Stone Court as a place which it would be nothing but right for them to visit. Sister Martha, otherwise ]\Irs Cranch, living with some wheeziness in the Chalky Elats, 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 impro- bable things which seemed likely to happen. In BOOK ITT. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 147 fact tliere was a general sense running in the I'eatherstone blood that everybody must watch everybody else, and that it would be well for everybody else to reflect tliat 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 household she felt bound to ask them in good provincial fashion to stay and eat ; but she chose to consult Mrs Vincy on the point of extra down- stairs consumption now that Mr Featherstone was laid up. " Oh, my dear, you must do things handsomely where there's last illness and a property. God knows, I don't grudge them every ham in tlie house — only, save the best for the funeral. Have Gome stuffed veal always, and a fine cheese in cut. You must expect to keep open house in these last illnesses," said liberal Mrs Vincy, once more of cheerful note and bright plumage. But some of the visitors alitzhted and did not depart after, the handsome treating to veal and ham. Brother Jonah, for example (there are such 148 MIDDLEMARCII. unpleasant people in most families ; perhaps even in the highest aristocracy there are Brobdinguag specimens, gigantically in debt and bloated at greater expense) — Brother Jonah, I say, having come down in the world, was mainly supported by a calling which he was modest enough not to boast of, though it was much better than swindling either on exchange or turf, but which did not require his presence at Brassing so long as he had a good corner to sit in and a supply of food. He chose the kitchen-corner, partly because he liked it best, and partly because he did not want to sit with Solomon, concerning whom he had a strong brotherly opinion. Seated in a famous arm-chair and in his best suit, constantly within sight of sood cheer, he had a comfortable consciousness of being on the premises, mingled with fleeting sug- gestions 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 tlie idiots. Jonah was the wit among the Feather- stones, and joked with the maid-servants when they came about the hearth, but seemed to con- sider Miss Garth a suspicious character, and fol- lowed her with cold eyes. BOOK in.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 140 Mary would have borne this one pair of eyes with comparative ease, but unfortunately there was young Cranch, who, having come all the way from the Chalky Flats to represent his mother and watch his uncle Jonah, also felt it his duty to stay and to sit chiefly in the kitchen to give his uncle company. Young Cranch was not exactly the bal- ancing point between the wit and the idiot, — verg- ing 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 jNIr Jonah Featherstone began to follow her with his cold detective eyes, young Cranch turning his head in the same direction seemed to insist on it that she should remark how he was squinting, as if he did it with design, like the gypsies when Borrow read the New Testament to them. This was rather too much for poor Mary ; sometimes it made her bilious, sometimes it upset her gravity. One day that she had an opportunity she could not resist describing the kitchen scene to Fred, who would not be hindered from immediately go- ing to see it, affecting simply to pass through. But no sooner did he face the four eyes than he had to rush through the nearest door which hap- pened to lead to the dairy, and there under the high 150 MIDDLEMARCir. roof and among the pans he gave way to laughter wliich made a hollow resonance perfectly audible in the kitchen. He fled by another aoorway, 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 — yoio haven't got half such fine long legs," said Jonah to his nephew, winking at the same time, to imply that there was something more in these statements than their undeniableness. Tom looked at his legs, but left it uncertain whether he preferred his moral advantages to a more vici- ous length of limb and reprehensible gentility of trouser. In the large wainscoated parlour too there M^ere 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 foutid it good to be there every day for hours, without other calculable occupation than that of observing the cunning Mary Garth (who was so deep that She could be found out in nothing) and giving BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 151 occasional dry wrinkly indications of crying — as if capable of ton-ents in a wetter season — at the thought tha^they were not allowed to go into Mr Featherstone's room. For the old man's dislike of his own family seemed to get stronger as he got less able to amuse himself by saying biting things to them. Too languid to sting, he had the more venom refluent in his blood. Not fully believing the message sent through Mary Garth, they had presented themselves together within the door of the bedroom, both in black — Mrs Waule having a white handkerchief partially unfolded in her hand — and both with faces in a sort of half-mourning purple ; while Mrs Vincy with her pink cheeks and pink ribbons flying was actually administering a cordial to their own brother, and the light- complexioned Fred, his short hair curling as might be expected in a gambler's, was lolling at his ease in a large chair. Old Featherstone no sooner caught sight of these funereal figures appearing in spite of his orders than rage came to strengthen him more successfully than the cordial. He was propped up on a bed-rest, and always had his gold-headed Stick lying by him. fie seized it now and swept it backwards and forwards in as large an area as 152 MTDDLEMARCH. he could, apparently to ban these ugly spectres, crying in a hoarse sort of screech — " Back, back, Mrs Waiile ! 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 T should speak to you about the Three Crofts and the Manganese. The Almighty knows what I've got on my mind . . ." " Then He knows more than I want to know," said Peter, laying down his stick with a show of truce which had a threat in it too, for he reversed the stick so as to make the gold handle a club in case of closer fighting, and looked hard at Solo- mon's bald head. BOOK III.— WAITING TOIL DEATH. 153 " There's tilings you miglit repent of, Brother, for want of speakmg to me," said Solomon, not advancing, however. "I could sit up with you to-night, and Jane with me, willingly, and you might take your own time to speak, or let me speak." " Yes, I shall take my own time — you needn't offer me yours," said Peter. '* But you can't take your own time to die in. Brother," began Mrs Waule, with her usual woolly tone. "And when you lie speechless you may be tired of having strangers about you, and you may think of me and my children " but here her voice broke under the touching thought which she was attributing to her speechless brother; the mention of ourselves being naturally affecting. " No, I shan't," said old Featherstone, contra- dictiously. " I shan't think of any of you. I've made my will, I tell you, I've made my will." Here he turned his head towards Mrs Yincy, 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. " Oil, sister," said Solomon, with ironical soft- ness, "you and me are not fine, and handsome, 154 MIDDLEMARCII. 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 Feathers tone, 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-bye, So- lomon," he added, trying to wield his stick again, but failing now that he had reversed the handle. "Good-bye, Mrs Waule. Don't you come again." "I shall be down-stairs, brother, whether or no," said Solomon. " I shall do my duty, and it re- mains to be seen what the Almighty will allow." " Yes, in property going out of families," said ]\Irs 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-bye, Brother Peter." " Eemember, I'm the eldest after you, Brother, arid prospered from the first, just as you did, and have got land already by the name of Feartherstone," said Solomon, relying much on that reflection, as one which might be suggested in the watches of the night. "But I bid you good-bye for the |)resent." Their exit was hastened by their seeing old BOOK III. — Waiting Fois death. 155 Featlierstone pull his ^Yig 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 car- rying on a slow dialogue in an undertone in which the observation and response were so far apart, that any one hearing them might have imagined himself listening to speaking automata, in some doubt whether the ingenious mechanism would really work, or wind itself up for a long time in order to stick and be silent. Solomon and Jane would have been sorry to be quick : what that led to micjht be seen on the other side of the wall in the person of Brother Jonah. But their watch in the walnscoated parlour was sometimes varied by the presence of other guests from far or near. Now that Peter Featherstone was up-stairs, his property could be discussed with all that local enlightenment to be found on the spot: some rural and Middlemarch neighbours Ox- pressed much agreement with the family and sym- pathy with their interest against the Vincys, and feminine visitors were even moved to tears, in con- versation with Mrs Waule, when they recalled the fact that they themselves had been disappointed ill times past by codicils and marriages for spite 15G MIDDLEMAECIT. Oil 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 com- pliments and polite attentions. Especially from Mr Borthrop Trumbull, a dis- tinguished 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 who did not know of liim. He was second cousin to Peter Featherstone, and had been treated by him w^ith more amenity than any other relative, being useful in matters of business ; and in that programme of his funeral which the old man had himself dictated, he had been named as a Bearer. There was no odious cupidity in Mr Borthrop Trumbull — nothing more BOOK III.— WAITING FOE DEATH. 157 than a sincere sense of his own merit, which, ho was aware, in case of rivalry might tell against competitors ; so that if Peter Featherstone, wlio so far as he, Trumbull, was concerned, had behaved like as good a soul as ever breathed, should have done anything handsome by him, all he could say was, that he had never fished and fawned, but had advised him to the best of his experience, which now extended over twenty years from the time of his apprenticeship at fifteen, and was likely to yield a knowledge of no surreptitious kind. His admiration was far from being confined to himself, but was accustomed professionally as well as pri- vately to delight in estimating things at a high rate. He was an amateur of superior phrases, and never used poor language without immediately correcting himself — which was fortunate, as he was rather loud, and given to predominate, stand- ing or walking about frequently, pulling down his waistcoat with the air of a man who is very much of his own opinion, trimming himself rapidly witli his fore-finger, and marking each new series in these movements by a busy play with his large seals. There was occasionally a little fierceness in liis demeanour, but it was directed chiefly against false opinion, of which there is so much to correct in the w^orld that a man of some read- 158 MIDDLEMAECH. ing and experience necessarily has his patience kied. He felt that the Featherstone family gen- erally was of limited understanding, but being a man of the world and a public character took everything as a matter of course, and even went to converse with Mr Jonah and young Cranch in the kitchen, not doubting that he had impressed the latter greatly by his leading questions con- cerning the Chalky Flats. If anybody had ob- served that Mr Borthrop Trumbull, being an auc- tioneer, w^as bound to know the nature of every- thing, he would have smiled and trimmed him- self silently with the sense that he came pretty near that. On the whole, in an auctioneering way, he was an honourable man, not ashamed of his business, and feeling that "the celebrated Peel, now Sir Eobert," if introduced to him, would not fail to recognise his importance. " I don't mind if I have a slice of that ham, and a glass of that ale, Miss Garth, if you will allow me," he said, coming into the parlour at half-past eleven, after having had the exceptional privilege of seeing old Featherstone, and standing with his back to the fire between Mrs Waule and Solomon. " It's not necessary for you to go out ; — let me ring the bell." " Thank you," said Mary, '' I have an errand." BOOK III.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 153 " Well, 'Mv Trumbull, you're highly favoured," said Mrs Waule. " What, seeing the old man ? " said the auction- eer, playing with his seals dispassionately. '' Ah, you see, he has relied on me considerably." Here he pressed his lips together, and frowned medita- tively. " 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 f]rood- humoured thoudi cutting' sarcasm. "Anybody may interrogate. Any one may give their remarks an interrogative turn," he continued, his sonorousness rising with his style. " This is constantly done by good speakers, even when they anticipate no answer. It is what we call a figure of speech — speech at a high figure, as one may say." The eloquent auctioneer smiled at his own ingenuity. " I shouldn't be sorry to hear he'd remembered you, Mv Trumbull," said Solomon. " I never was against the deserving. It's the undeserving I'm against." "Ah, there it is, you see, there it is," said Mr 160 MIDDLEMARCH. 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 Trum- bull, 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 depres- sing effect. "A man might as well turn his land into charity land at once as leave it to some people," observed Solomon, his sister's question having drawn no answer. "What, Blue-Coat land?" said Mrs AYaule, again. *' Oh, Mr Trumbull, you never can mean to say that. It would be flying in the face of the Almighty that's prospered him." While Mrs Waule was speaking, Mr Borthrop Trumbull walked away from the fireplace towards tlie window, patrolling with his fore-finger round the inside of his stock, then along his whiskers and the curves of his hair. He now walked to Miss Garth's work-table, opened a book which lay there and read the title aloud with pompous emphasis as if he were offering it for sale : '*'Anne of Geierstein' (pronounced Jeersteen) BOOK m. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 161 * or the Maiden of the Mist, by the Author of Wav- erley.' " Then turning the page, he began sonor- ously — '*The course of four centuries has well-nigh elapsed since the series of events which are related in the following chapters took place on the Con- tinent." He pronounced the last truly admirable word with the accent on the last syllable, not as unaware of vulgar usage, but feeling that this novel delivery enhanced the sonorous beauty which his reading had given to the whole. And now the servant came in with the tray, so that the moments for answering Mrs Waule's question had gone by safely, while she and Solo- mon, watching Mr Trumbull's movements, were thinking that high learning interfered sadly with serious alffairs. 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 mis- prision of treason. " I shall take a mere mouthful of ham and a glass of ale," he said, reassuringly. " As a man with public business, I take a snack when I can. I will back this ham," he added, after swallowing some morsels with alarming haste, " against any ham in the three kingdoms. In my opinion it is VOL. II. li 162 MIDDLEMARCH. better than the hams at Freshitt Hall — and I think I am a tolerable judge." "Some don't like so much sugar in their hams," said Mrs Waule. " But my poor brother would always have sugar." " If any person demands better, he is at liberty to do so ; but, God bless me, what an aroma ! I should be glad to buy-in that quality, I know. There is some gratification to a gentleman " — here Mr Trumbull's voice conveyed an emotional re- monstrance — " 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 AYalter Scott. I have bought one of his w^orks myself — a very nice thing, a very superior publication, entitled ' Ivanhoe.' You will not get any writer to beat him in a hurry, I think — he will not, in my opinion, be speedily surpassed. I have just BOOK III.— WAITING FOR DEATH. 163 been reading a portion at the commencement of 'Anneof Jeersteen/ It commences well." (Things never began with Mr Borthrop Trumbull: they always commenced, both in private life and on his handbills.) "You are a reader, I see. Do you subscribe to our Middlemarch library ? " "No," said Mary. "Mr Fred Vincy brought this book." "I am a great bookman myself," returned Mr Trumbull. " I have no less than two hundred volumes in calf, and I flatter myself they are well selected. Also pictures by Murillo, Eubens, Teni- ers, Titian, Vandyck, and others. I shall be happy to lend you any work you like to mention. Miss Garth." "I am much obliged," said Mary, hastening away again, " but I have little time for reading." " I should say my brother has done something for her in his will," said Mr Solomon, in a very low undertone, when she had shut the door be- hind 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." 164 MIDDLEMARCH. "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 — T hope some individual will apprise me of the fact. I wish you good morning, Mrs Waule. Good morning, Mr Solomon. I trust we shall meet under less melancholy auspices." When Mr Trumbull had departed with a fine bow, Solomon, leaning forward, observed to his sister, "You may depend, Jane, my brother has left that girl a lumping sum." "Anybody would think so, from the way Mr Trumbull talks," said Jane. Then, after a pause, " He talks as if my daughters wasn't to be trusted to give drops." " Auctioneers talk wild," said Solomon. " Not but what Trumbull has made money." 165 CHAPTEE XXXIII. ' Close up his eyes and draw the curtain close; And let us all to meditation." —2 Eenry VI. That night after twelve o'clock Mary Garth re- lieved the watch in Mr Featherst one's room, and sat there alone through the small hours. She often chose this task, in which she found soma pleasure, notwithstanding the old man's testiness whenever he demanded her attentions. There were intervals in which she could sit perfectly still, enjoying the outer stillness and the subdued light. The red fire with its gently audible move- ment seemed like a solemn existence calmly inde- pendent of the petty passions, the imbecile desires, the straining after worthless uncertainties, which were daily moving her contempt. Mary was fond of her own thoughts, and could amuse herself well sitting in twilight with her hands in her lap ; for, having early had strong reason to beUeve that 166 MIDDLEMAECH. things were not likely to be arranged for her pecu- liar satisfaction, she wasted no time in astonish- ment 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 resolu- tion not to act the mean or treacherous part. Mary might have become cynical if she had not had parents whom she honoured, and a well of affectionate gratitude within her, which was all the fuller because she had learned to make no unreasonable claims. She sat to-night revolving, as she was wont, the scenes of the day, her lips often curling with amusement at the oddities to which her fancy added fresh drollery: people were so ridiculous with their illusions, carrying their fool's caps unawares, thinking their own lies opaque while everybody else's were transparent, making them- selves exceptions to everything, as if when all the world looked yellow under a lamp they alone were rosy. Yet there were some illusions under Mary's eyes which were not quite comic to her. She was secretly convinced, though she had no other grounds than her close observation of old Feather- stone'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 BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 167 he kept at a distance. She had a good deal of disdain for Mrs Yincy's evident alarm lest she and Fred should be alone together, but it did not hinder her from thinking anxiously of the way in which Fred would be affected, if it should turn out that his uncle had left him as poor as ever. She could make a butt of Fred when he was present, but she did not enjoy his follies when he was absent. Yet she liked her thoughts : a vigorous young mind not overbalanced by passion, finds a good in making acquaintance with life, and w^atches its own powers with interest. Mary had plenty of merriment within. Her thought was not veined by any solemnity or pathos about the old man on the bed : such sentiments are easier to affect than to feel about an aged creature whose life is not visibly anything but a remnant of vices. She had always seen the most disagreeable side of Mr Featherstone : he was not proud of her, and she was only useful to him. To be anxious about a soul that is always snapping at you must be left to the saints of the earth; and Mary was not one of them. She had never returned him a harsh word, and had waited on him faithfully: that was her utmost. Old Featherstone himself was not in the least anxioua 168 MLDDLEMAECH. 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 Mary, well used to the old man's way of speech. He nodded slightly and she went on. "Mr Jonah Featherstone and young Cranch are sleeping here." " Oh ay, they stick, do they? and the rest — they come every day, I'll warrant — Solomon and Jane, and all the young uns ? They come peeping, and counting and casting up ? " " Not all of them every day. Mr Solomon and BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 169 Mrs Waule are here every day, and the others come often." The old man listened with a grimace while she spoke, and then said, relaxing his face, " The more fools they. You hearken. Missy. It's three o'clock in the morning, and I've got all my faculties as well as ever I had in my life. I know all my property, and where the money's put out, and everything. And I've made everything ready to change my mind, and do as I like at the last. Do you hear, Missy? I've got my faculties." " Well, sir ? " said Mary, quietly. He now lowered his tone with an air of deeper cunning. " I've made two wills, and I'm going to burn one. Now you do as I teU you. This is the key of my iron chest, in the closet there. You push well at the side of the brass plate at the top, till it goes like a bolt : then you can put the key in the front lock and turn it. See and do that ; and take out the topmost paper — Last Will and Testament — big printed." " No, sir," said Mary, in a firm voice, " I cannot do that." " Not do it ? I tell you, you must," said the old man, his voice beginning to shake under the shock of this resistance. " I cannot touch your iron chest or your wilL 170 MIDDLEMARCH. 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 resol- utely still. Her repulsion was getting stronger. " I tell you, there's no time to lose." "I cannot help that, sir. I will not let the close of your life soil the beginning of mine. I will not touch your iron chest or your will." She moved to a little distance from the bedside. The old man paused with a blank stare for a little while, holding the one key erect on the ring ; then with an agitated jerk he began to work with his bony left hand at emptying the tin box before him. "Missy," he began to say, hurriedly, "look- here ! take the money — the notes and gold — look here — take it — you shall have it all — do as I tell you." He made an effort to stretch out the key to- wards her as far as possible, and Mary again retreated. " I will not touch your key or your money, sir. Pray don't ask me to do it again. If you do, I must go and call your brother." BOOK m. — ^WAITING FOR DEATH. 171 He let his hand fall, and for the first time in her life Mary saw old Peter Featherstone begin to cry childishly. She said, in as gentle a tone as she could command, " Pray put up your money, sir ; " and then went away to her seat by the fire, hoping this would help to convince him that it was useless to say more. Presently he rallied and said eagerly — " Look here, then. Call the young chap. Call Fred Vincy." Mary's heart began to beat more quickly. Various ideas rushed through her mind as to what the burning of a second will might imply. She had to make a difficult decision in a hurry. "I will call him, if you w^ill 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, wlien 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 172 MIDDLEMARCH. 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 unneces- sarily the contradiction which agitated him. " Let me, pray, call some one else." " You let me alone, I say. Look here, Missy. Take the money. You'll never have the chance again. It's pretty nigh two hundred — there's more in the box, and nobody knows how much there was. Take it and do as I tell you." Mary, standing by the fire, saw its red light falling on the old man, propped up on his pil- lows and bed-rest, with his bony hand holding out the key, and the money lying on the quilt before him. She never forgot that vision of a man wanting to do as he liked at the last. But the way in which he had put the offer of the- money urged her to speak with harder resolu- tion 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 BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 173 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 174 MIDDLEMAKCH. she went near him the irritation might be kept up. He had said nothing after throwing the stick, but she had seen him taking his keys again and laying his right hand on the money. He did not put it up, however, and she thought that he was dropping off to sleep. But Mary herself began to be more agitated by the remembrance of what she had gone through, than she had been by the reality — questioning those acts of hers which had come imperatively and excluded all question in the critical mo- ment. Presently the dry wood sent out a flame which illuminated every crevice, and Mary saw that the old man was lying quietly with his head turned a little on one side. She went towards him with inaudible steps, and thought that his face looked strangely motionless; but the next moment the movement of the flame communicating itself to all objects made her uncertain. The violent beating of her heart rendered her perceptions so doubtful that even when she touched him and listened for his breathing, she could not trust her conclusions. She went to the window and gently propped aside the curtain and blind, so that the still light of the sky fell on the bed. BOOK III. — WAITING FOR DEATH. 175 The next moment she ran to the bell and rang it energetically. In a very little while there was no longer any doubt that Peter Featherstone was dead, with his right hand clasping the keys, and his left hand lying on the heap of notes and gold.