Middlemarch

by George Eliot

  CHAPTER XII.

  "He had more tow on his distaffe Than Gerveis knew." --CHAUCER.

  The ride to Stone Court, which Fred and Rosamond took the next morning,lay through a pretty bit of midland landscape, almost all meadows andpastures, with hedgerows still allowed to grow in bushy beauty and tospread out coral fruit for the birds. Little details gave each field aparticular physiognomy, dear to the eyes that have looked on them fromchildhood: the pool in the corner where the grasses were dank and treesleaned whisperingly; the great oak shadowing a bare place inmid-pasture; the high bank where the ash-trees grew; the sudden slopeof the old marl-pit making a red background for the burdock; thehuddled roofs and ricks of the homestead without a traceable way ofapproach; the gray gate and fences against the depths of the borderingwood; and the stray hovel, its old, old thatch full of mossy hills andvalleys with wondrous modulations of light and shadow such as we travelfar to see in later life, and see larger, but not more beautiful.These are the things that make the gamut of joy in landscape tomidland-bred souls--the things they toddled among, or perhaps learnedby heart standing between their father's knees while he drove leisurely.

  But the road, even the byroad, was excellent; for Lowick, as we haveseen, was not a parish of muddy lanes and poor tenants; and it was intoLowick parish that Fred and Rosamond entered after a couple of miles'riding. Another mile would bring them to Stone Court, and at the endof the first half, the house was already visible, looking as if it hadbeen arrested in its growth toward a stone mansion by an unexpectedbudding of farm-buildings on its left flank, which had hindered it frombecoming anything more than the substantial dwelling of a gentlemanfarmer. It was not the less agreeable an object in the distance forthe cluster of pinnacled corn-ricks which balanced the fine row ofwalnuts on the right.

  Presently it was possible to discern something that might be a gig onthe circular drive before the front door.

  "Dear me," said Rosamond, "I hope none of my uncle's horrible relationsare there."

  "They are, though. That is Mrs. Waule's gig--the last yellow gig left,I should think. When I see Mrs. Waule in it, I understand how yellowcan have been worn for mourning. That gig seems to me more funerealthan a hearse. But then Mrs. Waule always has black crape on. Howdoes she manage it, Rosy? Her friends can't always be dying."

  "I don't know at all. And she is not in the least evangelical," saidRosamond, reflectively, as if that religious point of view would havefully accounted for perpetual crape. "And, not poor," she added, aftera moment's pause.

  "No, by George! They are as rich as Jews, those Waules andFeatherstones; I mean, for people like them, who don't want to spendanything. And yet they hang about my uncle like vultures, and areafraid of a farthing going away from their side of the family. But Ibelieve he hates them all."

  The Mrs. Waule who was so far from being admirable in the eyes of thesedistant connections, had happened to say this very morning (not at allwith a defiant air, but in a low, muffled, neutral tone, as of a voiceheard through cotton wool) that she did not wish "to enjoy their goodopinion." She was seated, as she observed, on her own brother's hearth,and had been Jane Featherstone five-and-twenty years before she hadbeen Jane Waule, which entitled her to speak when her own brother'sname had been made free with by those who had no right to it.

  "What are you driving at there?" said Mr. Featherstone, holding hisstick between his knees and settling his wig, while he gave her amomentary sharp glance, which seemed to react on him like a draught ofcold air and set him coughing.

  Mrs. Waule had to defer her answer till he was quiet again, till MaryGarth had supplied him with fresh syrup, and he had begun to rub thegold knob of his stick, looking bitterly at the fire. It was a brightfire, but it made no difference to the chill-looking purplish tint ofMrs. Waule's face, which was as neutral as her voice; having merechinks for eyes, and lips that hardly moved in speaking.

  "The doctors can't master that cough, brother. It's just like what Ihave; for I'm your own sister, constitution and everything. But, as Iwas saying, it's a pity Mrs. Vincy's family can't be better conducted."

  "Tchah! you said nothing o' the sort. You said somebody had made freewith my name."

  "And no more than can be proved, if what everybody says is true. Mybrother Solomon tells me it's the talk up and down in Middlemarch howunsteady young Vincy is, and has been forever gambling at billiardssince home he came."

  "Nonsense! What's a game at billiards? It's a good gentlemanly game;and young Vincy is not a clodhopper. If your son John took tobilliards, now, he'd make a fool of himself."

  "Your nephew John never took to billiards or any other game, brother,and is far from losing hundreds of pounds, which, if what everybodysays is true, must be found somewhere else than out of Mr. Vincy thefather's pocket. For they say he's been losing money for years, thoughnobody would think so, to see him go coursing and keeping open house asthey do. And I've heard say Mr. Bulstrode condemns Mrs. Vincy beyondanything for her flightiness, and spoiling her children so."

  "What's Bulstrode to me? I don't bank with him."

  "Well, Mrs. Bulstrode is Mr. Vincy's own sister, and they do say thatMr. Vincy mostly trades on the Bank money; and you may see yourself,brother, when a woman past forty has pink strings always flying, andthat light way of laughing at everything, it's very unbecoming. Butindulging your children is one thing, and finding money to pay theirdebts is another. And it's openly said that young Vincy has raisedmoney on his expectations. I don't say what expectations. Miss Garthhears me, and is welcome to tell again. I know young people hangtogether."

  "No, thank you, Mrs. Waule," said Mary Garth. "I dislike hearingscandal too much to wish to repeat it."

  Mr. Featherstone rubbed the knob of his stick and made a briefconvulsive show of laughter, which had much the same genuineness as anold whist-player's chuckle over a bad hand. Still looking at the fire,he said--

  "And who pretends to say Fred Vincy hasn't got expectations? Such afine, spirited fellow is like enough to have 'em."

  There was a slight pause before Mrs. Waule replied, and when she didso, her voice seemed to be slightly moistened with tears, though herface was still dry.

  "Whether or no, brother, it is naturally painful to me and my brotherSolomon to hear your name made free with, and your complaint being suchas may carry you off sudden, and people who are no more Featherstonesthan the Merry-Andrew at the fair, openly reckoning on your propertycoming to _them_. And me your own sister, and Solomon your ownbrother! And if that's to be it, what has it pleased the Almighty tomake families for?" Here Mrs. Waule's tears fell, but with moderation.

  "Come, out with it, Jane!" said Mr. Featherstone, looking at her. "Youmean to say, Fred Vincy has been getting somebody to advance him moneyon what he says he knows about my will, eh?"

  "I never said so, brother" (Mrs. Waule's voice had again become dry andunshaken). "It was told me by my brother Solomon last night when hecalled coming from market to give me advice about the old wheat, mebeing a widow, and my son John only three-and-twenty, though steadybeyond anything. And he had it from most undeniable authority, and notone, but many."

  "Stuff and nonsense! I don't believe a word of it. It's all a got-upstory. Go to the window, missy; I thought I heard a horse. See if thedoctor's coming."

  "Not got up by me, brother, nor yet by Solomon, who, whatever else hemay be--and I don't deny he has oddities--has made his will and partedhis property equal between such kin as he's friends with; though, formy part, I think there are times when some should be considered morethan others. But Solomon makes it no secret what he means to do."

  "The more fool he!" said Mr. Featherstone, with some difficulty;breaking into a severe fit of coughing that required Mary Garth tostand near him, so that she did not find out whose horses they werewhich presently paused stamping on the gravel before the door.

  Before Mr. Featherstone's cough was quiet, Rosamond entered, b
earing upher riding-habit with much grace. She bowed ceremoniously to Mrs.Waule, who said stiffly, "How do you do, miss?" smiled and noddedsilently to Mary, and remained standing till the coughing should cease,and allow her uncle to notice her.

  "Heyday, miss!" he said at last, "you have a fine color. Where's Fred?"

  "Seeing about the horses. He will be in presently."

  "Sit down, sit down. Mrs. Waule, you'd better go."

  Even those neighbors who had called Peter Featherstone an old fox, hadnever accused him of being insincerely polite, and his sister was quiteused to the peculiar absence of ceremony with which he marked his senseof blood-relationship. Indeed, she herself was accustomed to think thatentire freedom from the necessity of behaving agreeably was included inthe Almighty's intentions about families. She rose slowly without anysign of resentment, and said in her usual muffled monotone, "Brother, Ihope the new doctor will be able to do something for you. Solomon saysthere's great talk of his cleverness. I'm sure it's my wish you shouldbe spared. And there's none more ready to nurse you than your ownsister and your own nieces, if you'd only say the word. There'sRebecca, and Joanna, and Elizabeth, you know."

  "Ay, ay, I remember--you'll see I've remembered 'em all--all dark andugly. They'd need have some money, eh? There never was any beauty inthe women of our family; but the Featherstones have always had somemoney, and the Waules too. Waule had money too. A warm man was Waule.Ay, ay; money's a good egg; and if you 've got money to leave behindyou, lay it in a warm nest. Good-by, Mrs. Waule." Here Mr.Featherstone pulled at both sides of his wig as if he wanted to deafenhimself, and his sister went away ruminating on this oracular speech ofhis. Notwithstanding her jealousy of the Vincys and of Mary Garth,there remained as the nethermost sediment in her mental shallows apersuasion that her brother Peter Featherstone could never leave hischief property away from his blood-relations:--else, why had theAlmighty carried off his two wives both childless, after he had gainedso much by manganese and things, turning up when nobody expectedit?--and why was there a Lowick parish church, and the Waules andPowderells all sitting in the same pew for generations, and theFeatherstone pew next to them, if, the Sunday after her brother Peter'sdeath, everybody was to know that the property was gone out of thefamily? The human mind has at no period accepted a moral chaos; and sopreposterous a result was not strictly conceivable. But we arefrightened at much that is not strictly conceivable.

  When Fred came in the old man eyed him with a peculiar twinkle, whichthe younger had often had reason to interpret as pride in thesatisfactory details of his appearance.

  "You two misses go away," said Mr. Featherstone. "I want to speak toFred."

  "Come into my room, Rosamond, you will not mind the cold for a littlewhile," said Mary. The two girls had not only known each other inchildhood, but had been at the same provincial school together (Mary asan articled pupil), so that they had many memories in common, and likedvery well to talk in private. Indeed, this tete-a-tete was one ofRosamond's objects in coming to Stone Court.

  Old Featherstone would not begin the dialogue till the door had beenclosed. He continued to look at Fred with the same twinkle and withone of his habitual grimaces, alternately screwing and widening hismouth; and when he spoke, it was in a low tone, which might be takenfor that of an informer ready to be bought off, rather than for thetone of an offended senior. He was not a man to feel any strong moralindignation even on account of trespasses against himself. It wasnatural that others should want to get an advantage over him, but then,he was a little too cunning for them.

  "So, sir, you've been paying ten per cent for money which you'vepromised to pay off by mortgaging my land when I'm dead and gone, eh?You put my life at a twelvemonth, say. But I can alter my will yet."

  Fred blushed. He had not borrowed money in that way, for excellentreasons. But he was conscious of having spoken with some confidence(perhaps with more than he exactly remembered) about his prospect ofgetting Featherstone's land as a future means of paying present debts.

  "I don't know what you refer to, sir. I have certainly never borrowedany money on such an insecurity. Please do explain."

  "No, sir, it's you must explain. I can alter my will yet, let me tellyou. I'm of sound mind--can reckon compound interest in my head, andremember every fool's name as well as I could twenty years ago. Whatthe deuce? I'm under eighty. I say, you must contradict this story."

  "I have contradicted it, sir," Fred answered, with a touch ofimpatience, not remembering that his uncle did not verballydiscriminate contradicting from disproving, though no one was furtherfrom confounding the two ideas than old Featherstone, who oftenwondered that so many fools took his own assertions for proofs. "But Icontradict it again. The story is a silly lie."

  "Nonsense! you must bring dockiments. It comes from authority."

  "Name the authority, and make him name the man of whom I borrowed themoney, and then I can disprove the story."

  "It's pretty good authority, I think--a man who knows most of what goeson in Middlemarch. It's that fine, religious, charitable uncle o'yours. Come now!" Here Mr. Featherstone had his peculiar inward shakewhich signified merriment.

  "Mr. Bulstrode?"

  "Who else, eh?"

  "Then the story has grown into this lie out of some sermonizing wordshe may have let fall about me. Do they pretend that he named the manwho lent me the money?"

  "If there is such a man, depend upon it Bulstrode knows him. But,supposing you only tried to get the money lent, and didn't getit--Bulstrode 'ud know that too. You bring me a writing from Bulstrodeto say he doesn't believe you've ever promised to pay your debts out o'my land. Come now!"

  Mr. Featherstone's face required its whole scale of grimaces as amuscular outlet to his silent triumph in the soundness of his faculties.

  Fred felt himself to be in a disgusting dilemma.

  "You must be joking, sir. Mr. Bulstrode, like other men, believesscores of things that are not true, and he has a prejudice against me.I could easily get him to write that he knew no facts in proof of thereport you speak of, though it might lead to unpleasantness. But Icould hardly ask him to write down what he believes or does not believeabout me." Fred paused an instant, and then added, in politic appeal tohis uncle's vanity, "That is hardly a thing for a gentleman to ask."But he was disappointed in the result.

  "Ay, I know what you mean. You'd sooner offend me than Bulstrode. Andwhat's he?--he's got no land hereabout that ever I heard tell of. Aspeckilating fellow! He may come down any day, when the devil leavesoff backing him. And that's what his religion means: he wants GodA'mighty to come in. That's nonsense! There's one thing I made outpretty clear when I used to go to church--and it's this: God A'mightysticks to the land. He promises land, and He gives land, and He makeschaps rich with corn and cattle. But you take the other side. Youlike Bulstrode and speckilation better than Featherstone and land."

  "I beg your pardon, sir," said Fred, rising, standing with his back tothe fire and beating his boot with his whip. "I like neither Bulstrodenor speculation." He spoke rather sulkily, feeling himself stalemated.

  "Well, well, you can do without me, that's pretty clear," said oldFeatherstone, secretly disliking the possibility that Fred would showhimself at all independent. "You neither want a bit of land to make asquire of you instead of a starving parson, nor a lift of a hundredpound by the way. It's all one to me. I can make five codicils if Ilike, and I shall keep my bank-notes for a nest-egg. It's all one tome."

  Fred colored again. Featherstone had rarely given him presents ofmoney, and at this moment it seemed almost harder to part with theimmediate prospect of bank-notes than with the more distant prospect ofthe land.

  "I am not ungrateful, sir. I never meant to show disregard for anykind intentions you might have towards me. On the contrary."

  "Very good. Then prove it. You bring me a letter from Bulstrodesaying he doesn't believe you've been cracking and promising to payyour d
ebts out o' my land, and then, if there's any scrape you've gotinto, we'll see if I can't back you a bit. Come now! That's abargain. Here, give me your arm. I'll try and walk round the room."

  Fred, in spite of his irritation, had kindness enough in him to be alittle sorry for the unloved, unvenerated old man, who with hisdropsical legs looked more than usually pitiable in walking. Whilegiving his arm, he thought that he should not himself like to be an oldfellow with his constitution breaking up; and he waitedgood-temperedly, first before the window to hear the wonted remarksabout the guinea-fowls and the weather-cock, and then before the scantybook-shelves, of which the chief glories in dark calf were Josephus,Culpepper, Klopstock's "Messiah," and several volumes of the"Gentleman's Magazine."

  "Read me the names o' the books. Come now! you're a college man."

  Fred gave him the titles.

  "What did missy want with more books? What must you be bringing hermore books for?"

  "They amuse her, sir. She is very fond of reading."

  "A little too fond," said Mr. Featherstone, captiously. "She was forreading when she sat with me. But I put a stop to that. She's got thenewspaper to read out loud. That's enough for one day, I should think.I can't abide to see her reading to herself. You mind and not bringher any more books, do you hear?"

  "Yes, sir, I hear." Fred had received this order before, and hadsecretly disobeyed it. He intended to disobey it again.

  "Ring the bell," said Mr. Featherstone; "I want missy to come down."

  Rosamond and Mary had been talking faster than their male friends.They did not think of sitting down, but stood at the toilet-table nearthe window while Rosamond took off her hat, adjusted her veil, andapplied little touches of her finger-tips to her hair--hair ofinfantine fairness, neither flaxen nor yellow. Mary Garth seemed allthe plainer standing at an angle between the two nymphs--the one in theglass, and the one out of it, who looked at each other with eyes ofheavenly blue, deep enough to hold the most exquisite meanings aningenious beholder could put into them, and deep enough to hide themeanings of the owner if these should happen to be less exquisite.Only a few children in Middlemarch looked blond by the side ofRosamond, and the slim figure displayed by her riding-habit haddelicate undulations. In fact, most men in Middlemarch, except herbrothers, held that Miss Vincy was the best girl in the world, and somecalled her an angel. Mary Garth, on the contrary, had the aspect of anordinary sinner: she was brown; her curly dark hair was rough andstubborn; her stature was low; and it would not be true to declare, insatisfactory antithesis, that she had all the virtues. Plainness hasits peculiar temptations and vices quite as much as beauty; it is apteither to feign amiability, or, not feigning it, to show all therepulsiveness of discontent: at any rate, to be called an ugly thing incontrast with that lovely creature your companion, is apt to producesome effect beyond a sense of fine veracity and fitness in the phrase.At the age of two-and-twenty Mary had certainly not attained thatperfect good sense and good principle which are usually recommended tothe less fortunate girl, as if they were to be obtained in quantitiesready mixed, with a flavor of resignation as required. Her shrewdnesshad a streak of satiric bitterness continually renewed and nevercarried utterly out of sight, except by a strong current of gratitudetowards those who, instead of telling her that she ought to becontented, did something to make her so. Advancing womanhood hadtempered her plainness, which was of a good human sort, such as themothers of our race have very commonly worn in all latitudes under amore or less becoming headgear. Rembrandt would have painted her withpleasure, and would have made her broad features look out of the canvaswith intelligent honesty. For honesty, truth-telling fairness, wasMary's reigning virtue: she neither tried to create illusions, norindulged in them for her own behoof, and when she was in a good moodshe had humor enough in her to laugh at herself. When she and Rosamondhappened both to be reflected in the glass, she said, laughingly--

  "What a brown patch I am by the side of you, Rosy! You are the mostunbecoming companion."

  "Oh no! No one thinks of your appearance, you are so sensible anduseful, Mary. Beauty is of very little consequence in reality," saidRosamond, turning her head towards Mary, but with eyes swerving towardsthe new view of her neck in the glass.

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

  Rosamond thought, "Poor Mary, she takes the kindest things ill." Aloudshe said, "What have you been doing lately?"

  "I? Oh, minding the house--pouring out syrup--pretending to be amiableand contented--learning to have a bad opinion of everybody."

  "It is a wretched life for you."

  "No," said Mary, curtly, with a little toss of her head. "I think mylife is pleasanter than your Miss Morgan's."

  "Yes; but Miss Morgan is so uninteresting, and not young."

  "She is interesting to herself, I suppose; and I am not at all surethat everything gets easier as one gets older."

  "No," said Rosamond, reflectively; "one wonders what such people do,without any prospect. To be sure, there is religion as a support.But," she added, dimpling, "it is very different with you, Mary. Youmay have an offer."

  "Has any one told you he means to make me one?"

  "Of course not. I mean, there is a gentleman who may fall in love withyou, seeing you almost every day."

  A certain change in Mary's face was chiefly determined by the resolvenot to show any change.

  "Does that always make people fall in love?" she answered, carelessly;"it seems to me quite as often a reason for detesting each other."

  "Not when they are interesting and agreeable. I hear that Mr. Lydgateis both."

  "Oh, Mr. Lydgate!" said Mary, with an unmistakable lapse intoindifference. "You want to know something about him," she added, notchoosing to indulge Rosamond's indirectness.

  "Merely, how you like him."

  "There is no question of liking at present. My liking always wantssome little kindness to kindle it. I am not magnanimous enough to likepeople who speak to me without seeming to see me."

  "Is he so haughty?" said Rosamond, with heightened satisfaction. "Youknow that he is of good family?"

  "No; he did not give that as a reason."

  "Mary! you are the oddest girl. But what sort of looking man is he?Describe him to me."

  "How can one describe a man? I can give you an inventory: heavyeyebrows, dark eyes, a straight nose, thick dark hair, large solidwhite hands--and--let me see--oh, an exquisite cambricpocket-handkerchief. But you will see him. You know this is about thetime of his visits."

  Rosamond blushed a little, but said, meditatively, "I rather like ahaughty manner. I cannot endure a rattling young man."

  "I did not tell you that Mr. Lydgate was haughty; but il y en a pourtous les gouts, as little Mamselle used to say, and if any girl canchoose the particular sort of conceit she would like, I should think itis you, Rosy."

  "Haughtiness is not conceit; I call Fred conceited."

  "I wish no one said any worse of him. He should be more careful. Mrs.Waule has been telling uncle that Fred is very unsteady." Mary spokefrom a girlish impulse which got the better of her judgment. There wasa vague uneasiness associated with the word "unsteady" which she hopedRosamond might say something to dissipate. But she purposely abstainedfrom mentioning Mrs. Waule's more special insinuation.

  "Oh, Fred is horrid!" said Rosamond. She would not have allowedherself so unsuitable a word to any one but Mary.

  "What do you mean by horrid?"

  "He is so idle, and makes papa so angry, and says he will not takeorders."

  "I think Fred is quite right."

  "How can you say he is quite right, Mary? I thought you had more senseof religion."

  "He is not fit to be a clergyman."

  "But he ought to be fit."--"Well, then, he is not what he ought to be.I know some other people who are in the same case."

  "But no one approves of them. I should not like to marry a clergyman;but there must be clergymen."r />
  "It does not follow that Fred must be one."

  "But when papa has been at the expense of educating him for it! Andonly suppose, if he should have no fortune left him?"

  "I can suppose that very well," said Mary, dryly.

  "Then I wonder you can defend Fred," said Rosamond, inclined to pushthis point.

  "I don't defend him," said Mary, laughing; "I would defend any parishfrom having him for a clergyman."

  "But of course if he were a clergyman, he must be different."

  "Yes, he would be a great hypocrite; and he is not that yet."

  "It is of no use saying anything to you, Mary. You always take Fred'spart."

  "Why should I not take his part?" said Mary, lighting up. "He wouldtake mine. He is the only person who takes the least trouble to obligeme."

  "You make me feel very uncomfortable, Mary," said Rosamond, with hergravest mildness; "I would not tell mamma for the world."

  "What would you not tell her?" said Mary, angrily.

  "Pray do not go into a rage, Mary," said Rosamond, mildly as ever.

  "If your mamma is afraid that Fred will make me an offer, tell her thatI would not marry him if he asked me. But he is not going to do so,that I am aware. He certainly never has asked me."

  "Mary, you are always so violent."

  "And you are always so exasperating."

  "I? What can you blame me for?"

  "Oh, blameless people are always the most exasperating. There is thebell--I think we must go down."

  "I did not mean to quarrel," said Rosamond, putting on her hat.

  "Quarrel? Nonsense; we have not quarrelled. If one is not to get intoa rage sometimes, what is the good of being friends?"

  "Am I to repeat what you have said?" "Just as you please. I never saywhat I am afraid of having repeated. But let us go down."

  Mr. Lydgate was rather late this morning, but the visitors stayed longenough to see him; for Mr. Featherstone asked Rosamond to sing to him,and she herself was so kind as to propose a second favorite song ofhis--"Flow on, thou shining river"--after she had sung "Home, sweethome" (which she detested). This hard-headed old Overreach approved ofthe sentimental song, as the suitable garnish for girls, and also asfundamentally fine, sentiment being the right thing for a song.

  Mr. Featherstone was still applauding the last performance, andassuring missy that her voice was as clear as a blackbird's, when Mr.Lydgate's horse passed the window.

  His dull expectation of the usual disagreeable routine with an agedpatient--who can hardly believe that medicine would not "set him up" ifthe doctor were only clever enough--added to his general disbelief inMiddlemarch charms, made a doubly effective background to this visionof Rosamond, whom old Featherstone made haste ostentatiously tointroduce as his niece, though he had never thought it worth while tospeak of Mary Garth in that light. Nothing escaped Lydgate inRosamond's graceful behavior: how delicately she waived the noticewhich the old man's want of taste had thrust upon her by a quietgravity, not showing her dimples on the wrong occasion, but showingthem afterwards in speaking to Mary, to whom she addressed herself withso much good-natured interest, that Lydgate, after quickly examiningMary more fully than he had done before, saw an adorable kindness inRosamond's eyes. But Mary from some cause looked rather out of temper.

  "Miss Rosy has been singing me a song--you've nothing to say againstthat, eh, doctor?" said Mr. Featherstone. "I like it better than yourphysic."

  "That has made me forget how the time was going," said Rosamond, risingto reach her hat, which she had laid aside before singing, so that herflower-like head on its white stem was seen in perfection above-herriding-habit. "Fred, we must really go."

  "Very good," said Fred, who had his own reasons for not being in thebest spirits, and wanted to get away.

  "Miss Vincy is a musician?" said Lydgate, following her with his eyes.(Every nerve and muscle in Rosamond was adjusted to the consciousnessthat she was being looked at. She was by nature an actress of partsthat entered into her physique: she even acted her own character, andso well, that she did not know it to be precisely her own.)

  "The best in Middlemarch, I'll be bound," said Mr. Featherstone, "letthe next be who she will. Eh, Fred? Speak up for your sister."

  "I'm afraid I'm out of court, sir. My evidence would be good fornothing."

  "Middlemarch has not a very high standard, uncle," said Rosamond, witha pretty lightness, going towards her whip, which lay at a distance.

  Lydgate was quick in anticipating her. He reached the whip before shedid, and turned to present it to her. She bowed and looked at him: heof course was looking at her, and their eyes met with that peculiarmeeting which is never arrived at by effort, but seems like a suddendivine clearance of haze. I think Lydgate turned a little paler thanusual, but Rosamond blushed deeply and felt a certain astonishment.After that, she was really anxious to go, and did not know what sort ofstupidity her uncle was talking of when she went to shake hands withhim.

  Yet this result, which she took to be a mutual impression, calledfalling in love, was just what Rosamond had contemplated beforehand.Ever since that important new arrival in Middlemarch she had woven alittle future, of which something like this scene was the necessarybeginning. Strangers, whether wrecked and clinging to a raft, or dulyescorted and accompanied by portmanteaus, have always had acircumstantial fascination for the virgin mind, against which nativemerit has urged itself in vain. And a stranger was absolutelynecessary to Rosamond's social romance, which had always turned on alover and bridegroom who was not a Middlemarcher, and who had noconnections at all like her own: of late, indeed, the constructionseemed to demand that he should somehow be related to a baronet. Nowthat she and the stranger had met, reality proved much more moving thananticipation, and Rosamond could not doubt that this was the greatepoch of her life. She judged of her own symptoms as those ofawakening love, and she held it still more natural that Mr. Lydgateshould have fallen in love at first sight of her. These thingshappened so often at balls, and why not by the morning light, when thecomplexion showed all the better for it? Rosamond, though no olderthan Mary, was rather used to being fallen in love with; but she, forher part, had remained indifferent and fastidiously critical towardsboth fresh sprig and faded bachelor. And here was Mr. Lydgate suddenlycorresponding to her ideal, being altogether foreign to Middlemarch,carrying a certain air of distinction congruous with good family, andpossessing connections which offered vistas of that middle-classheaven, rank; a man of talent, also, whom it would be especiallydelightful to enslave: in fact, a man who had touched her nature quitenewly, and brought a vivid interest into her life which was better thanany fancied "might-be" such as she was in the habit of opposing to theactual.

  Thus, in riding home, both the brother and the sister were preoccupiedand inclined to be silent. Rosamond, whose basis for her structure hadthe usual airy slightness, was of remarkably detailed and realisticimagination when the foundation had been once presupposed; and beforethey had ridden a mile she was far on in the costume and introductionsof her wedded life, having determined on her house in Middlemarch, andforeseen the visits she would pay to her husband's high-bred relativesat a distance, whose finished manners she could appropriate asthoroughly as she had done her school accomplishments, preparingherself thus for vaguer elevations which might ultimately come. Therewas nothing financial, still less sordid, in her previsions: she caredabout what were considered refinements, and not about the money thatwas to pay for them.

  Fred's mind, on the other hand, was busy with an anxiety which even hisready hopefulness could not immediately quell. He saw no way ofeluding Featherstone's stupid demand without incurring consequenceswhich he liked less even than the task of fulfilling it. His fatherwas already out of humor with him, and would be still more so if hewere the occasion of any additional coolness between his own family andthe Bulstrodes. Then, he himself hated having to go and speak to hisuncle Bulstrode, and perhaps after drinking wine h
e had said manyfoolish things about Featherstone's property, and these had beenmagnified by report. Fred felt that he made a wretched figure as afellow who bragged about expectations from a queer old miser likeFeatherstone, and went to beg for certificates at his bidding.But--those expectations! He really had them, and he saw no agreeablealternative if he gave them up; besides, he had lately made a debtwhich galled him extremely, and old Featherstone had almost bargainedto pay it off. The whole affair was miserably small: his debts weresmall, even his expectations were not anything so very magnificent.Fred had known men to whom he would have been ashamed of confessing thesmallness of his scrapes. Such ruminations naturally produced a streakof misanthropic bitterness. To be born the son of a Middlemarchmanufacturer, and inevitable heir to nothing in particular, while suchmen as Mainwaring and Vyan--certainly life was a poor business, when aspirited young fellow, with a good appetite for the best of everything,had so poor an outlook.

  It had not occurred to Fred that the introduction of Bulstrode's namein the matter was a fiction of old Featherstone's; nor could this havemade any difference to his position. He saw plainly enough that theold man wanted to exercise his power by tormenting him a little, andalso probably to get some satisfaction out of seeing him on unpleasantterms with Bulstrode. Fred fancied that he saw to the bottom of hisuncle Featherstone's soul, though in reality half what he saw there wasno more than the reflex of his own inclinations. The difficult task ofknowing another soul is not for young gentlemen whose consciousness ischiefly made up of their own wishes.

  Fred's main point of debate with himself was, whether he should tellhis father, or try to get through the affair without his father'sknowledge. It was probably Mrs. Waule who had been talking about him;and if Mary Garth had repeated Mrs. Waule's report to Rosamond, itwould be sure to reach his father, who would as surely question himabout it. He said to Rosamond, as they slackened their pace--

  "Rosy, did Mary tell you that Mrs. Waule had said anything about me?"

  "Yes, indeed, she did."

  "What?"

  "That you were very unsteady."

  "Was that all?"

  "I should think that was enough, Fred."

  "You are sure she said no more?"

  "Mary mentioned nothing else. But really, Fred, I think you ought tobe ashamed."

  "Oh, fudge! Don't lecture me. What did Mary say about it?"

  "I am not obliged to tell you. You care so very much what Mary says,and you are too rude to allow me to speak."

  "Of course I care what Mary says. She is the best girl I know."

  "I should never have thought she was a girl to fall in love with."

  "How do you know what men would fall in love with? Girls never know."

  "At least, Fred, let me advise _you_ not to fall in love with her, forshe says she would not marry you if you asked her."

  "She might have waited till I did ask her."

  "I knew it would nettle you, Fred."

  "Not at all. She would not have said so if you had not provoked her."Before reaching home, Fred concluded that he would tell the wholeaffair as simply as possible to his father, who might perhaps take onhimself the unpleasant business of speaking to Bulstrode.