Middlemarch

by George Eliot

  CHAPTER LXXXVI.

  "Le coeur se sature d'amour comme d'un sel divin qui le conserve; de la l'incorruptible adherence de ceux qui se sont aimes des l'aube de la vie, et la fraicheur des vielles amours prolonges. Il existe un embaumement d'amour. C'est de Daphnis et Chloe que sont faits Philemon et Baucis. Cette vieillesse la, ressemblance du soir avec l'aurore." --VICTOR HUGO: L'homme qui rit.

  Mrs. Garth, hearing Caleb enter the passage about tea-time, opened theparlor-door and said, "There you are, Caleb. Have you had yourdinner?" (Mr. Garth's meals were much subordinated to "business.")

  "Oh yes, a good dinner--cold mutton and I don't know what. Where isMary?"

  "In the garden with Letty, I think."

  "Fred is not come yet?"

  "No. Are you going out again without taking tea, Caleb?" said Mrs.Garth, seeing that her absent-minded husband was putting on again thehat which he had just taken off.

  "No, no; I'm only going to Mary a minute."

  Mary was in a grassy corner of the garden, where there was a swingloftily hung between two pear-trees. She had a pink kerchief tied overher head, making a little poke to shade her eyes from the levelsunbeams, while she was giving a glorious swing to Letty, who laughedand screamed wildly.

  Seeing her father, Mary left the swing and went to meet him, pushingback the pink kerchief and smiling afar off at him with the involuntarysmile of loving pleasure.

  "I came to look for you, Mary," said Mr. Garth. "Let us walk about abit."

  Mary knew quite well that her father had something particular to say:his eyebrows made their pathetic angle, and there was a tender gravityin his voice: these things had been signs to her when she was Letty'sage. She put her arm within his, and they turned by the row ofnut-trees.

  "It will be a sad while before you can be married, Mary," said herfather, not looking at her, but at the end of the stick which he heldin his other hand.

  "Not a sad while, father--I mean to be merry," said Mary, laughingly."I have been single and merry for four-and-twenty years and more: Isuppose it will not be quite as long again as that." Then, after alittle pause, she said, more gravely, bending her face before herfather's, "If you are contented with Fred?"

  Caleb screwed up his mouth and turned his head aside wisely.

  "Now, father, you did praise him last Wednesday. You said he had anuncommon notion of stock, and a good eye for things."

  "Did I?" said Caleb, rather slyly.

  "Yes, I put it all down, and the date, anno Domini, and everything,"said Mary. "You like things to be neatly booked. And then hisbehavior to you, father, is really good; he has a deep respect for you;and it is impossible to have a better temper than Fred has."

  "Ay, ay; you want to coax me into thinking him a fine match."

  "No, indeed, father. I don't love him because he is a fine match."

  "What for, then?"

  "Oh, dear, because I have always loved him. I should never likescolding any one else so well; and that is a point to be thought of ina husband."

  "Your mind is quite settled, then, Mary?" said Caleb, returning to hisfirst tone. "There's no other wish come into it since things have beengoing on as they have been of late?" (Caleb meant a great deal in thatvague phrase;) "because, better late than never. A woman must notforce her heart--she'll do a man no good by that."

  "My feelings have not changed, father," said Mary, calmly. "I shall beconstant to Fred as long as he is constant to me. I don't think eitherof us could spare the other, or like any one else better, however muchwe might admire them. It would make too great a difference to us--likeseeing all the old places altered, and changing the name foreverything. We must wait for each other a long while; but Fred knowsthat."

  Instead of speaking immediately, Caleb stood still and screwed hisstick on the grassy walk. Then he said, with emotion in his voice,"Well, I've got a bit of news. What do you think of Fred going to liveat Stone Court, and managing the land there?"

  "How can that ever be, father?" said Mary, wonderingly.

  "He would manage it for his aunt Bulstrode. The poor woman has been tome begging and praying. She wants to do the lad good, and it might bea fine thing for him. With saving, he might gradually buy the stock,and he has a turn for farming."

  "Oh, Fred would be so happy! It is too good to believe."

  "Ah, but mind you," said Caleb, turning his head warningly, "I musttake it on _my_ shoulders, and be responsible, and see aftereverything; and that will grieve your mother a bit, though she mayn'tsay so. Fred had need be careful."

  "Perhaps it is too much, father," said Mary, checked in her joy."There would be no happiness in bringing you any fresh trouble."

  "Nay, nay; work is my delight, child, when it doesn't vex your mother.And then, if you and Fred get married," here Caleb's voice shook justperceptibly, "he'll be steady and saving; and you've got your mother'scleverness, and mine too, in a woman's sort of way; and you'll keep himin order. He'll be coming by-and-by, so I wanted to tell you first,because I think you'd like to tell _him_ by yourselves. After that, Icould talk it well over with him, and we could go into business and thenature of things."

  "Oh, you dear good father!" cried Mary, putting her hands round herfather's neck, while he bent his head placidly, willing to be caressed."I wonder if any other girl thinks her father the best man in theworld!"

  "Nonsense, child; you'll think your husband better."

  "Impossible," said Mary, relapsing into her usual tone; "husbands arean inferior class of men, who require keeping in order."

  When they were entering the house with Letty, who had run to join them,Mary saw Fred at the orchard-gate, and went to meet him.

  "What fine clothes you wear, you extravagant youth!" said Mary, as Fredstood still and raised his hat to her with playful formality. "You arenot learning economy."

  "Now that is too bad, Mary," said Fred. "Just look at the edges ofthese coat-cuffs! It is only by dint of good brushing that I lookrespectable. I am saving up three suits--one for a wedding-suit."

  "How very droll you will look!--like a gentleman in an oldfashion-book."

  "Oh no, they will keep two years."

  "Two years! be reasonable, Fred," said Mary, turning to walk. "Don'tencourage flattering expectations."

  "Why not? One lives on them better than on unflattering ones. If wecan't be married in two years, the truth will be quite bad enough whenit comes."

  "I have heard a story of a young gentleman who once encouragedflattering expectations, and they did him harm."

  "Mary, if you've got something discouraging to tell me, I shall bolt; Ishall go into the house to Mr. Garth. I am out of spirits. My fatheris so cut up--home is not like itself. I can't bear any more bad news."

  "Should you call it bad news to be told that you were to live at StoneCourt, and manage the farm, and be remarkably prudent, and save moneyevery year till all the stock and furniture were your own, and you werea distinguished agricultural character, as Mr. Borthrop Trumbullsays--rather stout, I fear, and with the Greek and Latin sadlyweather-worn?"

  "You don't mean anything except nonsense, Mary?" said Fred, coloringslightly nevertheless.

  "That is what my father has just told me of as what may happen, and henever talks nonsense," said Mary, looking up at Fred now, while hegrasped her hand as they walked, till it rather hurt her; but she wouldnot complain.

  "Oh, I could be a tremendously good fellow then, Mary, and we could bemarried directly."

  "Not so fast, sir; how do you know that I would not rather defer ourmarriage for some years? That would leave you time to misbehave, andthen if I liked some one else better, I should have an excuse forjilting you."

  "Pray don't joke, Mary," said Fred, with strong feeling. "Tell meseriously that all this is true, and that you are happy because ofit--because you love me best."

  "It is all true, Fred, and I am happy because of it--because I love youbest," said Mary, in a
tone of obedient recitation.

  They lingered on the door-step under the steep-roofed porch, and Fredalmost in a whisper said--

  "When we were first engaged, with the umbrella-ring, Mary, you usedto--"

  The spirit of joy began to laugh more decidedly in Mary's eyes, but thefatal Ben came running to the door with Brownie yapping behind him,and, bouncing against them, said--

  "Fred and Mary! are you ever coming in?--or may I eat your cake?"

  FINALE.

  Every limit is a beginning as well as an ending. Who can quit younglives after being long in company with them, and not desire to knowwhat befell them in their after-years? For the fragment of a life,however typical, is not the sample of an even web: promises may not bekept, and an ardent outset may be followed by declension; latent powersmay find their long-waited opportunity; a past error may urge a grandretrieval.

  Marriage, which has been the bourne of so many narratives, is still agreat beginning, as it was to Adam and Eve, who kept their honeymoon inEden, but had their first little one among the thorns and thistles ofthe wilderness. It is still the beginning of the home epic--thegradual conquest or irremediable loss of that complete union whichmakes the advancing years a climax, and age the harvest of sweetmemories in common.

  Some set out, like Crusaders of old, with a glorious equipment of hopeand enthusiasm and get broken by the way, wanting patience with eachother and the world.

  All who have cared for Fred Vincy and Mary Garth will like to know thatthese two made no such failure, but achieved a solid mutual happiness.Fred surprised his neighbors in various ways. He became ratherdistinguished in his side of the county as a theoretic and practicalfarmer, and produced a work on the "Cultivation of Green Crops and theEconomy of Cattle-Feeding" which won him high congratulations atagricultural meetings. In Middlemarch admiration was more reserved:most persons there were inclined to believe that the merit of Fred'sauthorship was due to his wife, since they had never expected FredVincy to write on turnips and mangel-wurzel.

  But when Mary wrote a little book for her boys, called "Stories ofGreat Men, taken from Plutarch," and had it printed and published byGripp & Co., Middlemarch, every one in the town was willing to give thecredit of this work to Fred, observing that he had been to theUniversity, "where the ancients were studied," and might have been aclergyman if he had chosen.

  In this way it was made clear that Middlemarch had never been deceived,and that there was no need to praise anybody for writing a book, sinceit was always done by somebody else.

  Moreover, Fred remained unswervingly steady. Some years after hismarriage he told Mary that his happiness was half owing to Farebrother,who gave him a strong pull-up at the right moment. I cannot say thathe was never again misled by his hopefulness: the yield of crops or theprofits of a cattle sale usually fell below his estimate; and he wasalways prone to believe that he could make money by the purchase of ahorse which turned out badly--though this, Mary observed, was ofcourse the fault of the horse, not of Fred's judgment. He kept hislove of horsemanship, but he rarely allowed himself a day's hunting;and when he did so, it was remarkable that he submitted to be laughedat for cowardliness at the fences, seeming to see Mary and the boyssitting on the five-barred gate, or showing their curly heads betweenhedge and ditch.

  There were three boys: Mary was not discontented that she brought forthmen-children only; and when Fred wished to have a girl like her, shesaid, laughingly, "that would be too great a trial to your mother."Mrs. Vincy in her declining years, and in the diminished lustre of herhousekeeping, was much comforted by her perception that two at least ofFred's boys were real Vincys, and did not "feature the Garths." ButMary secretly rejoiced that the youngest of the three was very muchwhat her father must have been when he wore a round jacket, and showeda marvellous nicety of aim in playing at marbles, or in throwing stonesto bring down the mellow pears.

  Ben and Letty Garth, who were uncle and aunt before they were well intheir teens, disputed much as to whether nephews or nieces were moredesirable; Ben contending that it was clear girls were good for lessthan boys, else they would not be always in petticoats, which showedhow little they were meant for; whereupon Letty, who argued much frombooks, got angry in replying that God made coats of skins for both Adamand Eve alike--also it occurred to her that in the East the men toowore petticoats. But this latter argument, obscuring the majesty ofthe former, was one too many, for Ben answered contemptuously, "Themore spooneys they!" and immediately appealed to his mother whetherboys were not better than girls. Mrs. Garth pronounced that both werealike naughty, but that boys were undoubtedly stronger, could runfaster, and throw with more precision to a greater distance. With thisoracular sentence Ben was well satisfied, not minding the naughtiness;but Letty took it ill, her feeling of superiority being stronger thanher muscles.

  Fred never became rich--his hopefulness had not led him to expect that;but he gradually saved enough to become owner of the stock andfurniture at Stone Court, and the work which Mr. Garth put into hishands carried him in plenty through those "bad times" which are alwayspresent with farmers. Mary, in her matronly days, became as solid infigure as her mother; but, unlike her, gave the boys little formalteaching, so that Mrs. Garth was alarmed lest they should never be wellgrounded in grammar and geography. Nevertheless, they were found quiteforward enough when they went to school; perhaps, because they hadliked nothing so well as being with their mother. When Fred was ridinghome on winter evenings he had a pleasant vision beforehand of thebright hearth in the wainscoted parlor, and was sorry for other men whocould not have Mary for their wife; especially for Mr. Farebrother."He was ten times worthier of you than I was," Fred could now say toher, magnanimously. "To be sure he was," Mary answered; "and for thatreason he could do better without me. But you--I shudder to think whatyou would have been--a curate in debt for horse-hire and cambricpocket-handkerchiefs!"

  On inquiry it might possibly be found that Fred and Mary still inhabitStone Court--that the creeping plants still cast the foam of theirblossoms over the fine stone-wall into the field where the walnut-treesstand in stately row--and that on sunny days the two lovers who werefirst engaged with the umbrella-ring may be seen in white-hairedplacidity at the open window from which Mary Garth, in the days of oldPeter Featherstone, had often been ordered to look out for Mr. Lydgate.

  Lydgate's hair never became white. He died when he was only fifty,leaving his wife and children provided for by a heavy insurance on hislife. He had gained an excellent practice, alternating, according tothe season, between London and a Continental bathing-place; havingwritten a treatise on Gout, a disease which has a good deal of wealthon its side. His skill was relied on by many paying patients, but healways regarded himself as a failure: he had not done what he oncemeant to do. His acquaintances thought him enviable to have socharming a wife, and nothing happened to shake their opinion. Rosamondnever committed a second compromising indiscretion. She simplycontinued to be mild in her temper, inflexible in her judgment,disposed to admonish her husband, and able to frustrate him bystratagem. As the years went on he opposed her less and less, whenceRosamond concluded that he had learned the value of her opinion; on theother hand, she had a more thorough conviction of his talents now thathe gained a good income, and instead of the threatened cage in BrideStreet provided one all flowers and gilding, fit for the bird ofparadise that she resembled. In brief, Lydgate was what is called asuccessful man. But he died prematurely of diphtheria, and Rosamondafterwards married an elderly and wealthy physician, who took kindly toher four children. She made a very pretty show with her daughters,driving out in her carriage, and often spoke of her happiness as "areward"--she did not say for what, but probably she meant that it was areward for her patience with Tertius, whose temper never becamefaultless, and to the last occasionally let slip a bitter speech whichwas more memorable than the signs he made of his repentance. He oncecalled her his basil plant; and when she asked for an explanation, saidthat basil was
a plant which had flourished wonderfully on a murderedman's brains. Rosamond had a placid but strong answer to suchspeeches. Why then had he chosen her? It was a pity he had not hadMrs. Ladislaw, whom he was always praising and placing above her. Andthus the conversation ended with the advantage on Rosamond's side. Butit would be unjust not to tell, that she never uttered a word indepreciation of Dorothea, keeping in religious remembrance thegenerosity which had come to her aid in the sharpest crisis of her life.

  Dorothea herself had no dreams of being praised above other women,feeling that there was always something better which she might havedone, if she had only been better and known better. Still, she neverrepented that she had given up position and fortune to marry WillLadislaw, and he would have held it the greatest shame as well assorrow to him if she had repented. They were bound to each other by alove stronger than any impulses which could have marred it. No lifewould have been possible to Dorothea which was not filled with emotion,and she had now a life filled also with a beneficent activity which shehad not the doubtful pains of discovering and marking out for herself.Will became an ardent public man, working well in those times whenreforms were begun with a young hopefulness of immediate good which hasbeen much checked in our days, and getting at last returned toParliament by a constituency who paid his expenses. Dorothea couldhave liked nothing better, since wrongs existed, than that her husbandshould be in the thick of a struggle against them, and that she shouldgive him wifely help. Many who knew her, thought it a pity that sosubstantive and rare a creature should have been absorbed into the lifeof another, and be only known in a certain circle as a wife and mother.But no one stated exactly what else that was in her power she oughtrather to have done--not even Sir James Chettam, who went no furtherthan the negative prescription that she ought not to have married WillLadislaw.

  But this opinion of his did not cause a lasting alienation; and the wayin which the family was made whole again was characteristic of allconcerned. Mr. Brooke could not resist the pleasure of correspondingwith Will and Dorothea; and one morning when his pen had beenremarkably fluent on the prospects of Municipal Reform, it ran off intoan invitation to the Grange, which, once written, could not be doneaway with at less cost than the sacrifice (hardly to be conceived) ofthe whole valuable letter. During the months of this correspondenceMr. Brooke had continually, in his talk with Sir James Chettam, beenpresupposing or hinting that the intention of cutting off the entailwas still maintained; and the day on which his pen gave the daringinvitation, he went to Freshitt expressly to intimate that he had astronger sense than ever of the reasons for taking that energetic stepas a precaution against any mixture of low blood in the heir of theBrookes.

  But that morning something exciting had happened at the Hall. A letterhad come to Celia which made her cry silently as she read it; and whenSir James, unused to see her in tears, asked anxiously what was thematter, she burst out in a wail such as he had never heard from herbefore.

  "Dorothea has a little boy. And you will not let me go and see her.And I am sure she wants to see me. And she will not know what to dowith the baby--she will do wrong things with it. And they thought shewould die. It is very dreadful! Suppose it had been me and littleArthur, and Dodo had been hindered from coming to see me! I wish youwould be less unkind, James!"

  "Good heavens, Celia!" said Sir James, much wrought upon, "what do youwish? I will do anything you like. I will take you to town to-morrowif you wish it." And Celia did wish it.

  It was after this that Mr. Brooke came, and meeting the Baronet in thegrounds, began to chat with him in ignorance of the news, which SirJames for some reason did not care to tell him immediately. But whenthe entail was touched on in the usual way, he said, "My dear sir, itis not for me to dictate to you, but for my part I would let thatalone. I would let things remain as they are."

  Mr. Brooke felt so much surprised that he did not at once find out howmuch he was relieved by the sense that he was not expected to doanything in particular.

  Such being the bent of Celia's heart, it was inevitable that Sir Jamesshould consent to a reconciliation with Dorothea and her husband.Where women love each other, men learn to smother their mutual dislike.Sir James never liked Ladislaw, and Will always preferred to have SirJames's company mixed with another kind: they were on a footing ofreciprocal tolerance which was made quite easy only when Dorothea andCelia were present.

  It became an understood thing that Mr. and Mrs. Ladislaw should pay atleast two visits during the year to the Grange, and there camegradually a small row of cousins at Freshitt who enjoyed playing withthe two cousins visiting Tipton as much as if the blood of thesecousins had been less dubiously mixed.

  Mr. Brooke lived to a good old age, and his estate was inherited byDorothea's son, who might have represented Middlemarch, but declined,thinking that his opinions had less chance of being stifled if heremained out of doors.

  Sir James never ceased to regard Dorothea's second marriage as amistake; and indeed this remained the tradition concerning it inMiddlemarch, where she was spoken of to a younger generation as a finegirl who married a sickly clergyman, old enough to be her father, andin little more than a year after his death gave up her estate to marryhis cousin--young enough to have been his son, with no property, andnot well-born. Those who had not seen anything of Dorothea usuallyobserved that she could not have been "a nice woman," else she wouldnot have married either the one or the other.

  Certainly those determining acts of her life were not ideallybeautiful. They were the mixed result of young and noble impulsestruggling amidst the conditions of an imperfect social state, in whichgreat feelings will often take the aspect of error, and great faith theaspect of illusion. For there is no creature whose inward being is sostrong that it is not greatly determined by what lies outside it. Anew Theresa will hardly have the opportunity of reforming a conventuallife, any more than a new Antigone will spend her heroic piety indaring all for the sake of a brother's burial: the medium in whichtheir ardent deeds took shape is forever gone. But we insignificantpeople with our daily words and acts are preparing the lives of manyDorotheas, some of which may present a far sadder sacrifice than thatof the Dorothea whose story we know.

  Her finely touched spirit had still its fine issues, though they werenot widely visible. Her full nature, like that river of which Cyrusbroke the strength, spent itself in channels which had no great name onthe earth. But the effect of her being on those around her wasincalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partlydependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with youand me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who livedfaithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.